Shadows on the Fourth Floor
A man moves into a rundown apartment building, only to realize he may not be alone — or worse, he may not be himself.
Ben Travers knew the rent was too cheap.
But after months of scraping by, he couldn’t afford to ask questions.
Apartment 4B was small, cracked at the edges, but livable.
Except for the flickering hallway lights.
And the stains on the ceiling that looked too much like handprints.
The first week passed uneventfully — unless you counted the feeling that someone was always just out of sight.
Or the way the neighbors never met his eyes.
On the eighth night, at exactly 3:11 AM, Ben woke to the sound of knocking.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
From inside the closet.
He tried to laugh it off.
Dreams.
Old pipes.
The building settling.
But every night after, the knocking grew louder.
And closer.
One evening, when Ben returned home, he found a note pinned to his door.
No signature.
No handwriting he recognized.
It read:
"Don't answer the door after midnight.
Even if it looks like you."
Ben tore it up, heart hammering.
That night, at 12:46 AM, someone knocked.
Three soft taps.
Through the peephole, he saw himself —
same jacket, same tired eyes —
staring back.
The other Ben smiled.
Knocked again.
Whispered through the crack:
"Forgot your keys, mate?"
Ben pressed his back to the door, shaking.
From behind him, the closet door creaked open.
In the cracked mirror above the couch,
he saw a reflection that wasn’t his.
It smiled wider.
The lights flickered, and in the brief, stuttering flashes, Ben realized:
He was already on the wrong side of the door.
But after months of scraping by, he couldn’t afford to ask questions.
Apartment 4B was small, cracked at the edges, but livable.
Except for the flickering hallway lights.
And the stains on the ceiling that looked too much like handprints.
The first week passed uneventfully — unless you counted the feeling that someone was always just out of sight.
Or the way the neighbors never met his eyes.
On the eighth night, at exactly 3:11 AM, Ben woke to the sound of knocking.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
From inside the closet.
He tried to laugh it off.
Dreams.
Old pipes.
The building settling.
But every night after, the knocking grew louder.
And closer.
One evening, when Ben returned home, he found a note pinned to his door.
No signature.
No handwriting he recognized.
It read:
"Don't answer the door after midnight.
Even if it looks like you."
Ben tore it up, heart hammering.
That night, at 12:46 AM, someone knocked.
Three soft taps.
Through the peephole, he saw himself —
same jacket, same tired eyes —
staring back.
The other Ben smiled.
Knocked again.
Whispered through the crack:
"Forgot your keys, mate?"
Ben pressed his back to the door, shaking.
From behind him, the closet door creaked open.
In the cracked mirror above the couch,
he saw a reflection that wasn’t his.
It smiled wider.
The lights flickered, and in the brief, stuttering flashes, Ben realized:
He was already on the wrong side of the door.
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