THE WOMAN IN APARTMENT 7

The Woman in Apartment 7

Nobody in the building talked about Apartment 7.

Not openly, anyway.

It was strange because the apartment was directly opposite mine, close enough that I could hear the door whenever someone entered or left.

But I had never actually seen anyone go inside.

I noticed it during my first week there.

The building was old, the kind where every staircase creaked and every door seemed to have its own personality. There were eight apartments in total, and everyone seemed to know everyone.

Everyone except the woman in Apartment 7.

The first person I asked was my neighbour downstairs.

“Who lives in 7?”

She looked at me for a moment.

Then she said, “Why do you want to know?”

I laughed.

“I don't. I was just curious.”

She didn't laugh back.

“Some questions are better left alone.”

I thought she was joking.

She wasn't.

A few days later, I asked the caretaker.

He was fixing a leaking pipe when I casually mentioned Apartment 7.

His hands stopped.

“Don't bother yourself with that one,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just don't.”

That was it.

No explanation.

Naturally, I became even more curious.

I began noticing little things.

Every night at exactly 10:15, the light beneath Apartment 7's door appeared.

Always 10:15.

Always for exactly one hour.

Then it would go dark.

I never heard conversations.

Never heard music.

Never heard a television.

Just silence.

One rainy evening, I was returning from work when I saw something that made me stop halfway up the stairs.

The door to Apartment 7 was slightly open.

For the first time since I moved in, I could see inside.

The hallway was dark.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer.

I probably should have walked away.

Instead, I pushed the door slightly.

It opened with a long, slow creak.

There was no furniture in the sitting room.

No pictures.

No curtains.

Nothing.

It looked less like someone's home and more like a place that had been abandoned years ago.

Then I noticed something on the floor.

A photograph.

I picked it up.

It showed the building.

The same building.

But the photograph looked old—very old.

I turned it over.

There was a date written on the back.

June 14, 1998.

I stared at it.

The building looked exactly the same.

Same windows.

Same staircase.

Same faded blue front door.

Even Apartment 7 had the same number.

Then I noticed something else.

There was a woman standing in one of the upstairs windows.

I brought the photograph closer.

She was looking directly at the camera.

And although the photograph was almost thirty years old, I recognized her.

It was the woman I had seen standing outside Apartment 7 three nights earlier.

Same face.

Same dark hair.

Same expression.

I dropped the photograph.

I don't remember leaving the apartment.

I only remember running down the stairs and locking myself inside my own room.

That night, I didn't sleep.

At 10:15 p.m., I heard the light switch on across the hallway.

I stayed in bed.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

At exactly 10:47, there was a knock on my door.

Three slow knocks.

I froze.

Another three.

I didn't move.

Then I heard a woman's voice.

“Please.”

It was quiet.

Almost a whisper.

“Open the door.”

I knew that voice.

It was hers.

I didn't answer.

The silence returned.

Then came the words that made every hair on my arms stand up.

“You weren't supposed to find the photograph.”

I couldn't breathe.

How did she know?

I hadn't told anyone.

I hadn't even shown anyone.

I stayed completely still until morning.

When I finally opened my door, there was nobody outside.

But something was lying on the floor.

Another photograph.

My hands were shaking as I picked it up.

This one was newer.

Much newer.

It showed the same building.

The same staircase.

The same Apartment 7.

And there I was.

Standing outside my own apartment.

The photograph had been taken yesterday.

On the back, there was a message.

Four words.

“You're next to remember.”

I stared at it for several seconds.

Then I noticed the date printed in the corner.

It wasn't yesterday.

It was dated June 14, 1998.

And suddenly, I understood why nobody in the building ever talked about Apartment 7.

They weren't afraid of the woman who lived there.

They were afraid of what happened to everyone who remembered her.

And apparently…

I had just become the next person on that list.