After a messy divorce and months of emotional exhaustion, the small one-bedroom on the third floor felt like a sanctuary. It wasn’t luxurious — creaky wooden floors, thin walls, and a view of a parking lot — but it was quiet, affordable, and mine. For the first time in years, I could breathe without tension tightening my chest.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The disturbances began during my first week.
Every night, around 9:00 p.m., someone would bang on the wall separating my bedroom from the neighboring apartment. The sound wasn’t subtle — three firm knocks, slow and deliberate. At first, I assumed it was accidental. Maybe furniture being moved or pipes making noise.
But then it kept happening.
Three knocks. Every night. Always at the same time.
The first time I noticed it clearly, I was reading in bed. The knocks startled me so badly I dropped my book. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening.
Silence.
Then, faintly, I heard footsteps on the other side.
“Seriously?” I muttered under my breath.
I knocked back, lightly, hoping to signal that the noise was disruptive. The footsteps stopped immediately. For a moment, I thought the message had been received.
But the next night, the knocking returned.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
It began to feel intentional.
Soon, the disturbances escalated.
It wasn’t just knocking anymore. Sometimes music played loudly for short bursts, then abruptly stopped. Other nights, something heavy seemed to drag across the floor above my bedroom. Occasionally, I’d hear whispers through the thin wall — low, indistinct murmurs that made my skin crawl.
Sleep became difficult. My frustration turned into anxiety.
Was my neighbor trying to provoke me?
The worst part was the timing. The sounds only happened when I was home alone at night. Never during the day. Never when friends visited.
It felt personal.
One evening, after another round of loud banging, I finally lost my patience.
I marched into the hallway and knocked hard on my neighbor’s door.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
But I could swear I heard movement inside — the faint creak of a floorboard, the soft rustle of something shifting.
“Look,” I said through the door, my voice tight with irritation, “if you have a problem with me, we can talk like adults.”
Silence.
I returned to my apartment feeling unsettled. Whoever lived next door clearly knew I was there, yet refused to respond.
From that night on, the disturbances seemed to intensify.
The knocking grew more aggressive, sometimes echoing through the entire wall. Once, at nearly midnight, I heard rapid pounding followed by what sounded like scratching. Another time, my lights flickered moments after the noise stopped, sending a chill through my body.
I began checking my locks repeatedly before bed.
I installed a small security camera facing my front door.
I even started keeping a journal, documenting each incident — time, duration, and type of disturbance. Writing it down made me feel slightly more in control, though it also made the pattern undeniable.
Three knocks at 9:00 p.m.
Always three.
Always precise.
Always deliberate.
My anxiety reached its peak when I found a small piece of paper slipped beneath my door one morning.
It was blank.
No writing. No message. Just a plain sheet of paper.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. Was it a warning? A threat? Some kind of psychological game?
I immediately went to the building manager.
Mr. Harris, the manager, was a calm middle-aged man who had always seemed friendly during brief encounters. I explained everything — the knocking, the noises, the strange note, my growing fear.
He listened carefully, his expression shifting from confusion to concern.
“You said this is coming from apartment 3B?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “The unit right next to mine.”
He hesitated.
“That’s… strange.”
A knot formed in my stomach. “Why?”
Mr. Harris leaned back in his chair, studying me.
“Apartment 3B is vacant.”
I laughed nervously, assuming he was joking.
“It can’t be vacant,” I said. “Someone’s living there. I hear them every night.”
He shook his head slowly. “The previous tenant moved out two months before you arrived. No one has leased it since.”
A cold wave of fear washed over me.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered.
But he insisted on showing me.
We walked upstairs together. With a key from his ring, he unlocked the door to apartment 3B and pushed it open.
Inside, the apartment was empty.
No furniture. No belongings. No signs of life. Just bare floors and echoing silence.
Dust covered the surfaces, undisturbed.
No one had been there.
