When I moved into 4B, the landlord said the upstairs unit had been empty for months.
“No noise complaints,” he added casually. “You’ll like it here.”
The first night was silent.
The second night too.
On the third night, at exactly 2:17 a.m., I heard footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Back and forth.
I checked the lease again in the morning.
Unit 5B: Vacant.
Night Four
The footsteps returned.
2:17 a.m.
Same pace.
Same pattern.
Across the ceiling. Pause. Turn. Across again.
Not frantic.
Not pacing angrily.
Just walking.
Like someone measuring the room.
I told myself it was pipes.
Old buildings make noise.
Old buildings settle.
Old buildings breathe.
But pipes don’t pause at the exact same corner every night.
Night Seven
I stayed awake intentionally.
Phone ready.
Recording app open.
At 2:16 a.m., nothing.
At 2:17—
Step.
Step.
Step.
The sound was clear.
Human.
I ran upstairs.
Barefoot.
Heart pounding.
The hallway light flickered as I reached 5B.
Silence.
No footsteps.
No movement.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I tried the handle.
Locked.
Dust along the frame suggested no one had opened it in weeks.
But I had just heard someone walking.
Directly above me.
The Super
The next morning, I confronted the building superintendent.
“Are you sure 5B is empty?”
He looked confused.
“It is.”
“Can I see it?”
He hesitated, then shrugged.
We climbed the stairs.
He unlocked the door.
The apartment was bare.
No furniture.
No curtains.
Just a faint outline on the wooden floor where something heavy had once stood.
“What was here?” I asked.
“Bed, I think,” he said. “Last tenant left in a hurry.”
“Hurry how?”
He didn’t answer directly.
“Didn’t finish the month.”
That wasn’t unusual.
People leave.
People disappear from places all the time.
But places remember.
Night Ten
2:17 a.m.
The footsteps were louder.
Slower.
As if aware I was listening.
I pressed my ear against the ceiling.
Step.
Step.
Stop.
Right above my bed.
I stopped breathing.
A long pause.
Then—
Three knocks.
Directly over my head.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
The Pattern
I started tracking it.
Every night at 2:17 a.m.
Exactly twelve minutes of pacing.
Then silence.
Twelve minutes.
I measured the distance of my apartment.
Then I measured 5B’s layout from memory.
The pacing matched the perimeter of the bedroom.
Not the whole apartment.
Just the bedroom.
The Discovery
On the twelfth night, I went upstairs again.
This time alone.
I don’t know what I expected to find.
But the hallway felt colder.
Quieter.
As if sound didn’t travel properly there.
I pressed my hand against the door of 5B.
It was slightly warm.
I don’t know why that detail terrified me more than the footsteps.
I knocked.
Nothing.
But inside—
Very faintly—
Step.
Step.
Step.
My throat went dry.
I ran downstairs and called the super again.
He arrived annoyed.
“You’re imagining it.”
“Open it,” I said.
He sighed, unlocked the door, and flicked on the light.
Empty.
Silent.
Cold.
No warmth.
No sound.
He looked at me like I was the problem.
“Maybe you should get some rest.”
The Final Night
I decided I wouldn’t react anymore.
If something wanted attention, I wouldn’t give it.
2:17 a.m.
Right on time.
Step.
Step.
Step.
I didn’t move.
The pacing continued.
Then—
It stopped again above my bed.
Longer pause this time.
Long enough to feel intentional.
Then something new happened.
A dragging sound.
Like furniture scraping slowly across wood.
I looked up.
The ceiling above me had a faint rectangular outline in the paint.
The same size as the one in 5B’s bedroom.
As if something heavy had once stood in the exact same position.
In both apartments.
Aligned.
Perfectly.
The dragging sound continued.
Slowly.
Directly over my body.
Then stopped.
Completely.
No footsteps.
No pacing.
Nothing.
Morning
I went upstairs alone.
The super hadn’t arrived yet.
The door to 5B was slightly open.
Not wide.
Just enough to notice.
I stepped inside.
Empty.
But the dust on the wooden floor had shifted.
In a rectangle.
As if something heavy had been moved recently.
Something the size of a bed.
My heart pounded.
I looked down.
There were faint scuff marks leading to the exact spot where my bed would be downstairs.
Aligned.
Perfectly.
Then I noticed something else.
In the corner of the empty bedroom—
A small piece of paper.
Folded once.
Yellowed at the edges.
I picked it up.
It was a maintenance request form.
From months ago.
Tenant Name: Daniel H.
Complaint: “The footsteps below my bed won’t stop at 2:17 a.m.”
My stomach dropped.
Below.
Not above.
Below.
The Realization
I checked the date.
It was exactly three months before I moved in.
Daniel from 5B had complained about footsteps from 4B.
My apartment.
At 2:17 a.m.
But I hadn’t lived here then.
Had I?
That Night
2:17 a.m.
I didn’t hear footsteps above.
I heard them below.
Directly under my bed.
Slow.
Measured.
Back and forth.
The exact pattern I had tracked.
Twelve minutes.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t breathe.
When it stopped—
There were three knocks.
From beneath the floor.