The first thing I noticed about Apartment 4B was the silence.
Not the kind of silence you get in a well-insulated building.
This was... different.
Like the walls were listening.
Waiting.
I stood in the entryway for a full minute before stepping inside, my suitcase still in hand. No noise from upstairs. No hum of appliances. No creak of floorboards. Just the sound of my breath.
I said, half-joking:
> "Guess it's just you and me."
But the way my voice echoed back felt... wrong.
Delayed.
Like the room wasn't used to being spoken to.
---
The place was too clean.
Not in a good way—more like it had been scrubbed of any trace of the last person who lived there.
Not a single scratch on the walls.
Not a mark on the floor.
The refrigerator was empty but cold. The water ran clear. And yet…
There was a faint smell I couldn't place.
Burnt paper?
Old flowers?
Wet ash?
Something funeral-like.
---
I moved in because it was cheap.
Too cheap.
City center. Fully furnished. Month-to-month. No deposit.
When the landlord handed me the keys, he barely made eye contact.
> "You'll be fine if you don't leave anything behind."
Odd thing to say.
At the time, I figured it meant theft—bad neighbors maybe.
But now…
---
That first night, I set my phone on the kitchen counter and took a long shower.
When I came back, it was gone.
I searched the whole place.
Drawers. Couch cushions. Under the fridge.
Nothing.
Then I opened the hall closet.
My phone was sitting right there on the shelf.
Screen cracked.
Recording.
---
The audio was corrupted, mostly static, but right before it cut out, I heard something.
A voice.
My voice.
> "Don't forget. Please—don't forget me."
I hadn't said that.
I hadn't recorded anything.
But there it was.
---
The next morning, I stepped outside to grab coffee from the corner shop.
When I returned…
My key didn't work.
I jiggled it.
Forced it.
Nothing.
Then the door opened—
From the inside.
A woman stood there. Mid-40s. Confused.
> "Can I help you?"
> "Uh… this is my apartment," I said. "4B."
She looked at me like I was insane.
> "No, I've lived here for over two years."
---
I showed her my lease. My ID. My key.
None of it mattered.
The papers looked faded. Water-damaged.
My key didn't match the lock anymore.
The landlord?
No record of me on file.
When I said my name—Elijah Foster—he frowned and said:
> "Didn't he go missing a while back?"
---
I stood outside in the hallway for hours, trying to call someone—anyone.
But no one answered.
Not friends.
Not family.
Not even spam callers.
Like my number didn't exist anymore.
When I checked my contacts list, it was empty.
Except for one number:
"4B"
---
I pressed call.
It rang once.
Then I heard a voice. My voice.
> "Stop trying to leave."
Then silence.
---
I spent that night in the stairwell.
No one came in or out.
I swear—no one even lived on that floor anymore.
Next morning, I tried the key again.
This time, it worked.
Like the lock had changed back.
---
Inside, nothing had moved.
Same furniture. Same closet.
But on the bathroom mirror—
Written in something smeared:
"Do not exit without remembering your name."
I wiped it away with shaking hands.
But my reflection lingered a second too long.
And when I blinked—
It smiled at me.
---
That night, I tried writing everything down.
What I saw. What I heard.
I filled two pages before I blacked out.
Woke up the next morning—
Notebook gone.
Pen melted.
Pages in the trash, torn and blank.
Only one sentence left, scrawled in the corner of the last page:
> "They forget what you don't record."
---
I've started speaking aloud to myself now.
Narrating everything I do.
It's the only way I remember what day it is.
Who I am.
What the hell is happening to me.
---
I found a photograph under the floorboard last night.
It was me.
Standing in the hallway of 4B.
Surrounded by strangers.
They were smiling.
I wasn't.
Behind us—the door was open.
Inside, the apartment looked different.
Older.
Rotten.
Like it had been abandoned for decades.
And across the top of the photo, written in ink:
> "Don't let the room name you."