It had been six months since the last tenant of 401 abruptly moved out.
No one knew why. He’d paid a year’s rent in advance, was quiet, clean — then one day, he packed up and left without a word.

Now, the flat was occupied again.
A young woman named Tara — mid-20s, graphic designer, newly independent, excited to live alone for the first time.

“I love the peace here,” she told the broker on her first visit. “And the view!”

The broker nodded too quickly.
“Yeah… peaceful. Just remember to keep your door locked at night.”

That comment stayed with her, but she shrugged it off.

Flat 401 was small but cozy. The building was old, but the rent was cheap.
Only one thing stood out: the flat next door, 402, had a thick, rusted padlock on it.

“Abandoned,” the watchman told her. “Owner passed away long ago. Family never showed up. Nobody comes.”

That first week, everything was normal.

Until one night — around 2:15 AM — Tara heard a knock.
Three soft taps on her front door.

She froze.

Waited.

Then walked to the peephole and looked out.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty, dimly lit.
She opened the door — cautiously.
Still nothing.

But then — just before she closed it — she noticed something.

402’s padlock was missing.

The door was shut — but no chain, no lock, no sign of it ever being there.

She called the watchman.
He came up, sleepy, annoyed — looked at 402 — and frowned.

“There was a lock,” he muttered. “I swear there was a lock.”

That night, Tara didn’t sleep.

Over the next few days, strange things started happening.
She’d hear soft footsteps in the hallway — but when she looked out, no one would be there.
The light outside her door flickered constantly — only that one light.

One night, as she passed by 402 on the way to the lift, she thought she heard whispers.

Faint. Almost like chanting.
But distorted, like someone trying to speak underwater.

She pressed her ear against the door.

Silence.

Then — a single knock — from inside the flat.

Tara stumbled back, heart racing.

The next morning, she asked the old woman living in 403 about the flat.

The woman looked startled.
“You shouldn’t listen. You shouldn’t look. You’re not supposed to acknowledge it.”

“Acknowledge what?” Tara asked.

The woman leaned in.

“He only needs one thing.
A neighbor.”

That night, at 3:03 AM, Tara’s front door creaked open on its own.

She had locked it. She was sure. She had checked it twice.

But now — it swung slowly, noiselessly open.

She stood in the hallway.
402’s door was now wide open too.

Inside, it was completely dark — except for one thing.

A figure stood just behind the doorway — not moving.
Not breathing.
His face barely visible. Skin pale, sagging. His head tilted at an unnatural angle.

He raised one hand slowly — and pointed.
At her door.
At 401.

She slammed her door shut and didn’t sleep till morning.

The next day, the landlord found her things packed, key left behind.

Flat 401 was empty again.

And 402?

Locked again.
Until the next neighbor moves in.

Because he’s still there.

Waiting.
Watching.
From next door.