I moved into my apartment a little over four years ago.
It’s an old six-story building on the edge of town. The elevator breaks every few months, the radiators bang all winter, and everyone seems to know everyone else’s schedule.
The apartment directly across from mine has always been empty.
At least, that’s what I was told.
The owner died years ago, according to my landlord. His children had been fighting over the inheritance for so long that nobody had been allowed inside since.
I never questioned it.
The mailbox filled with advertisements.
Dust collected on the welcome mat.
The blinds never moved.
It became part of the background.
After a while, you stop noticing things that never change.
Until last Tuesday.
I leave for work every morning at 7:10.
As I locked my apartment door, I noticed something that immediately felt wrong.
The flower box on the balcony across from mine was full of healthy green plants.
For years it had been nothing but dry dirt and dead stems.
Now there were fresh flowers.
I stood there longer than I should have.
Eventually, I convinced myself that maintenance had cleaned it up.
It wasn’t worth thinking about.
The next morning, there was a wet umbrella leaning against the empty apartment’s door.
Dark green.
Wooden handle.
Still dripping onto the floor.
When I got home from work…
It was gone.
Over the next few days, little things kept changing.
A new doormat appeared.
The dust disappeared from the windowsill.
One evening, I noticed warm light leaking out from beneath the door.
It lasted less than ten seconds.
When I walked over, it disappeared.
I knocked.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No television.
No movement.
Just silence.
I told myself the electricity must have flickered.
It wasn’t convincing.
The first person I mentioned it to was Mr. Keller from downstairs.
He had lived in the building for almost twenty years.
“You’ve seen someone over there?” he asked.
“I think so.”
He shook his head.
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because they sealed that apartment.”
“What do you mean, sealed?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“I’ve probably already said too much.”
Then he walked away.
That answer bothered me more than it should have.
The next afternoon, I called the property manager.
He sounded annoyed before I even finished explaining.
“No one lives there.”
“I know that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then why are there flowers?”
Silence.
Finally, he sighed.
“I’ll send someone tomorrow.”
A maintenance worker arrived around ten the next morning.
I watched through the peephole.
He unlocked the apartment.
Stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Twenty.
He never came back out.
I assumed he had left while I wasn’t looking.
Until that evening.
The apartment door was still locked.
The key was still in the outside lock.
I called the management office again.
The woman who answered sounded confused.
“We never sent anyone.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No.”
“I watched him unlock the door.”
“We don’t even have a key anymore.”
I laughed.
I actually laughed because I thought she was joking.
She wasn’t.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Around two in the morning, I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Steady.
Back and forth.
I checked the peephole.
Nobody.
The footsteps continued.
Closer.
Farther away.
Always just outside my door.
Eventually, they stopped.
I waited another five minutes before opening the door.
The hallway was empty.
Except for one thing.
The key was gone.
The next morning, I bought a cheap security camera.
I mounted it above my door.
I didn’t really believe it would catch anything.
I mostly wanted proof that I wasn’t imagining all of this.
The first night, nothing happened.
The second night, nothing happened.
On the third night, at exactly 3:14 AM, the hallway camera froze.
Not black.
Frozen.
When the picture came back, there was someone standing outside the apartment across from mine.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Hands behind their back.
They stood perfectly still for almost three minutes.
Then they slowly turned toward my camera.
The quality wasn’t good enough to make out a face.
But I could tell they were smiling.
The recording ended there.
No glitch.
It simply stopped.
I showed the footage to the police.
The officer watched it twice.
Then he asked me something strange.
“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
I said no.
He nodded anyway.
“You should probably get some rest.”
That was the end of it.
After that, I started paying closer attention to the apartment.
Every morning there was something new.
A different pair of shoes outside the door.
A grocery bag.
A folded newspaper.
A coffee mug.
Always gone again by evening.
Like someone only lived there during the day.
Then I noticed something even stranger.
None of my neighbors ever looked at the apartment.
People walked past it every day.
Nobody glanced at the door.
Nobody noticed the flowers.
Nobody noticed the lights.
It was as if their eyes skipped over it completely.
I started wondering if I was the only person who could actually see it.
Last Friday, I came home earlier than usual.
As I got off the elevator, I heard someone humming inside the apartment.
It was an old tune my grandmother used to sing.
I hadn’t heard it since her funeral.
Without thinking, I knocked.
The humming stopped immediately.
A few seconds later…
Someone knocked back.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Exactly matching the rhythm I’d used.
I whispered,
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
Instead…
The doorknob slowly turned.
The door opened just enough for darkness to spill into the hallway.
Not darkness like a room with the lights off.
It looked deeper than that.
Like there wasn’t an apartment behind the door anymore.
I couldn’t see walls.
Or furniture.
Or a floor.
Just blackness.
Then someone spoke.
Very quietly.
“So…”
“…you finally noticed us.”
The voice sounded familiar.
I couldn’t place it.
Not until the door opened another inch.
There was a family photograph hanging on the wall inside.
It was mine.
The one from my parents’ living room.
My tenth birthday.
My mother.
My father.
Me.
Except…
There was another child standing beside me.
A boy my age.
Smiling.
His arm around my shoulder.
I have never seen him before in my life.
But somehow…
I knew his name before he spoke.
“Come home,” he said.
The lights in the hallway flickered.
I stumbled backward.
The apartment door slammed shut.
When I finally worked up the courage to walk over again, it was exactly as it had always been.
Dust on the mat.
Dead flowers.
No lights.
No sounds.
The management company came by yesterday to change the locks on my apartment.
I never told them I wanted them changed.
The maintenance worker asked me one question before he left.
“Have you ever been inside the apartment across the hall?”
I told him no.
He looked relieved.
Then he said something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
“Good.”
“Because everyone who does eventually moves in.”
I haven’t slept since.
It’s 3:11 AM as I’m writing this.
Someone has started humming outside my front door.
It’s the same song my grandmother used to sing.
And this time…
It’s coming from my side of the hallway.