Speaker 1: I'm not really the adventuress type. I've always been more
of a homebody, someone who's perfectly content staying in, cooking
something simple and watching reruns of shows I've already seen
a hundred times. My apartment isn't much to look at,
but it suits me. It's a little run down, sure,
but there's a kind of charm to it. Narrow hallways,
flickering overhead lights, and those thin walls where you can
hear every muffled conversation or late night TV show your
neighbors are watching. I'm not exactly buddy buddy with my neighbors,
but I know them in that distant city living way.
There's the single mom whose kid likes this stomp around,
the retired couple in three b who sit by the
lobby window every morning, and the guy across the hall
who blasts music way too late at night. It's predictable,
even comforting in its own way. I like knowing the
building isn't completely silent. My routine is pretty simple. I
work from home, cook for myself, and scroll through social
media when I feel like I need to pretend I'm
still connected to other people. It's not the most exciting
life but it's mine, and I've never felt the need
for more. The background noise of the building, the harm
of activity, faint voices, footsteps in the hallway reminds me
I'm not completely alone, even if I keep to myself
most of the time. That's why I noticed it right
away when things started feeling off. It started a couple
of nights ago. I was lying on the couch, scrolling
through my phone like usual. I wasn't paying much attention
to anything in particular, just the endless doom scrolling we
all do. We were too tired to sleep, but not
tired enough to do anything productive. Then the lights flickered.
It wasn't unusual for the power to hiccup in this
old building. It happened a dozen times before, usually during
a storm or when some was messing with the breaker
panel in the basement. But this time was different. This time,
the lights didn't come back on. I sat there for
a second, waiting for everything to reset, but the apartment
stayed dark. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight,
shining it around the room. I first thought was that
maybe it was just my unit, so I got up
to check the breaker box. But when I looked out
my window. The entire street was blacked out. The whole
building was silent. No footsteps, no voices, no faint hum
of TVs or music, just this heavy, oppressive quiet that
made my skin crawl. I told myself it was nothing,
that it was probably just the temporary outage like before,
but for some reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that
something was wrong. You'd think a power outage and an
apartment complex would cause some kind of commotion, people talking
in the halls, fumbling for flashlights, maybe complaining loudly about
the inconvenience. But there was nothing. No murmurs, no doors
creaking open, no footsteps, just this oppressive, heavy silence that
felt like it was pressing down on me. I showed
my flashlight down the hallway, expecting to see someone poking
their head out, but the entire floor was empty. That's
when I started to feel uneasy. It wasn't just a
lack of noise, it was the way the silence felt alive,
like it was waiting for something. I went to the
window at the end of the hall and looked out.
The entire block was blacked out, street lights, buildings, even
the distant glow of the city. Everything was gone. But
here's the thing that didn't make sense. A few apartments
in my building still had faint lights on. Not normal lights,
more like a soft glow, almost like candle light, but colder. Somehow,
I decided to knock on a few doors, just to
see if anyone else was around. I started with my
neighbor across the hall. Nothing, no sound, no shuffling, no
muffled who's there, Just dead silence. I tried the woman's door,
the single Ma'm still nothing. It was around then that
the unease started creeping into panic. I went back to
my apartment and grabbed my phone to text a friend.
That's when I noticed I had no signal, no Wi Fi,
no data, nothing. I couldn't even get a text to send.
I told myself it was just because of the power outage,
but the isolation was starting to get to me. After
a while, I went back to the window to check
the street, and that's when I saw them. People leaving
the building. At least I think they were people. They
weren't running or shouting like you'd expect during an emergency.
They were moving fast, but eerily quiet. Some of the
were dragging suitcases others just clutched bags or backpacks, like
they left in a hurry. They didn't stop to talk
to each other. No one even looked back at the building.
I watched them disappear into the darkness, one by one
until the street was empty again. I thought about leaving too,
but where would I go. The entire neighborhood was blacked out,
and the idea of stepping into that darkness with no
clue where I was going felt worse than staying put.
I locked my door, sat on the couch and told
myself I'd just wait until morning. But even then I
couldn't shake the feeling that staying might have been the
worst decision I could have made. The hours dragged on,
and the silence in the building started to mess with
my head. I don't mean the kind of quiet you
can still hear the occasional hum of the city outside,
sirens in the distance, cars passing, people talking. I mean
real silence, heavy, unnatural. I kept telling myself it was
normal during a blackout, but it wasn't. Even in the
dead of night, there's always some kind of noise, but
now nothing. It was like the entire world had just stopped.
At first, I tried to distract myself, scrawling through my
phone even though I had no signal, pacing the room,
anything to keep my mind occupied. But then the noises started.
It was subtle at first, faint tapping sounds, like someone
lightly drumming their fingers against the wall. I ignored it,
thinking it was just the old building settling or the
barely maintained pipes, but it didn't stop. The tapping moved,
shifting from one side of the apartment to another, as
if it were circling me. Then there was the creaking.
It came from above, like someone was walking around the
floor above mine, except I'm on the top floor. I
grabbed my flashlight and opened my door to check the hallway.
It was empty, just like before. I stood there for
a while listening, but the air felt off, thicker somehow,
like it was pressing in on me. I shut the
door and locked it, trying to push the unease down.
But the worst sound came later. I was lying on
the couch trying to convince myself I was overreacting when
I heard it, the faint sound of a child giggling.
It was soft, barely there, but it made my skin crawl.
It didn't make sense. There were no kids in this building,
at least none that young. And it wasn't just the sound,
it was the way it echoed like it wasn't coming
from the hall but from everywhere. I grabbed my laptop.
The building security cameras still worked even though the power
was out, so I thought maybe i'd catch something on
the footage. At first, everything looked normal, just empty hallways
and the lobby. But the longer I watched, the more
I noticed something was wrong. The movements of the people
leaving earlier. They weren't smooth, they were jerky, like old
film footage, missing frames. And then there were the shadows.
I didn't notice them at first, but in a few
frames I saw faint figures standing in the corners of
the hallways, completely motionless. Their faces were blurred or obscured,
like the camera couldn't quite focus on them. I sat there,
staring at the screen, trying to rationalize what I was seeing.
Maybe it was a glitch, or maybe my eyes were
playing tricks on me. But the longer I stared, the
more certain I was that something wasn't right. And then
came the knocking. It was faint, barely more than a
tap but it sent my heart raising. I froze, listening
as it grew louder, more deliberate. I grabbed my flashlight
and crept to the door, every step making the air
feel heavier. I called out, my voice, shaking. The knocking stopped.
I peered through the people, half expecting to see one
of my neighbors, finally breaking the silence, but there was
no one there. The hallway was empty, except it didn't
feel empty. The shadows in the corners looked darker longer.
The air outside felt different, heavier, like it was waiting
for something. I backed away from the door and locked
every bolt, every chain, and then I sat down in
the corner of my apartment with my flashlight clutched in
my hand. I told myself it was all in my head,
but deep down I knew something was wrong. By the
time daylight rolled around, I was barely holding it together.
Every noise, every shadow, every second of silence felt like
it was pressing down on me. I thought maybe if
I saw the building in the daylight, it would snap
me back to reality, make me realize this was all
just in my head. With my flashlight in hand and
my phone still useless stuffed in my pocket. I decided
to explore the building. Daylight streaming through the windows made
me feel a little braver, like I wasn't completely alone.
I started knocking on doors again, hoping someone, anyone, would
answer this time. Most of the apartments were completely silent,
but a few they weren't empty, not in the way
I expected. The first one I walked into was unsettling,
but not in an obvious way. It looked normal at
first glance, a couch, a coffee table, a stack of magazines,
but then I noticed the plate of food sitting on
the table, half eaten, like someone had just stepped out
for a moment. The TV remote was on the couch, angered,
like it had fallen from someone's hand. The next apartment
was worse. The forest in the bathroom was running and
the sink was nearly overflowing. There was a mug of
coffee on the kitchen counter, steam still curling up from it.
But the air in the room was ice cold, like
no one had been there for hours. It was like
everyone had just disappeared. By the time I made it
to the lobby, I was shaking. I hadn't seen a
single person, not even through a window, but that wasn't
the worst part the message board. It was covered in notes,
hastily written scraps of paper, some in handwriting I recognized
from my neighbors. Leave now it's coming, don't stay, get
out before dark, over and over the same desperate warnings.
I stood there, staring at the notes for what felt
like forever, my mind racing who wrote them, when and
why hadn't I noticed them before? Despite everything, I started
to feel a weird sense of relief. The building itself
looked fine, untouched by whatever nightmare I thought i'd been
living through. The sunlight streaming through the lobby windows almost
felt reassuring, like the world outside was still normal. I
decided it was time to leave. Enough was enough. I
grabbed my back back from my apartment, throw in a
few essentials, and headed straight for the front doors. For
the first time in hours, I felt like I was
making the right choice. I was getting out of here,
leaving this nightmare behind. But when I pushed the doors open,
the relief vanished in an instant. Instead of stepping out
into the street, I found myself staring back at the
wall of the lobby. I blinked, frozen in place, trying
to make sense of it. I turned around, expecting to
see the doors behind me, but I was back in
the lobby, exactly where i'd started. I tried again, running
this time, but no matter how fast I moved or
how hard I pushed, I couldn't get outside. Every exit
led me back to the same spot, the middle of
the lobby, staring at that message board with its endless warnings.
The light from the windows didn't feel reassuring anymore. It
felt wrong, artificial, like it was part of the trap.
And I realized I wasn't going anywhere. This building wasn't
going to let me leave. I think that when I
finally lost it, when I realized there was no way out.
I tried every door, every single one, the fire escape.
It led me right back to the hallway, like the
stairs had twisted around on themselves the basement. I ended
up standing in the same lobby I just left, staring
at that damn message board. I even tried the windows,
but they wouldn't budge. It was like they weren't real,
just painted on illusions meant to keep me trapped. And
then the buildings started changing. The hallways stretched longer than
they should have, twisting into impossible angles. The staircases looped endlessly,
taking me in circles, no matter how far I climbed
or how fast I ran. One door opened into a
room I'd never seen before, someone else's apartment, pristine and untouched,
with sunlight streaming through the windows. For a second, I
thought I finally found an exit, but when I stepped inside,
I ended up back in my apartment, the door slamming
shut behind me. The noises didn't help. They were everywhere now.
The whispers started first, low, indistinct voices muttering just out
of earshot. Then came the footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing
from somewhere above or below, I couldn't tell. At one
point I heard laughter. It wasn't loud or obvious, just
this faint, airy giggle that made my stomach twist. And
then I saw it. I was standing at the end
of the hallway, catching my breath when I noticed something
out of the corner of my eye, a figure, tall,
dark and completely still, standing at the far end of
the corridor. My froze, my flashlight trembling in my hand.
It didn't move, it didn't even seem to breathe, but
I swear it was looking at me. I blinked, and
it was gone that When I bolted back to my apartment,
I locked the door, shoved the couch against it, and
piled every three piece of furniture I could find in
front of it. My heart was pounding so loud I
thought he might give out. I told myself I'd waited
out until morning, but deep down I knew that wasn't
going to help. The tappings started again, loud at this time.
At first I thought it was coming from the door,
but then I realized it was all around me, behind
the walls, under the floorboards, above the ceiling. It surrounded me,
closing in. I grabbed my flashlight and turned in circles,
trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. And
that's when the light started flickering. For just a moment,
the beam hid the wall faces, dozens of them pressed
against the plaster, their features distorted like they were trying
to push through. Their eyes were empty, their mouths moving
silently forming words I couldn't hear. The flashlight cut out,
plunging the room into darkness. I backed into a corner,
my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and all I
could think was I'm not alone in here. The tapping
escalated into pounding, shaking the walls so hard I thought
they were going to cave in. The floor beneath me
felt unstable, like it was tilting, pulling me downward. It
wasn't just the building anymore. It felt like the whole
room was alive, trying to swallow me whole. The air
was freezing, now, so cold that my breath came out
invisible puffs, even though I knew that made no sense.
My ears were wringing, my hands shaking, but I needed
to do something. I grabbed my laptop, hoping, praying that
maybe the security came would show me something I could
use to make sense of this nightmare. When I opened
the feed, my stomach dropped. The hallways were no longer empty.
They were filled with shadowy figures, standing perfectly still. There
had to be dozens of them, all facing my door.
The camera quality wasn't great, but even through the grainy footage,
I could tell there was something wrong with them. Their
shapes didn't look human. My hands hovered over the keyboard
as I tried to convince myself feels a glitch, some
weird reflection or artifact, but then the figures moved, not naturally,
not like a person would. They moved frame by frame,
jerky and unnatural, each step bringing them closer to the camera.
The pounding on the walls stopped abruptly. I froze, staring
at the screen, waiting for something to happen. My apartment
was dead, silent now, no whispers, no footsteps, no creaking floorboards,
just the suffocating stillness. They made my skin crawl. That's
when I noticed the shadows and the feed. They weren't
just moving, they were converging, slowly, deliberately. They turned toward
the camera, as if they knew I was watching. I
slammed the laptop shut, my heart racing. I stood there, trembling,
and turned toward the door. I don't know why. I
think part of me hoped i'd see something normal outside.
Maybe someone had come to help, or maybe I was
imagining all of it. I peered through the peep hole.
All I saw was darkness. It wasn't just the hallway
lights being out. It was wrong, the kind of darkness
that doesn't feel empty, that presses against you like it's
waiting to consume you. And then I felt it, A
breath on the back of my neck. I spun around,
clutching my flashlight, but before I could even turn it on,
I heard the whisper you stayed, now, you're one of us.
It wasn't loud, it wasn't even threatening. It was calm,
almost welcoming, which made it so much worse. The light
flickered back on for a brief moment, and I swear,
just for a second, I saw them, faces blurry and distorted,
standing all around me, watching, waiting, and then everything went
dark again. When the power came back on, it was
like nothing had happened. The light stopped flickering, the hum
of the refrigerator kicked back in, and the apartment felt normal.
I sat in the middle of my living room, surrounded
by overturned furniture and the mess I'd made while barricading
myself in. The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It felt lighter,
almost peaceful, like the building was trying to convince me
that everything was fine, and for a while I let
myself believe it. Over the next few days, things settled down.
I started putting my apartment back together, trying to convince
myself that it had been some kind of stress induced
hallucination or a nightmare I hadn't fully woken up from.
But I couldn't settle. I packed up and drove away
the roads, feeling like a ghost town until I hit
civilization again. People seeing real people made my heart skip.
I checked into a motel and settled in, hoping to
regain some sense of normalcy. But then the little thing started.
The first time I noticed it was in the mirror.
I was brushing my teeth, staring at my reflection like usual,
but when I turned to grab a towel, I could
have sworn my reflections stayed still for a fraction of
a second, longer than it should have. It was subtle,
so subtle, I convinced myself I imagined it. But it kept happening.
Sometimes I'd hear myself much under my breath, only to
realize I hadn't said anything. Other times, when I walked
through the apartment, I felt this strange heaviness in the air,
like someone was standing just behind me watching. And then
the note came. It was slipped under my door, sealed
in an envelope with no return address. At first I
thought it might have made mistake, junk mail or a
neighbor's letter delivered to the wrong place, but when I
opened it, my stomach dropped. The handwriting was mine. It's
not the building, it's you. You brought it with you.
I tore through the apartment, searching for any explanation, anything
that could make sense of what was happening. When I
got to my suitcase, the one i'd unpacked weeks ago,
I found something I didn't recognize, a key. It was
old and tarnished, the kind of metal that feels unnaturally
cold when you touch it. And I knew, deep in
my gut exactly what it was, the key to my
old apartment. I didn't pack it. I don't know how
it got there. That night, the tapping started again, soft
at first, but it grew louder, more insistent, like it
was demanding my attention. The key sat at my nightstand,
vibrating faintly. I grabbed it and threw it out of
the window in a panic, desperate to get it away
from me. But when I turned back to my bed,
the key was there again, sitting in the exact same spot.
I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I couldn't even think straight.
I looked out the window and saw the other Moto
guests looking wary. They had started getting the same symptoms
I had. I could tell by the way they were
looking around for something that seemingly wasn't there. I didn't
have a clue on how to get rid of it.
But if the note was true and I had truly
brought it with me, the only thing I knew for
sure was that I couldn't stay there anymore. It wasn't
going to let me go, so I did the only
thing I could think of. I went back. The drive
to my old apartment complex was a blur. The key
was clutched in my hand the entire time, cold and heavy,
like it was pulling me back. When I got there,
the building looked exactly the same, dark, quiet, empty. The
lights flickered as I stepped inside, just like they had before.
The message board in the lobby was still there, covered
in those desperate notes, but this time there was a
new one. It was written in my handwriting welcome back.
The air grew colder as I climbed the stairs, my
footsteps echoing down the empty halls. I could feel something
watching me, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on
me with every step. When I reached my old apartment.
The door was already open. Inside, everything was exactly as
I'd left it, except for the walls. Black smudges were
spreading across the plaster, twisting and branching out like they
pulsed faintly, as though something was alive beneath them. And
then I heard it, a voice from the shadows, calm
and welcoming, Welcome back. We've been waiting. I shouldn't have
gone back, I know that, but I didn't have a choice.
I couldn't bring this to more of the population, and
the building it never really let me leave. It wasn't
just the building, though, it was me. I stayed. I
let them in, and now I'll never leave again.