The Uninvited Listener

During my freshman year at Ashworth University, I shared a cramped off-campus apartment with two roommates, Leo and Marcus. The place was a converted Victorian house split into four units, and ours was the ground floor. It was drafty, with radiators that clanked and a persistent smell of old wood. We never thought much of it; it was just old.

But after about a month, I started noticing an odd rhythmic sound coming from the ceiling above my bedroom. It sounded like someone walking slowly, heel-to-toe, across the floor of the empty apartment above. The tenant there, an elderly man named Mr. Hargrove, was rarely home, and the sound often occurred at odd hours—midnight, 3 a.m., even when he was confirmed to be away. My roommates dismissed it as settling pipes or a squirrel in the attic. I tried to ignore it, but the pattern was too regular.

One night, I decided to test it. I texted my friend Jenna, who lived in the unit above, asking her to walk around her living room in a specific pattern. While I listened from my bedroom, she did exactly that, and the sounds matched perfectly—the same cadence, the same floorboard creaks. But the sounds I heard most nights occurred when she was not home, or when I knew for certain that Mr. Hargrove was in the hospital. It was then that I knew something was walking up there that was not human.

A few evenings later, while I was studying in the living room, I heard the doorknob to the front entrance rattle. It was a distinct metallic clink, followed by a knock—three deliberate knocks, slow and heavy. My roommates were out, and I had locked the door. I froze, staring at the knob, but it did not turn again. I peeked through the peephole and saw only the empty hallway. When I told Leo and Marcus, they laughed, saying I was spooked by old-house noises.

Weeks passed, and the occurrences intensified. I began seeing a thin, shadowy figure from the corner of my eye, always just out of sight, usually near the hallway that led to the bedrooms. I chalked it up to stress, but then one night, I woke to the sound of my bedroom door knob turning, slowly, as if someone was trying to enter. I had locked it, but the knob rotated fully, and the door bulged inward as if pushed. I shouted, and the pressure released. When I checked, the hallway was empty.

I became obsessed with documenting the events. I set up a voice recorder in the hallway, hoping to capture something. The next morning, I listened back. Amid the white noise, I heard a faint, raspy whisper, barely intelligible: ‘He hears us. Now we can speak.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I had never told anyone that I had been using a Ouija board a year ago with some friends, and that we had made contact with something that had attached itself to me. I had dismissed it as a game, but now I wondered if I had brought something home.

One evening, desperate for answers, I called the elderly tenant, Mr. Hargrove. He told me, in a shaky voice, that the unit above mine had been the site of a suicide decades ago. A man had hanged himself in the attic room after being haunted by a presence he called ‘the listener.’ According to local legend, the listener was a spirit that fed on fear, and it would imitate the living to draw attention, then slowly drive its victim to madness. Mr. Hargrove said he had never experienced anything himself, but he had heard whispers from previous tenants.

That night, I decided to test the spirit directly. I wrote a question on a piece of paper: ‘Why are you here?’ and placed it on my desk, then I spoke aloud, ‘I know you’re listening. Show yourself.’ The room grew cold, and the light flickered. Then, a voice—not in my ears, but in my mind—whispered, ‘I’ve always been here. You just never noticed. Now that you know, I can finally speak to you.’

I felt a presence behind me. I turned slowly, and there, in the corner of my room, was a tall, gaunt figure with hollow eyes. Its mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, the entire room seemed to groan, and I felt an overwhelming pressure on my chest. The figure raised a thin arm, pointing at the door, which slowly swung open, revealing the dark hallway. I understood: it wanted me to follow.

I screamed, and the lights went out. When I came to, I was on the floor, and the figure was gone. But on my desk, the paper I had written on was now covered in scrawled, jagged handwriting: ‘You are the fifth. The others are gone. You will join them soon.’

I grabbed my phone, intending to call for help, but the line was dead, and my service was cut off. I ran out of the apartment, but the hallway twisted, and I found myself at the door to the basement. I had never noticed it before. It was ajar, and from within, I heard a cacophony of whispers, all repeating my name. My legs gave way, and I collapsed.

I woke up in my bed, drenched in sweat, with my roommates standing over me. They said I had been screaming in my sleep for hours. I tried to tell them everything, but they looked at me with pity, saying I had been sleepwalking and had locked myself in the basement. I knew that was a lie. They had not been there. I had not been asleep.

Since that night, I have not heard the footsteps or the knocking. But I feel it waiting, patiently, in the quiet moments. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a second reflection, slightly out of sync with my own, staring back at me from the corner of the glass, waiting for me to acknowledge it fully. I know it will not be long before I become the sixth.