Anaya had just moved into her new apartment in the heart of the city. The building was old, but the rent was cheap, and the location was perfect for her job. While handing her the keys, the landlord gave her an odd warning. He pointed at the last door in the hallway and said in a serious tone, “Never open that door. It’s sealed for a reason.”
At first, Anaya laughed. Maybe it was just a silly superstition to keep tenants away from an unused storage room. But that night, when the clock struck 2 a.m., she heard it—knocking. Slow, rhythmic, and unmistakably from that very door.
She opened her own door and peeked out. The corridor was empty. Only the last door stood at the end, silent and still. Yet the knocking continued.
The next morning, curiosity got the better of her. She asked her neighbor, an old woman who had lived there for decades. The woman’s face drained of color. “Don’t go near that room,” she whispered. “People who entered… never returned.”
Anaya forced a smile, but her mind was restless. Night after night, the knocking grew louder, almost like someone was begging to be let out. By the fifth night, her fear gave way to curiosity. She carried a candle in one hand and her phone in the other. She told herself she’d just take a quick look and come back.
The door, to her surprise, opened easily with a long creak.
Inside, the room was small, the wallpaper peeling, and the air unbearably cold. A single chair faced the wall. On the wall, deep scratches formed a warning:
“LEAVE BEFORE THE CLOCK STRIKES THREE.”
Her pulse raced. She turned to leave, but the door slammed shut on its own. She pulled at it with all her strength—it wouldn’t budge. The candle flickered, nearly going out.
Then she heard it. Breathing. Slow, heavy breathing that didn’t belong to her.
Her candlelight revealed a shadow in the corner. Tall, crooked, and standing unnaturally still. She stumbled back, grabbed her phone, and tried to take a picture. But the screen glitched. Instead of one shadow, her phone showed three figures circling her.
The clock in the hallway struck 2:45 a.m.
Her heart pounded. The words on the wall echoed in her mind: Leave before three.
She screamed for help, but no sound came out. It was as if her voice had been stolen. Tears filled her eyes as she kicked the door again and again.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed. A message flashed from an unknown number:
“RUN.”
Her hands trembled. She looked around in panic. The chair creaked and began to move on its own. Slowly, it turned. Now, a figure sat in it. Faceless. Silent. Yet she felt its gaze piercing her.
The clock struck 2:55 a.m.
She dropped the candle, and the room sank into total darkness. A cold hand brushed her shoulder. Panic took over—she kicked the door one last time, and it burst open. She fell into the hallway, gasping for air.
When she turned back, the door was gone. In its place was just a plain wall, as if no room had ever existed.
Shaking, she ran to her apartment, locked the doors, and tried to calm herself. Maybe it was all in her mind. Maybe she was imagining things.
But when she checked her phone, her gallery was filled with dozens of photos. Pictures of her inside the room. Taken from different angles.
Her stomach twisted. In every photo, something stood behind her.
Then, the final truth appeared. A video began to play on its own. It showed the same room, but this time filled with terrified people—families, children, doctors—trapped and burning.
A whisper echoed in her ears:
“This building was never meant for homes… it was once an asylum.”
Her blood ran cold. She remembered the landlord’s warning. Ten years ago, a fire had broken out in that asylum. Patients and doctors had died, locked in that very room. To hide the tragedy, the owner sealed it and turned the rest of the building into apartments.
The shadows weren’t demons. They were the souls of those who never escaped. The faceless figure wasn’t a monster—it was one of the victims, whose face had been burned away in the fire.
And the message “RUN”? It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning.
At 3:00 a.m., her smoke alarm went off. The room filled with choking fumes of burning wood. She didn’t wait this time. She grabbed her keys, rushed out, and ran down the stairs.
When she reached the street, she turned back. Her floor—the top floor—glowed faintly red. Smoke curled from the windows, though no fire brigade came, no neighbors stirred. It was as if the fire had never stopped burning.
The room hadn’t disappeared.
It had never stopped existing.
