The building didn't have a name. Just a number nailed above the rusted front door: 216. The paint was peeling off the bricks, and the mailboxes inside looked like they hadn't held real mail in years. But the rent was low, and Mark wasn't in a position to be picky.
He shifted the box in his arms and buzzed the front desk again. After a minute, a heavy click echoed from the door, and he pushed inside. The lobby smelled faintly of dust and bleach. A single ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, doing nothing to move the warm, stale air.
Behind the front desk sat an older man, hunched, with silver hair and a cigarette resting between two fingers. He didn't look up when Mark stepped forward.
"Mark Evans," he said, placing the lease agreement on the desk. "Apartment 5A."
The man reached under the desk and handed him a single key on a faded red keychain. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.
"Don't go up to the sixth floor," the man said flatly.
Mark blinked. "Sorry?"
The man lit his cigarette, exhaled slowly. "Stairs creak at night. Pipes rattle. You'll hear things. It's an old building. Best to ignore it."
"...Right."
Mark didn't press it. He took the key and made his way to the elevator, which looked like it hadn't been serviced since the '80s. He took the stairs instead.
Fifth floor. Apartment 5A.
The hallway was dim, lit by weak yellow bulbs that flickered now and then. His apartment was at the far end, just below 6B. He paused briefly as he passed the stairwell to the sixth floor.
The door at the top of the stairs stood closed.
No lights. No sound.
Still, something about it made his skin crawl.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
The ticking of the wall clock echoed louder than it should have.
And just after 3 a.m., he heard footsteps.
Slow. Steady.
Coming from above.
Mark lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, arms folded behind his head. The room was silent—too silent for a building that old. No TVs, no muffled conversations through the walls. Just the slow, rhythmic ticking of the cheap plastic clock he'd brought from his last apartment.
He checked the time again. 2:57 a.m.He wasn't sure why he was still awake. Maybe it was the unfamiliar mattress, or the way the walls seemed to breathe when the wind slipped through the old window frames. Maybe it was what the building manager had said: Don't go up to the sixth floor.
He hadn't planned to. Not really. But now it sat in his mind like a seed, growing.
Then came the footsteps.
They were faint at first—soft, but distinct. Mark sat up slowly. He strained his ears.One… two… three steps. Then a pause. Then more.
They were directly above him.
He reached over to his nightstand and turned off the small lamp. The darkness settled around him like a second blanket. His breath slowed as he listened. The steps moved from one side of the ceiling to the other… then stopped.
Silence returned. Unsettling, thick.
Old building, he reminded himself. Could be anything. Pipes. A raccoon. A drunk neighbor who forgot where his own apartment was.
Still, it felt like someone had been walking, not pacing. Like someone who knew exactly where they were going.
He lay back down, this time facing the ceiling, eyes wide open until the first light of morning crept through the blinds.
The next day, Mark made coffee in the tiny kitchenette and stared at the old rotary phone mounted on the wall. He didn't know why it bothered him—it didn't even work—but something about its presence unsettled him. Like a ghost left behind by a different time.
He spent the morning unpacking, arranging his books in stacks on the shelf, and pinning postcards from places he hadn't actually visited on the wall. It made the room feel more like his. More like home.
Around noon, he heard footsteps again—this time in the hallway. He opened the door to see a woman with a toddler and a bag of groceries. She looked up, surprised.
"New tenant?" she asked, adjusting the bag.
"Yeah. Mark. 5A."
She offered a half-smile. "I'm Carla. 5C. Welcome. Just… ignore the weird noises. This place likes to creak."
Mark gave a polite nod. "Does it… creak from above sometimes?"
Carla's smile thinned. "The floors are thin," she said, almost too quickly. "And old. Don't think too much about it."
He waited for her to continue, to maybe say something about 6B, but she didn't. She turned, shifted her groceries again, and walked down the hall without another word.
That night, the footsteps returned. Again, after 3 a.m.
This time, Mark got up.
He pulled on a hoodie and stepped quietly into the hallway. The air outside was cold, and the fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead. He stood at the base of the stairwell leading to the sixth floor, listening.
Nothing.
He climbed one step. Then another. The wooden stairs groaned under his weight, the sound exaggerated in the quiet.
The sixth floor looked just like the fifth—same faded carpet, same peeling wallpaper—but colder. The windows at the end of the hallway were fogged.
He walked slowly past 6A, then stopped in front of 6B.
The door was closed. Dark brown, unmarked, with a rusted mail slot and an old peephole. There were deep scratches along the lower part of the wood, like someone had clawed at it in a panic.
He reached out and touched the doorknob. Ice cold.
No name. No signs of life. But someone—or something—was moving around in there at night.
Just as he was about to turn and leave, something slid under the door. A soft sound, like paper against tile.
Mark froze. He crouched down slowly and picked up a folded note, handwritten in black ink on yellowed paper.
"I'm still here. Please don't ignore me."— The Tenant
He turned the note over, half-expecting a trick, a joke, maybe even some marketing stunt. But there was nothing on the other side. Just that one sentence. No date. No explanation.
He looked back at the door. Still closed. Still silent.
Mark backed away.
He didn't run, but he didn't walk slowly either.
The rest of the night passed in fitful sleep. He dreamt of footsteps pacing over his ceiling, of a door slowly creaking open by itself, of someone watching him from a peephole.
When he woke, the note was still on his nightstand, right where he'd left it.
Mark carried the note with him all morning. He slid it into the pocket of his hoodie and walked to the corner store a few blocks away, trying to shake off the lingering unease. The streets outside were quiet—too quiet for a Wednesday morning—but maybe that was just this part of town.
He bought coffee, bread, and instant noodles. The cashier, a lanky guy in his twenties with headphones around his neck, barely looked up as he rang him up.
"You live around here?" Mark asked casually.
The guy nodded. "Yeah. Four blocks east."
"You know the building on 216?"
The guy paused, glancing up for the first time. "…Yeah. You moved in there?"
Mark nodded. "Fifth floor."
A pause. Then, "Don't go upstairs."
Mark tensed. "What do you mean?"
The cashier shook his head. "Just don't. That place's got stories, man. People hear things. See things. A buddy of mine lived there years ago—swore someone was living in the ceiling. Another one said he saw a kid in the hallway… no one else saw her. Creepy stuff."
"Did anyone… ever live in 6B?"
The cashier narrowed his eyes. "That apartment's been locked for years, man. Nobody's had the key since before I can remember. That door? It's just there."
Mark didn't respond. He paid, nodded, and walked out.
Back in his apartment, the air felt heavier. The lights flickered as he entered, though he chalked it up to the old wiring. Still, something in the room felt… changed.
He placed the bag on the counter and pulled out the note again, reading it over.
"I'm still here. Please don't ignore me."
Whoever wrote it wanted to be heard.
Mark grabbed a pen from the drawer and, hesitating only a second, flipped the note over. He scribbled back:
"Who are you?"
He stood there for a moment, then slipped on his sneakers, climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, and crouched in front of the door to 6B. With a glance down the empty hall, he slid the note back under the door.
Then he waited.
Thirty seconds. A minute. Two.
Nothing.
He exhaled and turned to go—but just as he reached the stairs, he heard it. A soft, deliberate slide.
He turned.
Another piece of paper had appeared under the door.
Mark walked back slowly, crouched down, and picked it up.
The handwriting was shaky this time, and the paper slightly damp.
"I don't remember my name. But I know yours."
Mark stared at the note, his heart thudding in his chest.
Above him, the hallway light flickered once. Then again. Then went out completely.
And for just a second, in the reflection of the sixth floor window at the end of the hallway…he thought he saw someone standing behind him.
But when he turned, the hallway was empty.