This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Obviously_Special on 2024-10-02 16:22:44+00:00.

I’ve always prided myself on being independent. At twenty-five, I had a solid job, my own apartment, and a tight-knit group of friends who I trusted implicitly. My life was far from perfect, but it was mine, and I was content. But all of that changed when I moved to a new city for a job opportunity that seemed too good to be true.

At first, everything felt exhilarating. The excitement of new beginnings kept me busy. I explored my neighborhood, scouted nearby cafes, and met my neighbors, who were warm and welcoming. Among them was an older woman named Mrs. Whitaker, who lived across the hall. She was kind and often invited me over for tea and cookies. I appreciated her company; it made the transition easier.

About a month after settling in, I began to notice something strange. I’d come home from work to find my apartment door slightly ajar, even though I was certain I had locked it. I brushed it off as my imagination, thinking perhaps I was just forgetful. But then I started finding little things out of place—my favorite coffee mug turned upside down, a picture frame slightly askew. I mentioned it to Mrs. Whitaker one day during tea.

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice dripping with concern. “You should really be careful. You never know who might be watching. People are not what they seem, you know.”

I laughed it off, attributing her comments to old-age paranoia. But as days turned into weeks, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. I began to feel uneasy every time I entered my apartment, constantly glancing over my shoulder.

One Friday night, I returned home late after a long week at work. I was exhausted and ready to crash on the couch. As I fumbled for my keys in the dim light of the hallway, I caught a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision. I turned to see a shadow slip around the corner of the stairwell, but when I looked closer, no one was there.

I shook off the feeling, convinced it was just my mind playing tricks on me. But that night, as I lay in bed, I heard it: a soft, persistent tapping on my wall. It was rhythmic, like someone drumming their fingers, a maddening sound that kept me awake. I glanced at the clock—it was well past midnight.

“Just the neighbors,” I told myself, but the tapping continued, growing louder and more insistent. It felt as if someone was trying to communicate, but I couldn’t decipher the message. Frustrated, I decided to confront the source of the noise. I got up, tiptoeing down the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I approached the wall, I paused, listening intently. The tapping stopped suddenly, leaving an eerie silence. I felt a chill run down my spine, but I pressed my ear against the wall, trying to hear anything.

Then I heard it—a faint whisper, barely audible, like someone was speaking right next to me. “Help me,” it pleaded. The voice sent shivers down my spine, and I jerked away from the wall, heart racing.

“Hello?” I called out, but there was no response. I turned on my heel and hurried back to my apartment, locking the door behind me. I crawled into bed, pulling the covers tight around me, but sleep eluded me for hours.

The next day, I decided to take action. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me, so I installed a security camera at my front door. It was a simple, inexpensive device, but it made me feel a little more secure. I hoped it would help me catch whoever was tampering with my apartment.

That night, I replayed the footage from the camera, watching as the timestamp progressed. I didn’t see anyone enter my apartment, but I noticed something unsettling: every time I came home, the camera picked up a shadowy figure lingering in the hallway. It was subtle, barely there, but it made my stomach churn.

“Just my imagination,” I told myself, trying to rationalize it.

Over the next few days, the tapping continued, always accompanied by the faint whisper that haunted my nights. I stopped inviting friends over, too embarrassed to explain why I was suddenly so paranoid. I became a hermit, spending my days at work and my nights hiding in my apartment, waiting for the next unsettling noise.

Then one evening, I returned home to find Mrs. Whitaker waiting for me outside my door. She looked unusually pale, her hands shaking.

“Can we talk?” she asked, glancing nervously down the hallway.

I nodded, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve noticed something strange in the building,” she said, lowering her voice. “There’s a man who’s been hanging around. He seems…off. I saw him watching you the other night.”

My heart raced. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, as if deciding whether to share more. “I think he’s been following you. You must be careful. Lock your doors. Don’t let him in.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, panic bubbling up inside me.

“Yes! I’ve seen him lurking around. He watches you. He doesn’t know I’ve seen him, but I know. I can feel it.”

My mind raced. Had it really come to this? I felt sick, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t escape.

That night, I barricaded myself in, checking and double-checking the locks. I even moved my bed to be positioned against the door, wanting to be prepared for anything. As I lay there, the tapping began again, louder and more frantic than ever.

“Leave me alone!” I screamed, but the whispers only grew stronger.

Then I heard something that made my blood run cold: a key turning in the lock.

My heart dropped. I jumped out of bed, scrambling for my phone, dialing 911 as I backed toward the window. I had to get out.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator’s voice crackled through the line.

“There’s someone in my apartment! They have a key!” I gasped, my voice shaking.

“Stay on the line with me. Can you exit through a window?”

“No! I’m on the second floor!”

Just then, the door swung open, and I froze, clutching the phone tight against my ear. A tall, shadowy figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway.

“Help me!” the figure said, voice distorted and low, echoing the same words I’d heard in the wall.

I turned and ran to the window, pushing it open as fast as I could. The operator was still speaking, urging me to stay calm, but I couldn’t think. I climbed out, my heart racing as I slipped onto the narrow ledge, desperately trying to find my footing.

“Ma’am, can you tell me what’s happening?” the operator continued, but all I could focus on was getting away from the figure inside.

Just as I was about to jump, I heard the operator shout, “Ma’am, stay where you are! Help is on the way!” But I couldn’t wait. I jumped.

The fall knocked the wind out of me, but I quickly scrambled to my feet and ran into the street, gasping for breath.

I looked back at my building, the figure standing at the window, staring down at me, its features obscured by shadows. I felt a mixture of relief and horror, knowing I had escaped, but still trapped by the knowledge that someone had been watching me all along.

The police arrived moments later, but by then, the figure had vanished. I explained everything to the officers, my hands trembling as I recounted the whispers and the tapping.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just your imagination?” one of the officers asked, his tone skeptical.

I glared at him. “No, it wasn’t. I have a security camera. I saw him!”

They took my statement but couldn’t find any evidence of an intruder. After they left, I felt emptier than before, my home no longer a sanctuary but a prison.

In the days that followed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was still being watched. I couldn’t sleep, constantly glancing around, waiting for the tapping to return.

And it did. Each night, the tapping echoed through the walls, the whispers creeping back into my dreams. The shadows grew darker, and I began to doubt my own sanity.

It wasn’t until a week later that I got the call. Mrs. Whitaker had passed away unexpectedly. They found her in her apartment, but that wasn’t the worst part.

When I went to her funeral, I learned something disturbing.

She lived alone, and there were no other family members or friends in the area. Everyone I spoke to mentioned that she had become increasingly paranoid in her last weeks, convinced that someone was watching her, someone who wanted to get inside.

As I stood at her graveside, staring at the fresh earth, I realized I was not the only one. Whatever was in the building was still there, and it had chosen us—two lonely souls in a city full of strangers.

I never went back to that apartment. I packed my things, left it all behind, and moved back home with my parents.

But even now, in the safety of their house, I still hear the tapping sometimes, a reminder that some things can never truly be escaped. And every time I do, I can’t help but wonder if I’m still being watched, still a part of someone else’s game. Infact as I’m typing this out right now, I hear something…