The Tenant in Flat 13

In the quiet suburb of Westbrook, our apartment complex, Maple Court, stood as two identical blocks, each with eight flats. I lived on the first floor of Block A, overlooking Block B, where Flat 13 was directly across from my dining room. It was a post-monsoon evening in 2005 when we first moved in, the air thick with the scent of wet earth. The previous owner of Flat 13, Mr. Raghavan, was a quiet man who, during our casual chats, mentioned he preferred the smaller bedroom for ‘better airflow.’ We thought little of it then.

Five years later, Mr. Raghavan moved out, and a young couple, the Mehtas, rented the flat. Within weeks, I noticed oddities. The Mehtas, normally cheerful, became withdrawn. Their curtains remained drawn, and at odd hours, I’d glimpse a silhouette in the window—a figure that didn’t quite match either of them. One night, I saw the woman, Priya, staring directly at me from that window, her face a mask of fear, before the curtain snapped shut.

My curiosity got the better of me. I began to observe the flat more intently. At 3:00 AM, a faint, rhythmic tapping echoed from that direction, against the glass in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate. I recalled Mr. Raghavan’s words about the smaller bedroom, and it struck me: he had been avoiding the master bedroom. What had he known?

One afternoon, I decided to visit the Mehtas. The door was opened by Rahul, Priya’s husband, who looked haggard. He invited me in, but as I crossed the threshold, a chill ran down my spine. The flat was dimly lit, the air stale. I noticed the master bedroom door was sealed with tape, and a strange, sweet odor emanated from it—like rotting flowers. Priya sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall, whispering to herself. When I asked if they were okay, Rahul glanced nervously at the sealed door and said, ‘It’s just the old pipes acting up.’

I didn’t believe him. That night, unable to sleep, I watched from my dining room. The lights in their flat flickered, and I saw Rahul and Priya arguing near the master bedroom door. Suddenly, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a pitch-black interior. A hand—pale, almost translucent—reached out, and both of them froze. The hand beckoned, and as if compelled, they walked inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

Days passed with no sign of the Mehtas. Eventually, the landlord, Mr. Deshpande, came to inspect. He had a hard time opening the master bedroom door. When he finally did, a nauseating stench wafted out. The room was bare, except for a single chair in the center, with a small mirror on the wall. On the mirror, written in a viscous, blood-like substance, was the number ’13’. Mr. Deshpande, pale and shaking, told me he was sealing the flat permanently. ‘Some things are not meant to be understood,’ he said, his voice trembling.

The flat remained vacant, but the tapping continued every night at 3:00 AM. I tried to move, but every attempt was thwarted—paperwork issues, family obligations. I became obsessed. I researched the building’s history, discovering that before Maple Court was built, the land was a burial ground, and the number 13 had been assigned to a plot that had been disturbed. Some workers refused to pour concrete there, claiming they heard whispers.

Months later, I received a letter with no return address, postmarked from Westbrook. Inside was a single photograph: the inside of Flat 13’s master bedroom. In the photo, I saw three figures—Mr. Raghavan, the Mehtas, and a shadowy entity with hollow eyes. They were all seated around that chair, staring into the mirror. At the bottom, a caption in spidery handwriting: ‘We’re waiting for you.’

The next morning, I found my dining room window fogged up, and on the glass, drawn in condensation, the number ’13’. I realized then that the flat had chosen me. The tapping at night grew louder, more insistent. I could feel a presence in my own home, a cold breath on my neck when I was alone. I knew then that I could not escape, and that soon, I would join the others in that mirror, trapped in the realm of Flat 13.