The Other Side of the Hall

It was a humid autumn evening, and I had just returned from my late shift at the archives. The old apartment building we lived in had a peculiar smell—like old wood and dust—and the hallway lights flickered as if they were perpetually dying. Our unit was at the far end of the corridor, the last door before the emergency stairwell. As I inserted the key, I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator through the thin walls. I stepped inside and kicked off my shoes, not bothering to turn on the main light. The living room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp filtering through the sheer curtains. My roommate, Daniel, was usually home by now, and I assumed he was already in his room, maybe reading or sleeping.

I padded down the hall to the bathroom to wash up. When I reached the door, it was locked. I knocked lightly, expecting Daniel to be inside. No answer. I knocked again, harder. Still nothing. I jingled the handle, and then I heard a voice, clear and unmistakably Daniel’s, from the other side: ‘Just a minute.’ I sighed and leaned against the wall, waiting. A minute passed, then two. I knocked again, and the same voice said, ‘Almost done.’

But then I heard something else—a giggle, faint but distinct, coming from Daniel’s bedroom at the other end of the hall. I frowned and walked over to his door. It was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open. Daniel was lying on his bed, on his side, facing the wall, the glow of his phone illuminating his face. He was scrolling, and he let out another small giggle. ‘Hey, you okay?’ I asked. He didn’t respond. ‘Daniel?’ I stepped closer and touched his shoulder. He flinched and turned, his eyes wide. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I just got home. Who’s in the bathroom?’ Daniel’s face went pale. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been in here for the past hour.’

We both stared at each other, then at the bathroom door down the hall. The voice had gone silent, but the lock was now off. I cautiously approached and pushed the door open. The bathroom was empty, the shower curtain pulled back, the mirror slightly fogged. On the sink, written in the condensation, were the words: ‘We don’t share walls.’ I read them aloud, and Daniel, standing behind me, whispered, ‘That’s not a sink.’ I looked again—the mirror was covered in writing, but it was not on the glass. It was on the back of the mirror, visible only because the light caught it. The letters were backwards, but readable.

We searched the apartment, every corner, every closet, under beds. Nothing. But as we stood in the living room, we heard a soft knock at the front door. Three knocks. We froze. The knock came again, louder, and then a voice, muffled but familiar—it was my own voice, saying, ‘Let me in. It’s cold out here.’ Daniel grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t open it.’ The knocking stopped, and then we heard the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall, toward the stairwell. But the stairwell door was locked from our side, and it didn’t open.

That night, we didn’t sleep. We sat in the kitchen, the lights on, talking in hushed tones. Around 3 AM, Daniel fell asleep at the table, his head on his arms. I was too wired to rest. I walked to the bathroom to splash water on my face. As I entered, I saw the mirror had cleared. But as I leaned over the sink, I caught a reflection in the glass—not of me, but of a figure standing behind me, wearing my face but with a grin that split too wide. I spun around, but nothing was there. When I looked back at the mirror, the figure was gone, but written in the condensation were new words: ‘Your turn.’

I shook Daniel awake, and we decided to leave, to go to a motel. But as we grabbed our jackets, the front door creaked open on its own. We peered out into the hallway. At the far end, near the stairwell, stood a silhouette. It was tall, with limbs that seemed too long, and it was swaying slightly. It took a step forward, then another. We slammed the door and locked it, but the doorknob jiggled, then a rattling, then a violent shaking. We retreated to the bedroom, barricading the door with the dresser. The sounds outside grew quiet.

Hours later, the morning light seeped through the blinds. We hadn’t moved. Cautiously, we peered out into the hallway. The apartment was silent. The front door was still locked. The mirror was clean. We never spoke of it again, but a week later, we moved out. The landlord asked why. We said it was too quiet. But the real reason was the mirror in the bathroom—the one I noticed before we left, where the word ‘WELCOME’ had been written in the dust, in a handwriting that was mine, but a slant that was not.

We thought we’d left it behind. But last night, in my new apartment, I got up for a glass of water and passed the bathroom mirror. I saw my reflection, but for a split second, it smiled before I did. And in the corner, written in the fog, were the words: ‘Found you.’