The Boy in Apartment 7A

Chapter 4: Cracks in the Ceiling

The humming didn’t stop. It filled Elise’s apartment like fog—low, warbled, and just off-key enough to raise the hairs on her arms. Kayla was pacing near the door, phone clutched tightly in her hand. “I’m calling the cops,” she whispered, already unlocking the screen. “No,” Elise said firmly, shaking her head. “They’ll never believe this. And they can’t help us.”

“Elise, we just heard something on the other side of that wall, and you’re telling me not to call for help?” Elise slowly approached the wall between her apartment and 7A. She placed her palm against the surface. It was warm—too warm. “This isn’t normal,” she said softly. “And I don’t think this is something the police can fix.” Kayla exhaled sharply, dropping onto the couch. “Okay, then what? You just live with whatever this is?” “No,” Elise replied. “I’m going to talk to Daniel.”

The next morning, Elise sat cross-legged by her door, waiting. She had written him a note:

He was here last night. The thing in the hallway. He’s humming through the walls.

What does he want, Daniel?

Please. I need answers.

– Elise

At 9:46 a.m., a reply arrived:

He’s a remnant. A shadow. Left behind after the fire.

Some places burn, and something stays trapped in the smoke.

I tried to warn you. But now he knows your name.

– Daniel

Elise stared at the words for a long time. The edges of the paper were slightly singed. Later that day, Kayla returned with a flashlight, a bag of sage, and a spray bottle labeled Holy Water (Probably). “I googled what to do when you accidentally befriend a ghost who has a ghost problem,” she said, trying to keep the mood light. Elise smiled weakly. “And what does the internet recommend?” “Pray. Burn herbs. Don’t go looking for answers in the attic.” Elise chuckled, but it died quickly. Her gaze drifted up toward the ceiling.

There—along the edge of the light fixture—was a c***k. And from it, soot. “I think the answers are coming to me.” They stood on the kitchen table, flashlight beaming into the c***k. Kayla held the sage like a weapon. “Okay, I don’t want to be that person,” Kayla muttered, “but your ceiling is bleeding smoke.”

Elise reached up and gently pushed at the loose plaster. A piece flaked off, revealing more char beneath—scorched wood, blackened nails. “I thought the fire only damaged 7A,” she whispered. “Maybe it spread,” Kayla said. “Or maybe he left a piece of himself here.” Just then, something slid out from the c***k and hit the table with a thud.

A photo. Old, black and white. Scorched at the edges. It showed a boy—maybe ten or eleven—sitting at an upright piano. A man stood behind him, hand resting on his shoulder. The boy’s face looked hauntingly familiar. “Elise,” Kayla said slowly. “That’s the piano. Your piano.”

Elise’s heart stopped. “No, it can’t be. That’s—” But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Because the truth was already settling into her bones. She’d seen that face before.

She placed the photo next to Daniel’s latest note, comparing the handwriting on the back: Daniel Crowe, age 11.

Her head swam. He’d lived in this building since he was a child. Before the fire. Before everything. But that raised the question—how was he still here? Not just in spirit, but writing, communicating, feeling.

Elise scribbled a new note with shaking hands:

Daniel…

Are you alive? Or are you something else?

That night, no note came. Instead, she heard a cry. Not a wail. Not a scream. A sob. Low. Wounded. Coming from 7A. She pressed her ear to the wall. “Daniel?” she whispered. Silence.

She took a deep breath, crossed the hallway, and stood in front of his door. The air was colder here. Still. Like time had paused. She raised her hand and knocked—once. To her surprise, the door creaked open. No lights were on. The air inside smelled of ash and forgotten things.

“Daniel?” she called again, stepping in.

The apartment was empty—bare walls, no furniture, no signs of life. Just dust and a faint scent of smoke. And on the far wall, scratched into the plaster:

I never left.

Behind her, the door slammed shut.