This story was sent in by Emily R. from New York.
I’ve lived in the same tiny third‑floor apartment for almost five years, and most nights follow the exact same rhythm. I work late shifts at a small café a few blocks from my building, so by the time I get home, shower, and settle in, it’s usually somewhere between midnight and one in the morning. I’m used to falling asleep to the sounds of the city—distant traffic, muffled conversations in the hallway, the occasional door slamming somewhere on another floor. New York has a way of making noise feel normal.
That night, though, I remember feeling unusually tired. I’d pulled a double shift and hadn’t eaten much, and by the time I crawled into bed it was a little after 1:30 a.m. My apartment was warm from the radiator and smelled faintly like the lavender spray I always use on my pillows. I was half-asleep within minutes, drifting in that fuzzy in-between place where sounds feel far away.
The first weird detail was so soft I wasn’t sure I actually heard it. It sounded like a whisper—I mean the faintest trace of one—coming from somewhere near my bedroom door. I remember blinking awake, listening, and convincing myself it was probably someone in the hallway talking quietly while they passed. The walls in older buildings like mine carry noise in strange ways. Sometimes voices climb through vents or echo around corners.
But then I noticed something that didn’t make sense: the whisper wasn’t moving. It stayed right by my door.
I stayed lying on my side, my cheek against the pillow, trying to slow my breathing. My first thought was that someone upstairs might’ve left a radio on low, or maybe I was catching part of a late-night phone call. I’ve lived alone long enough to know not to jump to conclusions.
Still, something about the sound made my body tense. It wasn’t a full voice, just these short, broken murmurs. Like someone trying to form words but stopping halfway through. It had a strange rhythm—too deliberate to be pipes or the building settling.
I lifted my head to listen more clearly. The whispering didn’t get louder, but it became unmistakable. A steady, breathy pattern right outside my bedroom door.
I stared at the door handle. I could see its faint outline from the glow of the streetlamp outside my window. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. My phone was on the opposite side of the room on my dresser—stupid, I know, but I always plug it in there because I don’t trust myself not to scroll until sunrise.
I tried to think rationally. Maybe someone on my floor was drunk and got turned around. People mix up floors sometimes. My landlord had mentioned a new tenant moving in downstairs earlier that week. Maybe they didn’t realize they were at the wrong apartment.
The rational explanation was almost comforting until I realized the whispering wasn’t slurred or confused. It had intention. Pauses. Starts and stops. Like someone leaning close to the door, trying to get my attention without wanting to be heard by anyone else.
I thought about getting up to grab my phone, but every time I moved even slightly, the whispering seemed to shift, almost reacting. Maybe I imagined that part, but in the moment it felt real enough to keep me frozen.
After what felt like five minutes—though it could’ve been less—the whispering stopped. Not faded. Stopped. Like someone holding their breath.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the door. Every so often, I thought I heard a faint creak in the hallway, but it could’ve been anything. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to slide out of bed. I stayed pressed against the wall as I moved to my dresser and grabbed my phone. I turned on the screen, half expecting a shadow to show under the door, but there was nothing.
I opened the door carefully, expecting at least to hear footsteps retreating down the hall. But the hallway was empty. The air felt still, like nobody had been out there for hours.
I checked the front door next, making sure the deadbolt was secured and that the small chain lock was still in place. They were. I remember standing there for a long moment, looking through the peephole. The hallway looked normal: dim lights, peeling paint, the same crooked fire extinguisher box.
I barely slept the rest of the night. Every tiny noise made me jump. In the morning, I told myself I must’ve been overly tired. Maybe my brain scrambled the sound of a TV or someone whispering on the phone. People hear things when they’re half-asleep.
But about a week later, I came home from work and noticed something off on my front door: a faint, greasy-looking smudge right near the handle, like someone had pressed their fingers there. It might have been from the maintenance guy—he was checking radiator valves earlier that month—but I kept staring at it, remembering the whispering. I cleaned it off, but the sight of it made my stomach twist.
After that, little things kept happening. Not dramatic things. More like barely-there reminders that someone might’ve been too close to my door at some point. Once, I found an envelope slipped under the doormat of my floor that wasn’t addressed to anyone, and everyone on the floor swore it wasn’t theirs. Another night, I heard someone slowly walking past my apartment at around two in the morning, stopping right outside for a few seconds before moving again.
And twice—this is what unsettled me the most—I woke up to faint murmuring again. Not as close as that first night, but close enough that I sat up immediately, my skin prickling. I couldn’t make out words, and maybe there weren’t any. Maybe it was just breathing filtered through a door. But the cadence felt familiar. That same strange half-voice, as if someone was speaking to themselves.
The second time it happened, I grabbed my phone and stood right behind the front door, listening. I thought about yanking it open to catch whoever it was, but my hands were shaking too much. And honestly, I didn’t want to know what—or who—I’d find standing there.
I never called the police because I didn’t have anything solid to tell them. A whisper. A smudge. A feeling. In New York, that barely qualifies as strange.
But it changed me. I started triple-checking my locks every night—deadbolt, chain, the small sliding latch I bought online. I keep my phone on the nightstand within reach now. I sleep with a small light on in the hall.
And still, on some nights when the building is dead quiet and the traffic outside dips for a moment, I swear I hear that same soft murmur somewhere beyond my door, like someone is standing in the hallway, leaning close, waiting for me to fall asleep again.