It was a quiet night. John and Anna, both university students, were walking back home, laughing and chatting after a late-night snack. The air was still, and the streets were mostly empty. John lived alone in apartment 414, and tonight was special—Anna, his junior with a cute face and short hair, was staying over. They hoped to spend more time together, deepen their bond.
As they entered the building, John noticed something odd—the door to the security room was wide open, but no one was inside. He paused for a second, peeking in, but figured the guards had probably stepped out for a smoke. Shrugging it off, he turned to Anna and smiled.
The elevator was under repair, a sign taped lazily on its dented doors. With a sigh, the couple chose the stairs.
As they reached the third floor, John suddenly shivered. The air felt colder than before, unusually so. "Weird… It's not even that cold tonight," he muttered, rubbing his arms. He looked at Anna. "You okay? Feeling cold?"
But Anna didn't reply.
Instead, she glared at him—cold, angry eyes that caught him off guard. Confused, John assumed she was upset about something. "She'll talk when she wants," he told himself and continued walking down the eerily silent hallway.
Minutes passed. Only the echo of their footsteps accompanied them.
After what felt like ten minutes, John frowned. Still on the third floor? He glanced around. Nothing had changed. Same flickering light. Same broken painting on the wall.
He slowed down, gently grabbing Anna's hand. "Babe… don't you think we should've reached the fourth floor by now?"
No answer.
Her silence was heavy. Unnatural.
John's pulse quickened. He squeezed her hand tighter. "Anna?"
Still nothing.
He forced a smile. "Maybe she's scared…" he thought. But then—his eyes fell on her hand. It had six fingers.
His heart stopped.
He let go instantly, stumbling backward. His gaze shot up to the girl beside him. Her hair had grown long and wild. Her skin was pale, deathly white. She wore a tattered black dress. And her face—her face stared back at him with hollow eyes and a murderous grin.
Like he had destroyed her life.
Drenched in sweat, John's body froze as the temperature dropped below freezing. His chest ached, like something invisible was stabbing his heart. His vision blurred. Desperate to stay conscious, he bit his lip hard, the sharp pain jolting him awake.
He turned and ran, sprinting toward the fourth floor.
Just a little more—
But as he climbed, he found himself back on the third floor.
Again, he ran. Again, he ended up where he started.
The staircase was dead silent. Only the sound of his heavy breathing filled the void.
Then, without warning, she appeared—flying toward him with a twisted smile. Her long black hair whipped behind her as she grabbed his throat with icy fingers. John struggled, kicked, clawed, but her grip only tightened.
He coughed. Choked. Desperate, he screamed Anna's name again and again, until darkness closed in.
Then—a voice.
Calling his name.
Heat returned to his body as he gasped awake, sitting up violently.
Anna was crouched beside him, worry in her eyes. Two security guards stood nearby. One handed him water.
"You fainted," one of them said. "You were waiting for the elevator… then started yelling your girlfriend's name."
An ambulance arrived shortly after. The doctors said it was likely stress—too much studying, combined with the change in weather.
John recovered after a few days, but he couldn't shake the feeling. He sold the apartment. Never returned.
As the ambulance pulled away that night, someone watched from the third-floor window.
And smile.