I thought moving into a cheap downtown apartment was going to be liberating. You know, freedom, my own space, blissful solitude. And for the first night, it was exactly that: blissful, except for the peeling wallpaper that threatened to collapse like a drama queen mid-meltdown and the flickering light in the kitchen that made my shadow look like a poorly cast horror villain.
But then I heard it. Footsteps. At 3 a.m. Exactly 3 a.m., like clockwork. Slow, deliberate, dragging something across the floor above me. I told myself it was normal. Maybe the upstairs neighbour was starting a late-night furniture-moving business. Maybe they were training for some extreme sport involving beds and heavy objects.
I left a note under the door of apartment 4B: “Please, no moving furniture at 3 a.m. I sleep like a normal adult. Thank you.”
The next night, footsteps. And now… a note under my door: “I’m practicing for the Furniture Olympics. Sorry.”
I laughed. Okay, I thought, this is kind of charming. Whoever this person is, they have a sense of humor. I went back to scrolling TikTok, imagining some elderly man with a surprisingly spry sense of mischief.
Then things got weird. The day after, my favorite mug – the one with the cat in sunglasses – was on my counter, upside down. I hadn’t left it that way. I blinked. Maybe I was tired.
And then the whispers started. Low, incomprehensible muttering, just above my ceiling. I leaned my ear to the floor like a toddler eavesdropping on adults.
I heard my name.
No way. I was alone. I hadn’t told anyone I’d moved in yet.
So I left another note: “Hi, uh… are you stalking me? Because this is… unsettling. Very. Please stop.”
Next night, footsteps. But now, a shadow across the ceiling, shifting unnaturally. My heart did a weird, painful jazz solo in my chest. I texted my best friend, Marla.
“I think my upstairs neighbor is a ghost,” I typed.
Marla replied: “Cool. Invite it over for tea. Ask it to do your dishes.”
Very funny, Marla. Thanks.
I tried rationalizing. Old building. Uneven floors. Maybe a raccoon got in. Maybe… no, not a raccoon. Not in a fifth-floor apartment.
I started leaving little gifts: a cup of coffee, a half-eaten muffin, a sticky note: “We can be friends if you promise not to murder me.”
And then, the twist: I finally knocked on 4B. Door. Dead. Silent. I rattled the knob. Empty. Mail slot: untouched. No furniture. No trace of anyone ever living there.
Except for the note on my counter, written in my own handwriting: “Thanks for the coffee. See you tomorrow?”
I sat down, blinked, and laughed nervously. Funny. Hilarious. Not terrifying at all. Probably just sleep deprivation, right?
Except… the next morning, my cat – who I was sure had been dead asleep on the couch – had rearranged itself on the windowsill, staring directly at the ceiling like it had just seen the stock market crash.
And I realized: maybe the apartment above wasn’t a person, maybe not even a ghost. Maybe it was… something else. Something mischievous, witty, and terrifyingly familiar. And honestly, I kind of wanted to ask it for a cup of coffee.