The Quiet Apartment

The Quiet Apartment

By Theodore Homuth

Mara pressed her ear against the wall again.

It was 2:14 a.m., and the sound had returned—a soft, rhythmic thud-thud-thud, like a heartbeat buried in concrete. She had first noticed it a week ago, faint and irregular, pulsing through the paper-thin wall that separated her studio apartment from the vacant unit next door.

Vacant, according to the landlord.

Mara sat back, arms wrapped around her knees, breath shallow. She had lived alone in the city for six months, trying to start fresh after leaving her boyfriend—the kind of man who smiled wide in public but clenched fists in private. She wanted quiet, distance, freedom. Instead, she had this.

Tonight, the sound was louder. Closer.

She texted her friend Jenna:

Mara: It’s happening again.

Jenna: Call the cops this time. Seriously.

Mara: What if it’s nothing? They’ll think I’m crazy.

Jenna: Better crazy than dead.

Mara set the phone aside. She hated involving police—too many questions, too much attention—but she couldn’t deny the way her pulse hammered with each muffled thud.

Finally, she grabbed her robe and crept into the hall.

The apartment next door—Unit 4B—looked the same as always: door locked, dust on the knob, an abandoned flyer from a takeout place wedged into the frame. Mara pressed her ear to the door. Nothing.

But when she crouched down, eye level with the gap under the door, she swore she saw movement. A flicker of shadow.

Her phone buzzed. Jenna again.

Jenna: If you won’t call the cops, at least film it. Get proof.

Mara lifted her phone, hit record, and slid it under the door, camera facing in. Her thumb hovered on the screen as she waited.

For three seconds, the video showed nothing but black. Then—movement. A pale blur, too close to the lens. A sound, faint but unmistakable: a low groan.

Mara yanked her phone back, heart racing.

The recording stopped at five seconds. She played it back with trembling hands.

At first, the footage was useless—shadows, noise. But then the blur sharpened, and Mara froze. A face. Half an inch from the camera, mouth open, eyes wide and pleading.

“Oh my God,” Mara whispered.

She sprinted back into her apartment, locked the door, and finally dialed 911.

---

The police arrived twenty minutes later, two officers who treated it like a routine noise complaint. Mara replayed the video, but when the clip reached the face, the screen froze. Corrupted. The officers exchanged a look that said attention-seeking tenant.

Still, they used the master key.

The door swung open with a squeal. The smell hit first—damp plaster, mold, and something metallic. Mara gagged.

The apartment was empty.

Concrete floor. Bare walls. No furniture. No lights. Just a hollow, abandoned space.

“See?” one officer said. “No one here.”

“But—” Mara’s voice shook. “The video—there was a face.”

The taller officer glanced around. “Units like this echo. You probably heard pipes or vermin. Happens all the time.”

They left her standing there, humiliated.

But as they shut the door, Mara noticed something. A single handprint smeared faintly on the inside wall. Red.

---

For the next two nights, she didn’t sleep. She sat in her apartment, every light on, staring at the wall. The thudding didn’t return, but sometimes she thought she heard breathing.

Jenna came over with wine and tried to reassure her. “You’ve been under so much stress. Leaving Kyle, moving here alone—it’s normal your brain is playing tricks. Trauma does that.”

“I know what I saw,” Mara whispered.

“You saw something. Doesn’t mean it was real.”

That night, Jenna stayed over. At 3:12 a.m., Mara woke to silence. Blessed silence. Then—her phone buzzed. A notification.

New video saved.

She hadn’t touched her phone.

Hands shaking, she opened the gallery.

The video showed her own bedroom. Filmed from the corner. She was in bed, Jenna asleep beside her. And in the farthest shadow of the room, near the closet door—movement.

A pale face. Watching.

Mara dropped the phone with a cry. Jenna bolted upright. “What? What happened?”

Mara pointed at the phone. By the time Jenna grabbed it, the video was gone.

---

The next day, Mara demanded answers from the landlord. He looked surprised, then annoyed.

“No one’s lived in 4B for years,” he said. “Had to gut the place. Mold, asbestos, bad wiring. Dangerous. No one goes in, no one out. Whatever you’re imagining—it isn’t real.”

But Mara noticed the way he avoided her eyes. The way his hands shook as he lit a cigarette.

She decided she couldn’t stay another night.

---

That evening, she packed frantically, shoving clothes into bags, heart racing with every creak of the floorboards. Jenna was supposed to pick her up at midnight. Mara kept glancing at the wall—silent now, but looming, as if waiting.

At 11:57, she heard a knock.

“Mara?” Jenna’s voice.

Relief flooded her. She yanked the door open.

It wasn’t Jenna.

It was Kyle.

Her ex.

He smiled, the same wide grin that had once charmed everyone and now made her stomach twist. “Hey, baby. Miss me?”

Mara staggered back. “How—how did you find me?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He stepped inside, closing the door. “You didn’t think you could hide forever, did you? I’ve been watching. Waiting.”

Her chest tightened. The videos. The shadows. The face.

It wasn’t the building. It was him.

She darted for the phone, but Kyle was faster. He grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she gasped. “You’re mine, Mara. Always were.”

And then—from the wall behind them—came a sound.

Thud-thud-thud.

Kyle froze.

The wall bulged. Cracked. A hand punched through the plaster, bloody fingers clawing. A face followed—pale, hollow-eyed, covered in dust.

Kyle screamed.

The figure lunged, dragging him back into the darkness of 4B. The wall sealed itself with a wet, shuddering sound.

Silence.

Mara collapsed, shaking, staring at the now-perfect wall.

Her phone buzzed. A new video saved.

She opened it.

The footage showed her, sitting alone on the floor, eyes wide. No Kyle. No wall. No struggle. Just Mara. Rocking, whispering to herself.

In the background, a faint voice: You’re mine, Mara. Always were.