The Shadow in Apartment 13
The first thing Elara noticed about Apartment 13 was the cold. It was a deep, marrow-chilling cold that the building’s wheezing radiator couldn’t touch. The second thing was the silence. Not a peaceful quiet, but a thick, absorbent hush that seemed to swallow sound whole.
She’d taken the cheap rent without question, a desperate move after her breakup. The super, a gaunt man with nervous eyes, had simply handed her the keys and muttered, “Don’t mind the drafts.”
But Elara did mind. She minded the way the shadows in the long hallway seemed to stretch towards her door. She minded the faint, coppery smell that the bleach and air freshener couldn’t quite mask. Most of all, she minded the shadow.
It started subtly. A dark shape in her peripheral vision that vanished when she turned her head. She blamed exhaustion, the stress of the move. But it persisted. It was always there, just on the edge of sight—a tall, man-shaped blotch of darkness that seemed to breathe with the silence.
One insomniac night, fueled by cheap wine and creeping dread, she decided to investigate the source of the perpetual draft. It seemed to emanate from a small, locked closet she’d assumed was for utilities. The key was missing, but the lock was old and flimsy. With a screwdriver and a surge of adrenaline, she jimmied it open.
The door swung inward to reveal not a closet, but a crumbling brick archway, sealed long ago. Scratched into the mortar were frantic, overlapping phrases: HE DOESN’T LEAVE and IT’S NOT A SHADOW and THE EYES ARE THE WORST PART. Her blood ran colder than the air. This wasn't just a bad apartment; it was a tomb with a tenant.
She scrambled back, her heart hammering against her ribs. As she turned, the shadow was there. No longer in her periphery, but standing in the center of her living room. It was tall and unnaturally thin, and where a face should be, there was only a deeper darkness, a void that seemed to pull at the very light in the room. And in that void, two pinpricks of faint, sickly light appeared. Eyes.
It took a step towards her, and the temperature plummeted. Her breath fogged in the air. It wasn't a ghost; it was a presence, a predator that had been waiting, patient, in the walls.
Elara stumbled backward, but the thing was faster. It didn't walk so much as it flowed, closing the distance in an instant. A cold so intense it felt like burning washed over her. She tried to scream, but the silence swallowed the sound.
The last thing Elara saw were those two pinprick eyes, swelling to fill her vision. The last thing she felt was not pain, but a profound, soul-deep emptiness, as if she were being erased.
The next morning, the super knocked on the door of Apartment 13 for a routine inspection. The door was unlocked. The apartment was spotless, empty, and freezing cold. He nodded to himself, satisfied. It was ready for the next tenant.
In the long hallway shadow, something new and dark stirred, waiting for a key to turn in the lock once more #usmanshaikh #usmanwrites#usm
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