The Man in Apartment 43- Odeta Rose
When Jenna moved into her new apartment, she was just looking for a fresh start — new job, new city, new everything. The building was old, a little creaky, but affordable. Perfect for a 25-year-old freelance graphic designer trying to rebuild after a rough breakup.
Her neighbors were mostly quiet. But one stood out almost immediately.
Apartment 43.
The door across the hall.
The first time she saw it, she noticed a strange detail: no peephole, no doorbell, no nameplate. Just a heavy, dark wood door with the number “43” nailed crookedly into the top corner.
She never saw anyone enter. Never saw anyone leave.
But the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke would sometimes waft from the hallway when she passed.
Her curiosity spiked the day she got a handwritten note slipped under her door.
“Try the chamomile tea for your headaches. It’ll help. — A friend.”
There was no name. No explanation. Just that.
Jenna froze. How did anyone know she had headaches? She’d only complained about them on a video call with her mom. And her blinds were always shut.
She ignored the note. Threw it away.
But more appeared.
“Don’t forget to lock your windows. The back alley isn’t safe.”
“You looked sad today. Remember, even shadows disappear when the sun rises.”
The handwriting was always the same. Precise. Old-fashioned.
Every note chilled her a little more.
She asked the landlord about Apartment 43.
The old man blinked slowly. “That unit’s been occupied for years. Rent always paid in advance. Quiet tenant. Never a complaint.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No need to. Some people like to be left alone.”
That night, Jenna did something stupid.
She left her phone recording and slid a note under his door.
“Who are you?”
Then she stayed up, watching the video feed from her phone. Hours passed. Midnight. 1 a.m. Nothing.
At 3:12 a.m., the feed glitched for a moment. A soft creak. Then... nothing.
When she checked the hallway in the morning, her note was gone. No reply.
Until she checked her fridge.
On the top shelf, exactly where she kept her milk, was a small box of chamomile tea.
No fingerprints. No signs of a break-in.
She moved it to the trash with trembling hands.
Two weeks passed. No more notes. Jenna started to sleep again. She convinced herself it was just an elaborate prank.
Until she got a package at her door.
Inside: a USB drive. Unmarked. No sender.
Against her better judgment, she plugged it into her laptop. One video file.
It showed her, sleeping.
Shot from inside her bedroom. The camera never moved. Just her, tossing and turning in bed, recorded for hours.
She slammed the laptop shut, heart pounding so hard she felt dizzy.
She called the cops.
They searched her apartment. No cameras, no signs of forced entry.
They knocked on 43. No answer.
“It’s probably a sick prank,” the officer said. “We’ll open a case, but unless something else happens...”
Jenna started crashing on friends’ couches. She put her apartment up for sublet. But no one wanted it. And she couldn’t break the lease without losing thousands.
She went back one last time to pack.
As she carried the last box into the hallway, the door to 43 creaked open. Just slightly.
Enough to see darkness inside. A whisper reached her ears, almost like it came from her own mind.
“You were never really alone.”
She dropped the box. Ran.
Six months later, she lived in a high-rise with security and cameras. A therapist helped. She told herself it was over.
Until a letter arrived at her new place.
No return address.
Inside was a single photo.
Her, asleep in her new apartment.
Shot from the same angle as before.
On the back, the same handwriting:
“Apartment 43 is everywhere. You’re just Room 44 now.”
