The Last Message

When Anya stepped into the old apartment building for the first time, something felt wrong. Not in an obvious, blood-on-the-walls kind of way—more like the air was thicker, heavier, like the building was holding its breath. She was a nursing student, practical and grounded, not someone easily spooked. But the place just… hummed. Quietly, beneath everything. The landlord, an old man named Mr. Dass, barely spoke. He handed her the keys without eye contact, mumbling something like “top floor… left… keep your shoes on…” and walked off. Apartment 309 was listed as a 1BHK—small, yes, but affordable, and within walking distance of her college. The hallway was dimly lit, with buzzing fluorescent lights and wallpaper peeling like old skin. As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, a waft of cold, stale air greeted her. The living room was small but clean. The kitchen was old but functional. The bedroom was plain, with just a bed frame and a dusty mirror leaning against the wall. But then she noticed something odd: an extra door. On the right wall of the bedroom, partially hidden behind a curtain, was a heavy, wooden door. It didn’t match the other doors. It looked much older—like something out of a colonial church. It was sealed shut with rusted nails hammered in every few inches. Across the middle was a thick wooden cross, bolted into the frame. Above the door, written faintly in what looked like dried red paint—or blood—were the words: “DO NOT OPEN. ROOM 309 NEVER EXISTED.” Anya froze. The apartment listing never mentioned an extra room. She went back to her phone, pulled up the floor plan. One bedroom. One bath. No second door. She called the landlord. “Hello?” Mr. Dass answered. “There’s another door in the bedroom,” she said. “It’s nailed shut.” Silence. “Must be leftover from old renovations,” he finally said. “Forget it. Don’t worry.” “But it says ‘Room 309 never existed.’” “Exactly,” he said. Then he hung up. That night, the temperature inside the apartment dropped. She tried to blame it on the weather, but the cold felt unnatural—like it came from inside the walls. She curled up in bed, trying to sleep. At 2:17 a.m., she heard it. A faint scratching. Soft, rhythmic. Like fingernails on wood. Coming from behind the sealed door. She sat up. Held her breath. Then came a whisper. Not loud, but unmistakable. A voice, right behind that door. “Anya…” She ran out of the bedroom. Stayed on the living room couch with the lights on until morning. The next day, she tried to brush it off. Sleep deprivation. Old pipes. Maybe rats. She told herself anything to make it feel normal again. But when she returned to the bedroom in daylight, the scratches were still on the wall. Long, thin, deep. As if something had tried to claw its way out. That evening, she went to the local library and asked about the building. The old librarian’s eyes widened when she mentioned apartment 309. “They sealed that room up twenty years ago,” she whispered. “After the fire.” “What fire?” “The girl who lived there before you. She said the room was watching her. She complained about voices. Scratches. And then one night, people saw smoke pouring out of her window. But when firefighters broke in… there was no fire. No damage. Just her… staring at the sealed door. Eyes burned black.” Anya left the library shaking. That night, she locked her bedroom and slept with her phone on her chest. At 3:03 a.m., her phone buzzed. Unknown number. The message said: “You opened it, didn’t you?” Anya’s hands trembled. Her eyes darted to the bedroom door. She hadn’t touched it. But when she walked into the bedroom—heart thudding, breath shallow—she saw the cross had fallen to the floor. The door was slightly open. Just wide enough for a single, pale eye… to look through.