I moved in at 3:13 p.m. I should have taken the time as a warning.
I'd been standing on the platform, clutching an off‑peak ticket and three battered
suitcases. A sharp electronic chime cut through the stale station air:
"Attention, all passengers: the train will arrive in thirteen minutes."
"Ugh… I'll have to wait the whole time. Fine, whatever," I muttered, forcing myself to stay upright. When the
train finally squealed into view, I hauled my life on board and spent the next three hours staring at gray
countryside that turned into gray cityscape.
Now, outside the dormitory door, the handle felt colder than the autumn wind that followed me in from the
street.
"Are you the new occupant of room 313?"
The voice came from directly behind me. I spun so fast my shoulder bag slipped. An elderly woman in a neat
cardigan watched with blank, startled eyes—as if she'd surprised even herself.
"Oh—you scared me, ma'am." I exhaled and offered a shaky smile. "Yes, I'm the new tenant."
She said nothing more. A heartbeat later she retreated, shut her own door with a soft click, and left the
corridor silent again.
"By the way, my name is Adam," I called after her, too late. "If you ever need anything…"
Only my words echoed back.
The key turned; the door sighed instead of clicking. Bleach, dust, and something like old paper greeted me.
Whoever lived here before loved order: the single bed was squared away, the narrow desk wiped clean, the
shelves empty but evenly spaced. Perfectly ordinary—yet a strange tension pulsed in the air, as if the room
had been waiting.
A full‑length mirror leaned against one wall, crooked, its brackets loose. I caught my reflection:
twenty‑year‑old face, dark‑rimmed eyes, hair one rainstorm away from bedraggled. I look exhausted, I
thought, pushing the mirror until it sat straight. It wobbled back the moment I let go.
Suitcases unpacked, I knelt to shove the empties under the bed—and spotted a scrap of folded paper.
Someone had forgotten it. ‹Not yet›, written in handwriting that looked disturbingly like my own. I frowned,
flipped it over, found nothing else, and tucked it into my pocket.
My phone vibrated. Jeff.
"Adam, have you reached your room?" his voice crackled.
"Yeah," I said, collapsing onto the mattress. "Long day. I'm lying down at last."
"Your mom's been trying to call. Says she can't get through—your line's always busy. I've tried three times
too."
"Busy? I haven't talked to anyone." I sat up, eyes drifting to the mirror. It had tilted again.
Before I could add more, the screen went black. Battery dead. Great, I thought. Did I really forget to charge
it?
I pushed the mirror straight once more, wedged a paperback under one edge, and convinced myself it would
stay.
Four hours crawled past while I arranged class supplies, pinned my timetable, and hunted for an outlet to
revive the phone. Midnight pressed against the window. The room's hush felt heavier by the minute.
I switched off the light. Mattress springs groaned. Then—just as sleep brushed my eyelids—a voice, soft as
air leaking from a tire:
hissss… Adam…
My eyes snapped open. It had come from the wall beside the bed.
No, I told myself, it's the hallway pipes, the radiator, anything. Minutes passed. Again the whisper—a syllable
I couldn't parse, riding the plaster like static.
Room 314 lay on the other side, but management had said that unit was sealed up "for renovation." Sealed
for years, apparently.
I groped for my journal on the nightstand and scrawled with cramped fingers:
I think something is living behind my wall.
Sleep finally claimed me, uneasy and shallow. I dreamt of cracks spreading across plaster—thin dark veins
that pulsed each time the clock struck 3:13.