The Dark Apartment

"Ana!” Beatrice called out, her voice cutting through the sudden silence. “Did you forget to pay the light bill again?” She chuckles softly.

No answer.

“Ana!”

Still silence.

The air felt heavier now — stale, as if the darkness itself had weight. Beatrice rubbed her arms; goosebumps prickled her skin. She slid off her bed, her bare feet sinking into the worn carpet, and opened her door.

The hallway was colder. The faint hum of the refrigerator had stopped. The only sound was her own shallow breathing.

She stepped carefully, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Ana’s door was half-cracked, a thin line of blackness spilling out like smoke. Beatrice leaned closer — the scent of iron and something sour hit her nose. Her stomach turned.

Through the narrow opening, she saw him — a tall, dark figure standing over Ana’s bed.

Her breath hitched.

The shape didn’t move. She couldn’t see his eyes, his face — just the outline, like a shadow that didn’t belong.

She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the rug as she hurried to her room. She slammed the door shut, locked it, and pressed her back against the wood. Her fingers fumbled for her phone — slick with sweat — and she turned on the flashlight.

The beam cut through the dark, landing on the mirror. Her reflection looked pale and wide-eyed, like someone else entirely.

It wasn’t unusual for Ana to have men over after midnight, but this one felt wrong — heavier, darker, like the air had shifted with him in it.

Then came a soft knock.

Three slow taps.

Beatrice froze. The sound crawled up her spine.

Another knock — louder this time.

“Leave!” she screamed, her voice cracking.

The knocking grew violent, shaking the door in its frame.

Then, silence — for just a moment.

The door exploded open. Wood splintered.

The figure stood there, filling the doorway — no face, no eyes, just darkness shaped like a man.

Beatrice’s body went rigid. She clutched her phone like a weapon. “I’m calling 911 if you don’t leave right now!”

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

He moved faster than thought. The mattress dipped under his weight — cold hands, the gleam of metal, a wet sound that filled the room.

The smell of blood was sharp, metallic, and final.

When the apartment fell silent again, water ran briefly in the bathroom sink. Then footsteps — soft, deliberate — faded into nothing.

The next morning, a neighbor called the police after hearing something strange last night. They found Ana and Beatrice lifeless in their rooms. No fingerprints. No footprints. No evidence. Even the cameras in the hallway showed only static.

Ten years later, the case remains cold.

THE END