Room Thirteen

The taxi stopped at the curb with a soft jolt, the tires crunching over loose gravel. Nadia pressed her palms against her jeans and stared up at the building she had just signed her name to, a flat she could barely believe she’d been lucky enough to find. Dusky evening light washed the complex in muted gold, the cracked plaster walls glowing faintly as if pretending to be more welcoming than they really were.

It was old, certainly, but not decrepit. A four-story walk-up, the kind that seemed stuck between decades, with small balconies jutting out like crooked teeth and iron railings flecked with rust. A place that had lived through generations of tenants such as students, families, lonely old bachelors and yet still stood firm against time.

Nadia, twenty-four, freshly arrived from her hometown several hours away, felt a flutter of excitement that almost drowned out the nerves coiling in her stomach. She had done it. She had managed to leave behind the suffocating predictability of the village she grew up in and had found a job in the city, her own job, her own pay, her own space.

And what a deal it was.

“Cheap as hell for the city,” she muttered to herself as she climbed out of the taxi, tugging her suitcase behind her. “I mean, who gets a place this size for this price?”

The driver had already unloaded her two bags, placing them on the pavement. He didn’t linger for a tip. Instead, he gave a polite nod, slid back into the driver’s seat, and drove away with the hurried indifference of someone escaping the last obligation of the day.

Nadia adjusted her backpack, picked up her bags, and approached the entrance. The metal gate squeaked open under her push, groaning as though it hadn’t been oiled in years. Inside, the lobby was dim and oddly quiet for the hour. A single yellow bulb flickered above the letterboxes, casting shadows that made the corners look deeper than they really were.

A man sat at a desk tucked to one side, flipping through a newspaper. The supposed caretaker, Nadia guessed. His face was lean, his eyes sharp under a sagging brow. He looked up as she approached, and for the briefest instant, something flickered in his gaze...confusion, maybe, or hesitation but it vanished behind a professional mask.

“You must be the new tenant.” His voice was gravelly, as if unused to casual conversation. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a set of keys on a thin ring. “Nadia Venkatesh, right?”

She smiled. “That’s me.”

He slid the keys across the desk. She noticed how his hand trembled just slightly, though he steadied it quickly. “Top floor. Third door to the left. Room Number Thirteen.”

She nodded, oblivious to the small pause before he’d said the number. “Thank you!”

The man gave her a long look, lips pressed tight, then went back to his newspaper as though washing his hands of her.

Dragging her luggage toward the stairs, Nadia passed two women speaking in hushed tones near the mailboxes. They stopped mid-conversation to stare at her, their eyes sweeping from her bags to her face. Nadia offered a friendly smile and a quick wave.

“Hi, I’m moving in today,” she said cheerfully.

The women exchanged glances. One of them forced a stiff smile, lips twitching as if pulled by invisible strings. The other simply nodded, silent.

Nadia blinked, thrown off for a second. Weird. Maybe they’re just not used to new people? She brushed it off and kept climbing the stairs.

The halls grew narrower as she went up, the walls scuffed with years of luggage and careless elbows. On the third floor, a door swung shut just as she arrived, leaving the echo of hurried footsteps. A child’s laughter rang faintly, bouncing down the stairwell, but when she turned to look, the landing was empty.

By the time she reached the fourth floor, her arms ached from dragging the bags, but her spirits lifted again. My first real apartment. Mine.

She found the door... No. 13, brass numbers dulled with age and slid the key into the lock. It turned with a stiff click.

Inside, dust swirled lazily in the shaft of light that fell across the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and something metallic, like old pipes. Yet the space was bigger than she’d dared hope: a modest living room opening into a small kitchen, a single bedroom with a narrow window overlooking the street, and a bathroom tucked in the corner.

Sure, it needed a good cleaning, but it wasn’t worse than student housing.

“Not bad at all,” she whispered to herself.

She propped the door open to let in fresh air and began the ritual of unpacking...shaking out clothes, stacking books on the shelf, wiping down dusty counters. Her movements were brisk, energetic, as though keeping busy would cement the reality of this new life.

Every now and then, footsteps creaked in the hallway outside, followed by silence. She dismissed them as curious neighbors.

After an hour, her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since morning. Dropping onto the couch, she pulled out her phone and ordered food from a nearby restaurant. Then, stretching her legs, she called her mother.

Her mother’s voice, warm and familiar, filled the room. “Nadia! You reached safely?”

“Yes, Ma,” she said, smiling despite herself. “You should see the place. I swear, it’s twice the size of my old room back home. And the rent, it’s so cheap, you won’t believe it.”

Her mother made a disapproving noise. “Cheap isn’t always good. You should’ve let your uncle help find something safer.”

“It’s fine,” Nadia assured her. “The building’s old but solid. And the neighborhood seems quiet. I think I snagged a deal.”

As she described the layout of the big window, the tiny kitchen, she wandered to the corner where a faint draft touched her ankles. She rubbed her arms.

“It’s a little colder than the rest of the building, though,” she added casually. “Like… the air doesn’t move right. Probably just the top floor thing.”

“You better not catch a chill,” her mother said.

Nadia laughed it off. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy a blanket tomorrow.”

Her phone buzzed with another call. The delivery person. She switched lines.

“Hello?”

“Uh… ma’am,” the voice stammered. “Your order’s here. Which room number?”

“Room Thirteen, top floor,” she said brightly.

Silence. Dead air pressed against her ear. “Hello?”

The man finally spoke, voice lower now. “Room… thirteen?”

“Yes?”

Another pause. Then, awkwardly, “Could you… come down and collect it? I’ll wait by the gate.”

She frowned. “Can’t you just bring it up? I mean, I already tipped...”

“I’ll wait at the gate,” he interrupted firmly. “Please, ma’am.”

Something about his tone unsettled her. Still, she sighed and agreed. “Fine. Coming.”

When she reached the ground floor, he was standing stiffly near the gate, paper bag in hand. He looked her over once, eyes narrowing as though memorizing her face. Then he forced an awkward smile, handed her the food, and turned on his heel before she could ask anything.

Nadia stood there a moment, puzzled. The two women by the mailboxes were gone. The caretaker’s desk was empty. The lobby felt colder than before.

Shaking her head, she trudged back upstairs.

“Strange people,” she muttered.

Back inside her flat, she placed the food on the counter, switched back to her mother’s call, and carried on chatting as she unpacked the meal.

“…and the job starts Monday,” she was saying. “I’m nervous, but excited too. I think this is the right step for me, Ma.”

Her mother’s voice softened. “I’m proud of you, beta. Just… be careful in that city. Lock the doors. Don’t trust strangers.”

“I know, I know,” Nadia said with a grin. She glanced around her new flat. The walls seemed to press a little closer now, shadows lengthening in corners untouched by the weak ceiling light. She hugged her arms.

“It’s just… colder than the rest of the building,” she repeated, almost to herself. “But I’ll get used to it.”

And with that, Nadia sat down to eat her first meal in Room Number Thirteen, unaware that the room itself had begun to notice her.

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