I had just moved into an old apartment downtown. The rent was cheap, the location perfect—but there was something a little off. One evening, while unpacking, I noticed a small panel behind a bookshelf. Curiosity got the better of me, so I pushed it aside… and found a hidden door.

Inside was a tiny room, barely big enough to stand in. On the floor were stacks of old letters, photographs, and a dusty journal. As I flipped through the journal, I realized it belonged to the previous tenant—a woman who had disappeared mysteriously years ago.

The more I read, the more I understood: she had been keeping records of everyone who lived in the building… and it wasn’t just notes. She had documented secrets, blackmail material, and even evidence of crimes. And my own apartment number was circled in red, with my name written next to it.

I froze. Someone had been watching me before I even moved in. I wanted to leave immediately, but when I tried to lock the hidden door, the key was gone. That’s when I heard a noise outside my bedroom… someone else knew about the room, too.

I never stayed in that apartment after that night. But the thought of who—or what—was watching me still keeps me awake sometimes.