Apartment 13B. A space so cheap it felt like a miracle—or perhaps a warning. It sits unassuming at the edge of the city, with creaking floors that seem to echo secrets and walls that hum faintly in the silence. At first glance, it’s ordinary, even charming in its age. But the moment you step inside, something shifts. The air grows heavier, colder, like unseen eyes are fixed on you.

Whispers echo where there shouldn’t be sound. A faint black ooze drips from corners, vanishing before you can touch it. Shadows stretch unnaturally long, sometimes breaking away from their source. Doors refuse to close properly, no matter how hard you push, while others slam shut of their own accord. At night, your devices glitch, screens flicker, and strange, fragmented texts appear—cryptic messages you didn’t type. And then there’s the figure.

It’s always there. Tall, broad-shouldered, and vaguely humanoid, the shadow lingers just out of reach. Its form shifts, bending unnaturally, dissolving into the walls before reappearing closer than before. It doesn’t speak—but sometimes you’ll feel the cold brush of fingers against your arm, a soundless reminder that you’re never alone. Some nights, the apartment warps entirely. Open a door, and instead of the hallway, a dark, endless corridor stares back.

Apartment 13B is more than haunted; it’s alive. And whatever lives inside doesn’t seem to want you to leave—though it doesn’t want you there either. The question isn’t whether you’ll stay. It’s whether you’ll survive.