u/AkashaRvn

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

​

I moved into this building about four years ago. It's an old place, brick and ivy, the kind of building where the hallways smell like someone's cooking and the radiators clank all winter. I don't mind it. It's affordable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Well, most of them.

There's an old man who lives in 3B. I started seeing him my first week here. He'd be in the hallway around 7 AM, standing by his door, holding a cup of coffee. He always wore the same thing. A brown cardigan, slightly frayed at the cuffs. Grey slacks. Slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

I said good morning to him the first time. He nodded. Didn't smile. Just looked at me with these tired eyes and went back inside.

It became a routine after that. Every morning, 7 AM, I'd see him. Sometimes I'd be heading out for work. Sometimes I'd be coming back from the store. But he was always there. Same spot. Same coffee. Same cardigan. I'd say "Morning, Mr. Weismann." He'd give me that tired nod and go back inside. That was the extent of our relationship.

I never thought much about it. He was just the old man in 3B. Part of the building's background. Like the creaky elevator or the leaky faucet in the basement laundry room.

Last week, I ran into someone new in the hallway. A young guy, early twenties. He was carrying boxes, fumbling with a set of keys. New tenant. I helped him with the door.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm in 3A."

"Nice," I said. "Your neighbor's pretty quiet. Old guy, keeps to himself."

He looked at me funny. "3B?"

"Yeah. Been here for years, I think."

He shook his head. "The landlord told me 3B's been empty since before I signed the lease. Like... a decade."

I laughed. I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me with this confused look on his face.

"I see him every morning," I said. "He's always there, around 7 AM. Standing by his door."

The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're thinking of another building."

I wasn't.

I went back to my apartment that evening and tried to remember when I'd last seen Mr. Weismann. This morning, actually. 7 AM. Same as always. I'd said good morning and he'd nodded and gone back inside.

I went to the landlord the next day. Mrs. Chen. She's been managing this building for twenty years. She knows everyone, everything.

"3B?" She frowned. "Nobody's lived there since 2009. The tenant passed away. It's been sealed up ever since."

"There's a man there," I said. "I see him every morning."

She gave me a long look. "You need to get more sleep."

I didn't argue. I just thanked her and walked away.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by my window, watching the hallway. At 6:55 AM, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. 3B was dark. The door was shut. No coffee cup. No cardigan. No old man.

I knocked. No answer.

I checked the peephole. Nothing.

I told myself I was imagining things. The stress of work. The lack of sleep. My mind playing tricks on me.

The next day I went to work early. I didn't look at 3B.

The day after that, I came home late. I avoided the hallway.

But this morning, I heard something. A door opening. Soft footsteps. I got up and looked through my peephole.

He was there. Standing by his door. Holding his coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

I opened my door. He turned and looked at me. He nodded.

"Morning," he said.

First time ever.

Then:

"You've been asking about me."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. I didn't know what to do. I went downstairs to the lobby. Mrs. Chen was at her desk.

"3B," I said. "I saw him again."

She looked up from her paperwork. Her face went pale.

"Don't talk about 3B," she said quietly. "Just don't."

"Why? Who lives there?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head.

That's when the woman from 3C came down the stairs. The one with the small dog. She must have heard us. She stopped and looked at me.

"Everyone sees him," she said. "We all do."

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Since I moved in. Eight years ago."

I nodded. That made sense. He'd been there before me.

Then she added: "No. Actually, I think it started after you moved in."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I just don't remember seeing him before you arrived. And I've been here longer."

"How long?" I asked. "How long has he been there?"

She looked confused. "There?"

"Mr. Weismann. The man in 3B."

She stared at me for several seconds.

"Nobody knows his name."

Then she walked away.

I don't know what that means. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's there. But I know one thing. I wasn't the only one who saw him. But I was the only one who knew his name.

And I don't know where I got it from.

The next morning, I opened my door at 7 AM.

He wasn't standing outside 3B.

He was standing outside my door.

Same coffee. Same cardigan. Same tired eyes.

He nodded at me.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I managed.

He looked tired. More tired than usual.

"Don't tell anyone yours," he said.

Then he went back inside.

I stood there for a long time. I watched him unlock the door. I watched him step into 3B. I watched the door close.

Then I looked down at the key in my hand.

Apartment 3B.

I stared at it. The brass was worn smooth. Old. Much older than the keys I'd gotten from Mrs. Chen four years ago. I reached into my pocket. My apartment key was gone. Only the 3B key remained.

I don't remember dropping mine. I don't remember picking this one up.

But that's not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that when I looked up at the door to 3B, I knew exactly what was on the other side. Not guessed. Knew. The layout. The furniture. The smell. The old radio beside the window. The half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The brown cardigan hanging on the back of the chair.

I've never been inside 3B. At least... I don't think I have.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm. 6:58 AM. I don't usually drink coffee. But I found myself making a cup anyway.

At exactly 7:00, there was a knock at my door.

When I opened it, nobody was there. Just the woman from 3C walking her dog. She stopped. Looked at me. Then looked at the coffee in my hand.

Her face went white.

"Oh," she whispered.

Then she smiled sadly. The same way people smile when they recognize someone they haven't seen in years.

"Good morning, Mr. Weismann."

I started to tell her she was mistaken. Then I noticed the dog. It wasn't growling. It wasn't afraid. It was staring past me. At the hallway behind me. Its tail was wagging. Like it was happy to see someone.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a man standing outside 3B. Holding a cup of coffee. Wearing a brown cardigan. Watching me.

The woman from 3C frowned.

"That's strange."

"What?"

She looked at the man by 3B. Then back at me. Her expression changed.

"No."

She took a step back.

"There were two."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. She just looked past me. At my apartment door. Slowly, she raised a shaking finger.

"The other one is still inside."

Behind me, a coffee cup clinked against the kitchen counter.

I don't drink coffee.

Not yet.

My husband thinks I'm having a breakdown. Maybe he's right. But if anyone here has ever heard a woman crying inside a locked room, I need you to read this.

I'm not sure when it started. A few weeks after we moved in. The house is old, big, too many rooms. James loves it. His grandmother's house. He spent summers here as a kid. He says it feels like home.

It never felt like home to me.

The first time I heard the crying, I was in the kitchen making tea. It was distant, like someone crying in another room. I walked through the house, following the sound. It led me to the upstairs hallway. To the study door. I stood there for a long time, listening. Nothing. I opened the door. The room was empty. Cold. So cold I could see my breath. I closed the door and went back downstairs.

I didn't tell James about it. He wouldn't have believed me anyway.

The crying kept happening. Every few days. Always the same. Distant. Soft. Coming from the study. I started avoiding that part of the house. I'd take the long way around. I'd find excuses not to go upstairs. James asked why I was acting strange. I said I was tired. He said I needed to rest more.

Then the crying moved. I woke up one night and it was outside my bedroom door. I lay there, heart pounding, staring at the crack of light beneath the door. The crying was clearer now. A woman's voice. Desperate. I got up and pressed my ear against the wood. The crying stopped. I opened the door. The hallway was empty.

The next night, it was in my room. I woke up and it was coming from the corner. From the chair by the window. I couldn't see anyone. But I could hear the sobbing. Soft. Regular. Like someone who'd been crying for a long time. I didn't sleep. I just lay there, listening, until the sun came up.

A week later, I found her.

I couldn't sleep again. I got up and walked through the house. The crying was louder than usual. Coming from the study. The door was open. I stepped inside. The room was freezing. My breath came out in clouds. The chair was facing the window. There was a woman sitting in it. She was wearing old clothes. Her hair was dark. Her face was pale. She was crying.

She turned toward me.

For a second my brain refused to understand what I was looking at. Then she smiled. My smile. I don't remember leaving the room. The next thing I remember is hitting the kitchen floor hard enough to bruise my knees.

James found me there. He said I was having nightmares. He said I was stressed. He said the house was old and my imagination was playing tricks on me. He wouldn't discuss it again after that.

I started researching the house. I found a photograph of James's great-grandmother. Her name was Alice. She had my face. I stared at it for a long time. I didn't tell James.

I found her diary hidden in the back of a drawer in the study. The entries were written in a neat, careful hand. They described the same things I was experiencing. The crying. The cold. The woman with her face. The fear.

"She's in the corner again," one entry read. "She's wearing my clothes. She has my face. I don't know what she wants."

Another entry was different. "I think she's trying to warn me about something. I think she's scared too."

Then: "No. She's not warning me. She's trying to hurt me. I found scratches on my arms this morning."

Then: "I'm not sure which one of us is real anymore."

The entries got stranger. More confused. Alice started seeing the woman in other places. In reflections. In the garden. In her bedroom. She stopped sleeping. She stopped eating. She started writing about leaving. About running away. About never coming back.

The last entry was dated October 12, 1923.

"She's standing over my bed right now. I'm writing this quickly. I think she's me. Or she wants me to think she is. I don't know where she ends and I begin anymore."

The diary ended there. Alice disappeared a week later. No one knew what happened to her. She was never found.

I didn't tell James about the diary. I didn't tell him about Alice. I told myself I was imagining things. I told myself I was tired. I told myself a lot of things.

But I kept hearing the crying. I kept seeing her in the corner of my eye. I caught myself checking mirrors before walking past them. One afternoon I saw someone standing behind me in the bathroom reflection. I spun around so fast I slipped and hit my shoulder against the sink. Nobody was there.

I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. I stopped leaving the bedroom. James said I needed help. He said I was losing my mind. He said the house was fine. He said I was the problem. He refused to talk about it after that.

But then something changed. One morning I found the study door standing open. James was staring into the room. He looked shaken. When I asked what was wrong, he said: "Nothing." Then he closed the door and walked away. He wouldn't look at me.

I don't know if he saw something. I don't know if he was lying. But he started sleeping in the guest room after that. He said he needed space. He said I was too much. The conversation ended there.

The night I decided to leave, I woke up to find her standing over my bed. She was wearing my nightgown. She had my face. She was smiling.

"Leave," she said. "Leave now. Or I'll make you leave."

I ran. I ran out of the house. I ran down the gravel drive. I didn't stop until I reached the main road. James found me there an hour later. He said I'd been sleepwalking. He said I'd been talking in my sleep. He said I'd been saying the same thing over and over.

"Leave now. Or I'll make you leave."

I didn't go back. I refused. James moved us into a hotel. He said I needed help. He said I was having a breakdown. He said a lot of things. I didn't argue. I just wanted to be away from that house.

A week later, I was going through my phone. I almost deleted the photo James had taken the day we moved in. I was standing in front of the house, smiling. I almost swiped it away.

Then I noticed something in one of the upstairs windows.

At first I thought it was James. Then I zoomed in. Then I dropped my phone.

Someone was standing in the study window. Wearing old clothes. Dark hair. Pale face. Watching me.

It wasn't a reflection. It was her.

I looked at the photo again. I looked at the date. It was taken before I ever heard the crying. Before I ever saw her. Before any of it started.

She was already there.

I showed James the photo. He stared at it for nearly a minute. His face went pale. "That's impossible," he whispered. Then he handed it back and said he'd never seen it before. He said I must have photoshopped it. He said I was trying to make him feel guilty. He wouldn't discuss it after that.

I don't know if he was lying. I don't know if he was scared too. But he left the hotel that night. He said he needed to think. He left his phone on the bedside table. He hasn't come back.

I'm still in the hotel. I haven't slept in days. The crying is back. It's not coming from the study anymore. It's coming from the hallway outside my hotel room. Soft. Distant. Getting closer.

I just realized something. The crying sounds familiar. I've been hearing it for months. I've been trying to figure out whose voice it is.

It's mine.

I went back to Alice's diary. I read the last entry again.

"I don't know where she ends and I begin anymore."

I don't know what that means. I don't know if I'm Alice. I don't know if she's still in that house. I don't know if she's the one writing this.

But the crying is getting closer.

And James hasn't come back.

I just heard a knock at the door.

The crying stopped the moment it happened.

I don't think it's him.

I didn't volunteer. That's what they told the press, but I never signed anything. The first time I saw the contract was on a screen in a windowless room, and my hand moved across the tablet without my permission. I watched my thumb press "Accept" like I was watching someone else's body.

Three years earlier, I'd been diagnosed with a condition they called "terminal insomnia." Not the kind where you can't fall asleep—the kind where your brain stops producing the chemicals that let you stay asleep. I'd been awake for eleven days when they found me. Not tired. Not wired. Just hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything that made me human and left the shell running.

The treatment was experimental. A new drug. It worked for six months. Then it stopped. The doctors said there was nothing else they could do. They said I had maybe a year before my body gave out.

Then the facility reached out. They said they had a protocol. A cure. They said I just had to stay awake for seventy-two hours.

I should have asked why.

The facility was buried somewhere in the desert. No windows. No cell service. Just a long white hallway and a door with my name on it. The technician who escorted me didn't speak. She handed me a bottle of water and a laminated card.

Rule one: Do not close your eyes for more than three seconds.

Rule two: If you hear knocking, do not answer.

Rule three: The door will open automatically at hour seventy-two. Do not try to open it before then.

I laughed. She didn't.

The room was smaller than I expected. White walls. A single chair bolted to the floor. A wall clock with a second hand that ticked too loudly. The camera was mounted in the corner, a small red light blinking steadily.

Hour one. I was fine. I scrolled through old photos on my phone. Counted the ceiling tiles. Listened to the hum of the ventilation system. Everything was clinical and quiet.

Hour six. My eyelids started to feel heavy. I stood up. Walked in circles. Splashed water on my face from the sink. The camera followed me.

Hour twelve. The lights flickered once. I told myself it was a power surge. The clock still ticked. The red light still blinked. But I noticed something I hadn't before—the room had no shadows. No matter where I stood, the light came from everywhere and nowhere.

Hour eighteen. I heard the first knock. Three quick raps. From inside the wall. I froze. Counted my breaths. I didn't answer. The knocking stopped.

Hour twenty-four. The technician's face appeared on a small screen beside the door. She looked different. Paler. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She raised her hand and tapped the screen—right where the card sat in my palm. Rule two. I nodded. She vanished. The screen went black.

Hour thirty. I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. I started pinching my arm. Biting my tongue. Every time I blinked for more than a second, the lights dimmed. The camera's red light turned green. Then blue. Then something I don't have a name for.

Hour thirty-six. The room started to feel crowded. I was alone—I knew I was alone—but the air pressed against me from all sides. The walls seemed closer. The ceiling lower. The ticking of the clock became uneven. One beat. Pause. Two beats. Pause. I started counting the ticks just to stay focused.

Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

Forty.

The lights went out. Not all at once. Slowly. Like someone was turning a dimmer switch. The clock kept ticking. I sat in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at where the camera used to be. I could still see the red light. But it wasn't blinking anymore. It was steady.

Hour forty-eight. The knocking returned. Louder this time. Not from the wall. From the door. Three knocks. Pause. Three knocks. I pressed my hands over my ears. The sound didn't stop. It came through my palms. Through my skull. Through my teeth.

I wanted to answer. I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes and let whatever was coming take me. But I didn't. I repeated the rules to myself. Out loud. My voice cracked.

Hour fifty-six. The lights came back on. The room was empty. Except now there was a second chair. Facing mine. The same chair. Bolted to the floor. Identical. I looked at the camera. The red light was blinking again. But it was blinking from two corners now. There were two cameras.

I had been alone. I had been alone.

Hour sixty. I checked the door. The laminated card was gone. In its place was a single word, written in black marker.

Soon.

Hour sixty-four. The second chair began to move. Just an inch. Then another. Each time I blinked—even for a fraction of a second—it crept closer. I stopped blinking. My eyes burned. My vision blurred. But I didn't close them. Not fully. Not ever.

Hour sixty-seven. The clock stopped ticking. The second hand froze at the forty-seventh second. The room went quiet. No hum. No ventilation. No breathing. I looked at the second chair. It was less than a foot away.

I looked at the door. The handle turned. Slowly. Silently. From the inside.

I was the only one in the room. I was the only one.

Hour sixty-nine. Something sat down in the chair beside me. I didn't look. I stared straight ahead at the wall. But I could feel it. The weight of it. The warmth of it. The smell of it—old coins and wet earth. It didn't move. It didn't speak. It just sat there. Waiting.

Hour seventy. The handle turned again. The door opened a crack. Light spilled in. Pale. Yellow. Wrong.

I still didn't look at the chair. I counted seconds in my head.

One. Two. Three. Keep counting.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Cold. Heavy. Fingers that were too long. I kept counting.

Four. Five. Six. Don't stop.

A whisper. Right next to my ear. "Open your eyes."

I already had them open. I had never closed them. Not once.

The hand squeezed. Seven. Eight. Nine. My bones ached. My skin burned.

Ten.

The door swung open fully. The technician stood there. Her face was normal again. Her eyes were kind. She smiled.

"You passed," she said. "You can go now."

I looked at the second chair. It was empty. The camera in the corner was gone. The clock was ticking again. The laminated card was back in my hand. All three rules. The same three rules.

I stood up. Walked toward the door. I didn't look back.

The technician handed me my payment in cash. I drove home in silence. I didn't sleep that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

I haven't slept in eleven days now. Not because I can't. Because every time I close my eyes, I hear the knocking. And I feel the hand. And I know—somewhere in that room, the second chair is still waiting.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is—I never opened the door. I never said yes. I never invited it in.

But it followed me home anyway.

Last night, I found the laminated card taped to my bathroom mirror.

Rule four: You are not awake. You have never been awake.

It was my handwriting.

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."