The building looked old, but not in a charming way. More like... forgotten.
Four floors. Rusted elevator. A hallway that smelled like mold and old cigarettes. The kind of place where rent is paid in cash and complaints disappear into silence.
Still, for $300 a month — all utilities included — I wasn't about to question miracles.
"Unit 3B," the landlord had said, handing me the keys without looking me in the eye. His fingers trembled, even though the day wasn't cold.
"Don't lose the key," he added. "And don't bother the neighbors."
I didn't plan to. I just needed somewhere to sleep, study, and maybe survive another semester.
The apartment was small but clean. A twin bed. A rickety desk. A mini fridge that buzzed like it had secrets.The walls were yellowed from years of cheap paint jobs, and the windows faced a brick wall just inches away — no view, no sun, no distractions. Perfect.
Then I noticed it.
A piece of paper taped to the inside of the closet door.
Not a warning. Not a welcome note.
A contract.
"By residing in this space, you agree to fulfill the duties left incomplete by the previous occupant.Refusal or abandonment will result in forfeiture. No exceptions."
It wasn't signed.
At least, not by me.
I stared at the bottom of the page, where faint ink twisted like old veins. A signature that shimmered in light — or maybe my eyes were playing tricks.
I laughed. Uncomfortably.
Probably just a prank. Or an art project from the last tenant.Still, I ripped the paper down and tossed it into the trash.
That night, the closet door opened by itself.
And didn't close.