Chapter 1: Cheap Rent, Bad Sign
If hell had a real-estate agent, her name would be Mrs. Kline.
She was a short, wrinkly woman with hair that looked like she lost a fight with a toaster, and her perfume could probably exorcise demons. I met her on a cloudy Wednesday afternoon when I went apartment hunting with exactly two hundred and sixty-three dollars to my name and a dangerously optimistic attitude.
"Third floor, room 303," she said, jangling a set of keys. "A bit old, but the neighbors are quiet."
Quiet.
That was the first red flag. In my experience, when people emphasize how quiet something is, it usually means it's haunted, cursed, or full of introverts who hate joy.
Still, the rent was half the price of every other listing in town. I'd been living on instant noodles and caffeine fumes for three months—how bad could it be?
The building looked like it hadn't seen sunlight since the 80s. Paint peeled off in strips, like it was trying to escape, and every hallway bulb flickered like a dying star. The elevator groaned like an old man getting out of bed. I briefly wondered if I should just carry my boxes up the stairs, but the stairs were so narrow they looked like a ladder designed by Satan.
When the elevator finally stopped on the third floor, the doors opened halfway, then refused to open the rest. I squeezed out sideways, clutching my backpack like it was a life vest.
Room 303 sat at the end of the hall. The door was a faded green, and there were three long scratches across it—like someone had tried to carve a secret message, then changed their mind.
Mrs. Kline shoved the key into my hand. "Don't open your door after midnight," she said with the casualness of someone giving directions to a coffee shop.
"Excuse me?"
She smiled. "Old building superstition. Nothing serious."
That's exactly what people say before something serious happens.
Inside, the apartment was… not terrible. One bedroom, a cracked mirror by the closet, and a small kitchen with a fridge that hummed like it was whispering gossip. The floorboards creaked, but so did my knees after four flights of stairs, so I wasn't judging.
I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and tested the bed. Springs squeaked, the mattress sagged, but it was still better than the back seat of my old car.
My phone buzzed—a message from my best friend, Maya.
Maya: "Find a place yet?"
Me: "Yep. Third floor, room 303. Dirt cheap."
Maya: "Why so cheap?"
Me: "Because it's haunted, obviously."
I meant it as a joke. I shouldn't have.
The first knock came at exactly 3:03 A.M.
Three sharp raps against my front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I sat up, blinking into the darkness. My phone said 3:03. The digital clock's red numbers glowed like a warning.
I waited, heartbeat thudding. Maybe it was Mrs. Kline checking on something? No, too weird. Maybe a drunk neighbor? Still weird.
"Hello?" I called, voice cracking like a cheap speaker.
No answer.
I got up, tip-toed to the door, and peeked through the peephole.
Nobody there.
Of course. Because why wouldn't my first night include a ghostly prank?
I laughed nervously, double-checked the lock, and went back to bed.
The next morning, I noticed something odd. On the inside of my door—right near the bottom—were three faint scratch marks. Same pattern as the ones outside. I crouched to look closer.
They weren't deep. Just… fresh.
I touched one. The wood splintered a little, still sharp.
"Great," I muttered. "Either I'm sleepwalking or I've got a raccoon roommate."
The thought of setting up a camera crossed my mind, but I laughed it off. I didn't even own a tripod, and the last time I tried DIY surveillance, I accidentally recorded five hours of my own snoring.
Later that day, I met the guy across the hall—Mr. Hernandez, an old man in a bathrobe and slippers that had seen better centuries.
"You new?" he asked, squinting like I was a hologram.
"Yeah. Noah. Apartment 303."
His face twitched. "303?"
"Yeah."
He stared for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Keep your lights on at night," he said, before shuffling back into his apartment and slamming the door.
I laughed awkwardly. "Cool chat, neighbor."
That night, I couldn't sleep. The ceiling fan clicked like a metronome, and every creak sounded like footsteps. At 2:59 A.M., I decided to stay awake just to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy.
I scrolled through my phone, half-asleep, half-paranoid.
3:00 A.M.
3:01.
3:02.
My screen dimmed, and then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I froze.
3:03 A.M. exactly.
This time, I jumped up, grabbed my phone's flashlight, and marched to the door like an idiot in every horror movie.
"Alright, Casper," I muttered, "either you pay rent or you leave."
I yanked open the door.
The hallway was empty.
But the scratches on the door were now deeper—and there were three new ones beside them.
"Cool," I said aloud to no one. "Haunted and artsy. Love that."
I shut the door, double-locked it, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Then my phone buzzed.
It was a notification from my photo gallery.
A new video.
Except… I hadn't recorded anything.
I opened it.
It showed me—asleep in bed.
Then, around 3:03, I sat up, slowly turned my head toward the door, got up, and walked straight to it.
The camera shook as I reached for the handle.
Then I looked right into the lens—my eyes wide, smiling like a puppet—and whispered something I couldn't hear before knocking three times.
The screen glitched.
Video ended.
My hand trembled as I set the phone down.
"I definitely need a refund," I muttered.
But deep down, I knew I wouldn't move. Not yet. Because part of me wanted to know what I'd said on that recording—
and who was smiling through me.
To be continued...