The Fourth Floor

It was a Tuesday night when I first noticed something wrong with the bathroom on the fourth floor of the old apartment building I’d just moved into. The building was a relic, with creaking pipes and a persistent smell of dampness, but it was cheap, and the landlord was desperate. I was a night owl, so when I stumbled out of bed at 3 AM to use the toilet, I wasn’t surprised to find the bathroom door closed. The light was off, but I figured the previous tenant, an old man named Mr. Kowalski, had left it that way. I reached for the knob, but before I could turn it, I heard a thick, wet clearing of a throat from inside. The sound was muffled, as if someone had their face pressed against the other side of the door. I froze. ‘Mr. Kowalski?’ I called out, my voice shaky. There was no answer. I waited, but the silence stretched, heavy and expectant. I decided to go back to bed, telling myself I’d imagined it. When I woke again, a few hours later, the bathroom light was flickering wildly, casting frantic shadows across the hallway. I crept closer, hearing a crash from inside, like glass shattering. I paused at my roommate’s door – Jerry was fast asleep, his snores a steady rhythm. It must be Mr. Kowalski, I thought, though he was supposed to be in the hospital. ‘Mr. Kowalski, are you okay?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. The only reply was a faint, gurgling sound, as if someone were trying to speak underwater. I pressed my ear to the door, and then I heard it: a raspy, dragging noise, like something was being pulled across the tile floor. And then a voice, low and guttural, whispered, ‘I’m not him.’ I stumbled back, my heart pounding. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran downstairs to the lobby, where the night janitor, a wiry man named Pete, was mopping. I told him about the noise, and he sighed, looking at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. ‘Ah, you must have heard the fourth floor’s tenant. They say the old man who lived there before Mr. Kowalski died in that bathroom. Strangled himself with a towel. His ghost has been known to make noise. Best to just leave it be.’ I was unconvinced, but I went back up, determined to ignore it. But as I reached the top of the stairs, I saw that the bathroom door was now ajar, and the light was off. A cold draft blew out, smelling of mold and rust. I pushed the door open fully, and the light flickered on, revealing the bathroom in ruins: the mirror was cracked, the shower curtain torn, and the toilet was overflowing with dark, murky water. And there, floating in the bowl, was a hand. A pale, bloated hand, with long nails, reaching out as if to grab me. I screamed and ran back to my room, locking the door. But as I sat on my bed, trying to catch my breath, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. It was gentle, almost polite. Then a voice, the same guttural whisper, seeped through the keyhole: ‘Let me in. I need to finish what he started.’ I pressed my palms over my ears, but the whisper grew louder until it was inside my head. The next morning, the landlord found me huddled in the closet, my face pale, my eyes bloodshot. I couldn’t speak for a long time. And to this day, I never set foot in that building again. But sometimes, when I’m lying in bed, I still hear that gurgling sound, and I know the fourth floor is not empty.