Chapter 1

My downstairs neighbor has been dead for 3 weeks. I just heard him knock on my door.

I don’t really know how to start this without sounding completely insane.

My downstairs neighbor, Martin, died three weeks ago.

I didn’t know him very well. He was an older guy, probably in his 60s. We’d occasionally say hi in the hallway. He smoked on the balcony and complained about the elevator constantly.

Three weeks ago, I heard an ambulance outside around 2 AM.

The next morning, there were police in the building.

Martin was dead.

Natural causes, apparently.

His apartment has been empty ever since.

Last night at exactly 2:17 AM, someone knocked on my door.

Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I was awake because I’d been playing games, so I knew I wasn’t dreaming.

I looked through the peephole.

Nobody.

Then I heard a voice.

“Hey. It’s Martin.”

I just froze.

I actually laughed because my brain couldn’t process it.

I thought maybe someone was fucking with me.

Then he said:

“Can you open the door? I locked myself out.”

I didn’t answer.

He knocked again.

“Come on, man.”

It was his voice.

Exactly his voice.

Same accent. Same weird little cough between sentences.

I backed away from the door and called the police.

While I was waiting, I heard him walking away.

Slow footsteps down the hallway.

Then the elevator opened.

Ding.

Footsteps entered.

The elevator doors closed.

I heard it go down.

I thought that was the end of it.

Then I heard knocking again.

Except this time…

It came from my bedroom closet.

Three knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I didn’t move.

My phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered without saying anything.

For about five seconds, there was just breathing.

Then Martin whispered:

“Don’t open the closet.”

I almost dropped the phone.

I whispered, “Why?”

He said:

“Because I’m still downstairs.”

Then the call ended.

I sat on my bed for maybe twenty minutes.

I didn’t hear anything.

Eventually, I got the courage to look at the closet.

The door was open about two inches.

I know for a fact I’d closed it before going to sleep.

I grabbed a kitchen knife and opened it.

Nothing.

Just clothes.

I actually started laughing from relief.

Then I noticed something on the floor.

A cigarette.

Still burning.

Martin’s cigarettes.

He always smoked the same brand.

I called the police again.

They came, searched the apartment, checked the hallway, everything.

Nothing.

They basically told me I was exhausted and should sleep somewhere else.

So I went to my friend’s place.

This morning, I came back.

There was an envelope underneath my apartment door.

No name.

No address.

Inside was a single piece of paper.

It said:

“I told you not to open the closet.”

I’m currently sitting in my car outside the building.

I just got a text from my landlord.

He said:

“Hey, did you go into Martin’s apartment last night?”

I replied no.

He hasn’t answered.

But I just checked the building camera.

And now I’m looking at footage from 2:17 AM.

There I am.

Standing outside my own apartment.

Talking to someone.

I can’t see who I’m talking to.

But at one point I clearly hear myself say:

“Okay, Martin. I’ll keep him in the closet.”

I don’t remember saying that.

And I’m starting to realize something.

The apartment in the video isn’t mine.

It’s Martin’s.

And I’m standing inside it.