Entry One
I’ve been here twelve days, and it’s only now starting to feel like my place instead of someone else’s.
The apartment came mostly empty, but not empty-empty. The manager told me the last tenant "left in a hurry." When I asked why, he said, "Didn’t sleep well here."
I haven’t been sleeping much either.
There’s a sound at night, not loud, just a faint scraping somewhere in the walls. I thought it might be pipes, but when I recorded it, the playback was only static.
When I put away the last of my clothes, I found a folded note on the closet shelf. The handwriting was small and careful:
Don’t follow the sound.
I laughed when I read it, but I didn’t throw it away. It felt like the kind of superstition people cling to when they’re alone too long.
That night, the sound came again. Fainter. Closer.
Entry Two
The noise hasn’t stopped.
It’s quieter now, but more precise. There’s no scraping anymore, just this soft, deliberate tck, tck, pause ,tck, tck. I started leaving the fan on to drown it out, but last night it matched the rhythm of the fan blades. Like it was keeping time.
I didn’t sleep much.
This morning, I decided to clear out that closet. I figured maybe there’s a loose vent or something back there. But when I opened the door, the air coming out was cold; not drafty cold, but basement cold, even though there’s no vent in there.
There was another note on the shelf.
Folded the same way as the first, but on fresh paper.
He likes when you listen.
I actually laughed out loud when I read it, probably out of nerves. It’s weird how easily you can talk yourself into believing someone’s messing with you when the alternative is...whatever this would be.
I checked the locks. The chain was still on. Windows sealed. No signs of a break-in. The building manager swears nobody else has a key. He looked uncomfortable when I asked, though, like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Around midnight, I heard the knocking again. Same two taps, then two more, soft and polite.
I stayed in bed this time. I didn’t move. After a few seconds, it stopped.
But in the silence afterward, I realized something that made my stomach go cold: the sound wasn’t coming from the door.
It was coming from inside the closet.
Entry Three
I haven’t told anyone.
What would I even say? "Something in my closet knocks politely and leaves notes?"
There’s no version of that that doesn’t make you sound like you need a sleep study or a priest, so I’ve been pretending it’s fine. Keeping the lights on. Keeping busy.
I pushed a chair against the closet door last night, not because I thought it would help, just because it felt like doing something. Around 3 a.m., the apartment settled the way it always does: pipes ticking, faint hum from the fridge, that tiny metal rattle from the window frame. Normal sounds.
Then the chair moved.
Not violently. It just shifted once, like someone inside had leaned against the door from the other side. There was this soft bump and the tiniest squeak of wood against tile. I waited for it to happen again, but it didn’t.
In the morning, I almost convinced myself I’d dreamed it. The kind of half-memory that unravels when you try to prove it, but when I picked the chair up, one of the legs was damp. Not wet, just a faint cold moisture like condensation.
There’s no plumbing on that wall.
When I came home from work, there was a folded scrap of paper under my front door. I didn’t open it right away. I told myself I wouldn’t, but of course I did. Same paper. Same careful handwriting.
You shouldn’t block the door. He gets impatient.
I threw it away immediately.
Tonight, I’m writing this from the hallway. I don’t want to be in there.
The building manager came up earlier because the tenant below me complained about dripping through their ceiling. He said it’s coming from my unit, right where the closet is. He’s going to open the wall tomorrow to check for leaks.
If this is what the last tenant meant by not sleeping well, I get it now.
Entry Four
The building manager came by this morning with a plumber. Both of them wore that polite half-bored expression people put on when they expect something simple to fix.
They knocked on the wall beside the closet, listened, nodded. The plumber said, "There’s probably a cracked pipe. Might’ve leaked into the drywall."
They cut a small square near the baseboard.
No water. No mould. Just dry plaster dust and this faint smell, like old pennies. Then the plumber said something that made my skin crawl. He said, "Huh. Looks like someone’s patched this before." There was a second layer of drywall behind the first. Newer paint, same colour, just…off by a shade.
The manager just cleared his throat. He didn’t look at me when he said, "We’ll send someone to finish this tomorrow." They packed up and left, leaving the hole open.
It’s maybe the size of my hand, just above the baseboard. When I crouch down, I can see darkness beyond it; empty space, not insulation.
I told myself I wouldn’t, but I shone my phone light inside. The space goes back farther than the wall should allow. Maybe three or four feet deep. The beam caught something white tucked near the far end.
Paper.
I couldn’t reach it.
But when I went to bed that night, the sound came again: tck, tck, tck, tck—from inside the wall this time, not the closet. And underneath it, just for a second, a voice that could have been my own saying, "Don't follow the sound".
Entry Five
I haven’t left the apartment in two days.
I keep telling myself I’ll pack up and go, but I can’t seem to make it past the door. It feels wrong to leave it open, even for a second.
The hole’s bigger now. I don’t remember widening it, but the edges are rough, like someone clawed through. There’s dust on the floor and my fingernails are filthy.
I’ve started hearing knocking again, always the same pattern: two knocks, pause, two knocks. I set my phone to record last night. When I played it back this morning, there was nothing. Just static, and under it, breathing that synced perfectly with mine until it didn’t.
I keep finding tiny slips of paper around the apartment, tucked between pages of my notebook, under the kettle, inside my shoes. All blank.
Entry Six
I was scrolling listings tonight and stopped on one that looked familiar. Same layout. Same warped floorboard by the window.
It took me a minute to realise it’s this apartment. The ad says vacant now.
A month-to-month lease. Immediate availability.
But I’m still here.
I’ve been keeping the lights on, hoping someone would notice.
From inside, the room glows soft and yellow, but people on the street don’t even glance up. I’ve called out. Knocked on the glass. They just walk past.
There’s a new coat of paint on the walls. The hole by the closet is gone, smooth and clean. I didn’t hear anyone come in to fix it, but the carpets have been cleaned too.
I don’t want to leave, but there’s nowhere else to go. I found some paper in a drawer with a bit of drywall dust on it and wrote a few words, folded it once and slid it onto the closet shelf, where someone will see it when they unpack.
Don’t follow the sound.
I’ve been here twelve days, and it’s only now starting to feel like my place instead of someone else’s.
The apartment came mostly empty, but not empty-empty. The manager told me the last tenant "left in a hurry." When I asked why, he said, "Didn’t sleep well here."
I haven’t been sleeping much either.
There’s a sound at night, not loud, just a faint scraping somewhere in the walls. I thought it might be pipes, but when I recorded it, the playback was only static.
When I put away the last of my clothes, I found a folded note on the closet shelf. The handwriting was small and careful:
Don’t follow the sound.
I laughed when I read it, but I didn’t throw it away. It felt like the kind of superstition people cling to when they’re alone too long.
That night, the sound came again. Fainter. Closer.
Entry Two
The noise hasn’t stopped.
It’s quieter now, but more precise. There’s no scraping anymore, just this soft, deliberate tck, tck, pause ,tck, tck. I started leaving the fan on to drown it out, but last night it matched the rhythm of the fan blades. Like it was keeping time.
I didn’t sleep much.
This morning, I decided to clear out that closet. I figured maybe there’s a loose vent or something back there. But when I opened the door, the air coming out was cold; not drafty cold, but basement cold, even though there’s no vent in there.
There was another note on the shelf.
Folded the same way as the first, but on fresh paper.
He likes when you listen.
I actually laughed out loud when I read it, probably out of nerves. It’s weird how easily you can talk yourself into believing someone’s messing with you when the alternative is...whatever this would be.
I checked the locks. The chain was still on. Windows sealed. No signs of a break-in. The building manager swears nobody else has a key. He looked uncomfortable when I asked, though, like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Around midnight, I heard the knocking again. Same two taps, then two more, soft and polite.
I stayed in bed this time. I didn’t move. After a few seconds, it stopped.
But in the silence afterward, I realized something that made my stomach go cold: the sound wasn’t coming from the door.
It was coming from inside the closet.
Entry Three
I haven’t told anyone.
What would I even say? "Something in my closet knocks politely and leaves notes?"
There’s no version of that that doesn’t make you sound like you need a sleep study or a priest, so I’ve been pretending it’s fine. Keeping the lights on. Keeping busy.
I pushed a chair against the closet door last night, not because I thought it would help, just because it felt like doing something. Around 3 a.m., the apartment settled the way it always does: pipes ticking, faint hum from the fridge, that tiny metal rattle from the window frame. Normal sounds.
Then the chair moved.
Not violently. It just shifted once, like someone inside had leaned against the door from the other side. There was this soft bump and the tiniest squeak of wood against tile. I waited for it to happen again, but it didn’t.
In the morning, I almost convinced myself I’d dreamed it. The kind of half-memory that unravels when you try to prove it, but when I picked the chair up, one of the legs was damp. Not wet, just a faint cold moisture like condensation.
There’s no plumbing on that wall.
When I came home from work, there was a folded scrap of paper under my front door. I didn’t open it right away. I told myself I wouldn’t, but of course I did. Same paper. Same careful handwriting.
You shouldn’t block the door. He gets impatient.
I threw it away immediately.
Tonight, I’m writing this from the hallway. I don’t want to be in there.
The building manager came up earlier because the tenant below me complained about dripping through their ceiling. He said it’s coming from my unit, right where the closet is. He’s going to open the wall tomorrow to check for leaks.
If this is what the last tenant meant by not sleeping well, I get it now.
Entry Four
The building manager came by this morning with a plumber. Both of them wore that polite half-bored expression people put on when they expect something simple to fix.
They knocked on the wall beside the closet, listened, nodded. The plumber said, "There’s probably a cracked pipe. Might’ve leaked into the drywall."
They cut a small square near the baseboard.
No water. No mould. Just dry plaster dust and this faint smell, like old pennies. Then the plumber said something that made my skin crawl. He said, "Huh. Looks like someone’s patched this before." There was a second layer of drywall behind the first. Newer paint, same colour, just…off by a shade.
The manager just cleared his throat. He didn’t look at me when he said, "We’ll send someone to finish this tomorrow." They packed up and left, leaving the hole open.
It’s maybe the size of my hand, just above the baseboard. When I crouch down, I can see darkness beyond it; empty space, not insulation.
I told myself I wouldn’t, but I shone my phone light inside. The space goes back farther than the wall should allow. Maybe three or four feet deep. The beam caught something white tucked near the far end.
Paper.
I couldn’t reach it.
But when I went to bed that night, the sound came again: tck, tck, tck, tck—from inside the wall this time, not the closet. And underneath it, just for a second, a voice that could have been my own saying, "Don't follow the sound".
Entry Five
I haven’t left the apartment in two days.
I keep telling myself I’ll pack up and go, but I can’t seem to make it past the door. It feels wrong to leave it open, even for a second.
The hole’s bigger now. I don’t remember widening it, but the edges are rough, like someone clawed through. There’s dust on the floor and my fingernails are filthy.
I’ve started hearing knocking again, always the same pattern: two knocks, pause, two knocks. I set my phone to record last night. When I played it back this morning, there was nothing. Just static, and under it, breathing that synced perfectly with mine until it didn’t.
I keep finding tiny slips of paper around the apartment, tucked between pages of my notebook, under the kettle, inside my shoes. All blank.
Entry Six
I was scrolling listings tonight and stopped on one that looked familiar. Same layout. Same warped floorboard by the window.
It took me a minute to realise it’s this apartment. The ad says vacant now.
A month-to-month lease. Immediate availability.
But I’m still here.
I’ve been keeping the lights on, hoping someone would notice.
From inside, the room glows soft and yellow, but people on the street don’t even glance up. I’ve called out. Knocked on the glass. They just walk past.
There’s a new coat of paint on the walls. The hole by the closet is gone, smooth and clean. I didn’t hear anyone come in to fix it, but the carpets have been cleaned too.
I don’t want to leave, but there’s nowhere else to go. I found some paper in a drawer with a bit of drywall dust on it and wrote a few words, folded it once and slid it onto the closet shelf, where someone will see it when they unpack.
Don’t follow the sound.
