The Hollow Click

On the night of October 12th, 2019, I returned to my apartment in the old Meridian building, a relic from the 1920s with its creaking floors and radiators that clanked like ghostly chains. I had just finished a late shift at the library, cataloging archival photographs of the town’s forgotten dead. That evening, something had unsettled me—a photograph of a young woman, her face half-obscured by shadow, standing on the fire escape of this very building. The catalog number was smudged, the date illegible. I shrugged it off, attributing it to the flickering fluorescent lights.

I unlocked my apartment, number 4B, and tossed my keys into a ceramic bowl on the chipped sideboard. The place was small: a galley kitchen to the left, a living area with a sagging sofa, and a narrow hallway leading to a bedroom that overlooked the airshaft. I microwaved leftover pasta, ate standing at the counter, and then sat on the sofa scrolling through my phone. The building was quiet, save for the occasional rush of water through pipes or the muffled thump of the upstairs neighbor’s footsteps. At 11:20 PM, I decided to wind down. I brushed my teeth, changed into a t-shirt and shorts, and crawled into bed, positioning myself to face the wall, with my nightstand lamp on.

I wasn’t tired. I grabbed my tablet to watch a documentary about urban exploration. The screen’s glow illuminated the peeling floral wallpaper, casting dancing patterns that promised brief entertainment. The story followed a group of men descending into an abandoned subway station, their flashlights catching strange graffiti and rusted tracks. At 1:05 AM, the documentary ended with a cryptic warning: ‘Some places are better left undisturbed.’ I set the tablet aside, turned off the lamp, and rolled onto my side, facing the wall. The room plunged into darkness, pierced only by the faint amber of a streetlamp through the curtains.

I closed my eyes, trying to will sleep. The building settled into its nightly groans, but soon I became aware of a new sound. It emanated from the corner near the closet door, behind a stack of storage boxes. It was a rhythmic ticking, like a finger tap on a hollow wooden frame, but with an irregular pattern: tap… tap-tap… tap. I held my breath, straining to listen. The ticking continued, moving closer, now seeming to come from the floor beside my bed. I felt a light pressure against my hip, as if someone had placed a single finger there and pressed down gently, then released. My skin prickled.

I bolted upright, fumbling for the lamp. Light flooded the room, revealing nothing but my familiar clutter. The ticking had stopped. My heart pounded in my ears. I scanned every corner, under the bed, in the closet—nothing. I told myself it was the building’s old pipes, a rat in the walls. I lay back down, leaving the lamp on, but facing the ceiling. After a few minutes, the rhythmic ticking resumed, this time from directly beneath my pillow. I froze. The pressure on my hip returned, firmer, almost like a poke. ‘Stop,’ I whispered, my voice trembling.

The ticking ceased. For a moment, silence. Then a sound that made my blood run cold: a hollow click, like a light switch being toggled in an empty room, followed by a faint, breathy exhale, as if someone had been holding their breath and finally let it go. My lamp flickered once, twice, then died. In the sudden blackness, I felt a cold draft sweep across my face, and the unmistakable sensation of fingers brushing through my hair.

I threw myself off the bed, scrambling for the door. My hand hit the light switch, but nothing happened. The air was thick with the smell of old dust and something sickly sweet, like decaying flowers. I stumbled into the hallway, my back against the wall, fumbling for my phone in my pocket. The screen illuminated, and I saw my reflection in the hallway mirror. Behind me, the bedroom doorway was a black void. And in that void, I heard the click again, followed by the sound of bare feet on the floorboards.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the lobby, where the night doorman, Mr. Chen, sat at his desk reading a newspaper. He looked up, startled by my pale face and ragged breath. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, miss,’ he said with a nervous laugh. I tried to explain, my words jumbled. He listened, his expression growing grim. ‘There was a woman who lived in your apartment,’ he said quietly. ‘A long time ago. She died there. They say she never left, waiting for something. A click, I think they said. Her name was Evelyn.’

I never returned to apartment 4B. I stayed with a friend and then moved across the city. But even now, in my new, modern high-rise, I sometimes wake at night, certain I hear that hollow click, close by, followed by a soft exhale. And sometimes, just as I’m drifting off, I feel a gentle pressure on my hip, as if a hand is checking to see if I’m still breathing.