I woke up cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from a broken heater or cracked windows. This was something different. It clung to my skin, seeped into my bones. I was sweating, but shivering. The sheets around me were damp — not from heat, but from something... wrong.
And the closet door was wide open.
Again.
I sat up slowly, my breath fogging the air. The room was dark, except for the faint glow of the hallway light leaking in from under the door. I had closed that closet last night. Twice. I was sure of it.
I stood and walked toward it, each step slow and heavy like I was moving through water.
The closet was empty.
Of course it was.
No monsters. No hidden hands reaching out. Just my suitcase, a pair of worn shoes, and the smell of old wood. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched — not from inside the closet, but from behind me.
I turned. No one there.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night.
Morning came gray and overcast, the kind of sky that pressed down on you like a weight. I skipped breakfast and went straight to campus. I had class, but I couldn't focus. My mind kept going back to that contract taped to the closet door. The words. That eerie signature.
"Fulfill the duties left incomplete by the previous occupant..."
What the hell did that mean?
I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was some kind of elaborate prank by the landlord. Maybe the last tenant was mentally ill. Maybe this whole building was just… old, and creaky, and full of bad wiring and worse vibes.
That night, I decided to record everything.
Just in case.
I set up my phone on the desk, pointing it at the closet. I even left the light on. I wanted answers, or at the very least, proof that I wasn't losing my mind.
I laid in bed and stared at the closet door for what felt like hours.
Eventually, I drifted off.
I woke up again around 3:17 AM — the time glowing red on my phone screen. The room was cold. The kind of cold that felt intentional. My breath fogged the air.
The closet door was open.
But this time, it wasn't empty.
Something was inside.
At first, I thought it was just a trick of the light — a shadow, or my coat slumped weirdly. But then it moved. Slow. Deliberate. A shape began to form.
A woman.
Long, dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes like empty holes.
She was standing just inside the closet, staring straight at me.
I couldn't move. Couldn't scream. My chest locked up like I was underwater. My heart slammed against my ribs, faster and faster, until I thought it would burst.
And then—She raised her hand.
Not to reach out.
Not to wave.
But to point.Down. Toward the floor of the closet.
And then she was gone.
Just like that.
The cold vanished. The room returned to silence. The only sound was the buzzing of the mini fridge.
I sat there, breathing hard, the sheets clenched in my fists.
When I finally got the courage to move, I turned on every single light in the apartment. I grabbed my phone, heart pounding as I opened the camera roll.
The recording was still running.
I watched it.
Nothing happened for the first few hours. Just me tossing in bed, turning once or twice.
Then… 3:17 AM.
The door opened.
By itself.
No hands. No draft. No explanation.
And then — the worst part.
The video glitched.
Just for a moment.
But in that moment, a single frame froze onscreen. A blurry, flickering image of a woman's face, inches from the lens. Staring. Smiling.
I dropped the phone.
Morning again. I didn't go to class.
Instead, I went back to the rental office to talk to the landlord.
His name was Mr. Conway — gray-haired, stooped over, with eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and decided to stop caring.
"3B," I said. "I'm renting it. I… I think something's wrong with the apartment."
He didn't say anything for a long time.
Then he looked up at me, slow and tired. "You saw her?"
I froze. "What?"
"The girl in the closet."
I swallowed hard. "Who is she?"
He sighed, leaned back in his chair. "Her name was Liana. She lived in that unit last year. Good kid. Quiet. Kept to herself. Never missed rent."
"What happened?"
He didn't look at me.
"Found her dead. Closet door open. No signs of struggle. No drugs. No illness. Just… gone."
My throat felt dry.
"And the contract?" I asked. "Is that… some kind of joke?"
He shook his head.
"No joke. This place is old. Older than it looks. Built over something that was never properly buried. Over the years… people disappear. Die. Go mad. Always starts with the closet."
I stared at him. "And you keep renting it out?"
He looked at me, finally. "Someone always signs the contract. Whether they know it or not. It's not about paperwork. It's about willingness."
"Willingness?"
"To listen. To feel. To fulfill."
I stood. My hands were shaking.
"I'm not doing this," I said. "I didn't agree to any of this. I'm leaving."
He shrugged.
"You can try."
Back at the apartment, I started packing.
Clothes. Laptop. Books. I didn't care about the security deposit. I just wanted out.
But when I opened the front door—
There was nothing.
Just blackness. Like a void. No hallway. No lights. No walls.
Just dark.
I stepped back, slammed the door shut, heart pounding.
I ran to the window — opened the blinds.
Bricks. Solid bricks.
Where there used to be space, there was now a sealed wall. Like the entire apartment had folded in on itself.
I was trapped.
The closet door creaked behind me.
I turned slowly.
The contract was back.
Pinned neatly to the inside of the door.
Same words. Same strange signature. And one new line at the bottom.
"Time is running out, Rayhan."