When I saw the listing, I thought it was a mistake.
A city apartment, one bedroom, utilities included — for five dollars a month.
Everyone I told laughed. “It’s a scam,” my sister warned. “You’ll get robbed.” But the photos looked normal. Old-fashioned, sure, but clean. And I was broke. Desperate broke.
I signed the lease the same day.
The landlord, a wiry old man with yellowed teeth, slid the key across the table. “Don’t move the furniture,” he said flatly. “It stays as is.”
That should have been my first red flag.
The apartment smelled faintly of mothballs and something sweeter, like rotting fruit. The wallpaper was faded, the carpets worn, but nothing unbearable. The living room had an old sofa, a heavy oak dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.
Everything looked… lived-in. Too lived-in.
The first night, I woke to the sound of creaking. The rocking chair swayed gently, back and forth, though the window was shut tight.
I told myself it was just the building settling.
But the second night, I noticed the dresser drawers were slightly open, though I hadn’t touched them. Inside were clothes. Not vintage, not antique. Modern. A man’s jeans, t-shirts, socks. All neatly folded.
The third night, I smelled cigarette smoke. Sharp, fresh. I don’t smoke.
That’s when I started to realize: someone else was here.
I confronted the landlord. “Whose stuff is in the dresser?” I demanded.
He stared at me, eyes empty. “The previous tenant never left.”
I laughed nervously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Back at the apartment, I searched every corner. No one. No secret rooms, no crawl spaces. Just silence. Still, every morning, things were different. The bathroom mirror fogged up with handprints. Plates in the kitchen sink shifted positions. The rocking chair never stayed still.
One night, I stayed awake, sitting in the dark with a flashlight. At 2:47 a.m., the smell of smoke filled the room again. My heart pounded.
And then I saw him.
Not fully, not clearly. Just a man’s reflection in the window — sitting in the rocking chair. I spun around, light in hand. The chair was empty.
But in the glass, he was still there.
A gaunt man, hollow-eyed, with ash-stained fingers curled around a cigarette. He looked right at me. And smiled.
I stumbled back, dropping the flashlight. The room plunged into shadows.
When I scrambled to turn the light back on, the reflection was gone.
But the chair was still rocking.
I didn’t sleep. At dawn, I stuffed clothes into a bag, ready to leave. But when I opened the front door, something stopped me cold.
Pinned to the inside of the door was a note.
In hurried, scratchy handwriting, it read:
“The rent is cheap because it’s mine. You can stay — but only if I let you.”
And when I turned, the rocking chair was still moving.
