The Sixth Floor

It was a Tuesday, and I was stuck at home with my nose buried in a biology textbook. The rain hammered against the windows of our Brooklyn apartment, a relentless drumbeat that matched the monotony of my work. Mom and Dad had gone to a charity gala across town, leaving me alone with the promise of a quiet evening. It was around 9:45 PM when I finally closed the book, rubbing my tired eyes. My lower back ached from slouching, so I decided to stretch my legs and use the bathroom before bed.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision made me freeze. A dark shape darted from the hallway into the living room. I dismissed it as our cat, Mocha, who had a habit of darting around like a furry missile. ‘Mocha, here kitty!’ I called, but there was no answering meow, no soft padding of paws. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I checked the usual spots—the windowsill, under the sofa—but nothing. Then I opened the sliding door to the balcony, and my heart lurched.

Mocha lay on his side, his small body stiff and motionless, a thin line of red tracing from his mouth. He was dead. I crouched beside him, my hands trembling. How? He was fine an hour ago. The balcony door was ajar, but we were on the sixth floor. There was no way he fell. A cold draft swept through, carrying a faint, sweet odor I couldn’t place. Panic was rising, but I forced myself to act. I couldn’t just leave him there. I’ll bury him in the small garden plot downstairs, I thought, grabbing a trowel from the utility drawer.

Just as I reached the door, the doorbell chimed. Two sharp rings, then a pause, then a third. I peeked through the peephole and saw a familiar face: Mr. Aldous, my father’s old colleague from the university, a distinguished man with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp blue eyes. He was a family friend, always bringing odd gifts from his travels—rare books, strange trinkets. I opened the door, forcing a smile. ‘Mr. Aldous, what brings you here? Mom and Dad are out.’ He gave a slow, calculating smile. ‘I know. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop off a book your father wanted. Mind if I come in?’

I let him in. He settled on the couch in the TV room, while I went to the kitchen to fix him a plate. When I returned with some leftover pie, he was gone. I called his name, but no answer. The bathroom door was open, the hallway empty. A strange, uneasy feeling crept over me. Just as I was about to search further, a soft ‘meow’ came from behind me. I spun around. There was Mr. Aldous, standing in the doorway, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, a wide grin splitting his face. ‘Mocha says hello,’ he said, and a laugh bubbled from his throat—a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from the wrong place. He started to walk toward me, his footsteps eerily silent, as if he were floating.

My blood ran cold. I backed up, but the door was behind him. He began to laugh, a sound that grew deeper and more distorted, until it was no longer human. ‘You think you know me?’ he said, his voice layered with something else, something that sounded like the echo of my cat’s dying breath. ‘You think this is real?’ He pointed to the window where the rain still fell. I looked, and through the glass, I saw my reflection—but it was wrong. My reflection smiled at me, a predatory smile, and mouthed, ‘Let me in.’ When I turned back, Mr. Aldous was gone. But I could feel a presence in the room, heavy and suffocating. The lights flickered, and from the direction of the balcony, I heard a scraping sound, as if something were dragging itself across the floor. I knew then that Mocha hadn’t died of natural causes. Something had worn him like a skin, and now it was looking for a new host. And the door was locked. There was no way out.

I don’t remember much after that. I woke up on the couch, dawn light filtering through the blinds. The apartment was silent. No sign of Mr. Aldous. No sign of Mocha. But on the floor, written in what looked like dried coffee, were the words: ‘HE LIKES THE SIXTH FLOOR.’ I called my parents, but they said Mr. Aldous passed away three years ago. I haven’t slept since. Every time I close my eyes, I see that grin, and I hear a faint meowing from somewhere in the walls. I’m not sure if I’m still in my apartment or if I’m somewhere else. The rain has stopped, but the scratch of claws on floorboards never ends.