The Apartment That Appeared at 3:17 AM

The Apartment That Appeared at 3:17 AM

A Short Horror Story

At exactly 3:17 AM, Daniel heard someone knocking on his apartment door.

Three slow knocks.

He looked through the peephole.

Nobody was there.

The hallway light outside flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the carpet. Daniel waited, holding his breath, expecting the person to knock again. But the corridor remained completely silent.

He was about to return to bed when his phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen:

“Don't open the door. I'm standing behind you.”

Daniel froze.

For a moment, he could hear nothing except the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rapid beating of his own heart.

Slowly, he turned around.

His living room was empty.

The curtains moved slightly, even though all the windows were closed. Daniel stared at them, trying to convince himself that it was only the air conditioner.

Then came another knock.

This time, it came from inside his bedroom closet.

Daniel grabbed his phone and called the police, whispering his address. But before he could finish, the operator suddenly went silent.

“Sir,” she said nervously, “you need to leave your apartment immediately.”

“Why? What's happening?”

She took a shaky breath.

“Because the address you gave me belongs to a building that was demolished fifteen years ago.”

Daniel stared at his walls.

The paint around him began to crack. Dark stains spread across the ceiling like wet fingerprints. The lights flickered once, twice, and then dimmed until the apartment was almost completely dark.

His apartment number, 407, began to fade from the door.

In its place, new numbers slowly appeared.

1101.

Daniel stepped away from the door.

His phone vibrated again.

Another message.

“You have one minute before he remembers you're there.”

Then he heard footsteps behind him.

Slow.

Heavy.

Getting closer.

Daniel ran toward the front door and pulled it open.

But there was no hallway outside.

Only a long, dark corridor with a single elevator at the end. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, and old family photographs hung crookedly along both sides. In every picture, the faces had been scratched away.

Above the elevator, the display showed:

11.

The doors opened with a metallic groan.

Inside stood a little girl wearing a white dress. Her face was hidden behind her long black hair. Her bare feet were covered in dirt, and one of her hands held a small, rusted key.

She raised her head and whispered:

“You're late, Daniel.”

He stepped backward.

“How do you know my name?”

The girl smiled.

“Because you were the one who locked me in here.”

Daniel shook his head.

“I've never seen you before!”

The girl's smile disappeared.

“Not yet.”

Behind her, the elevator walls began to tremble. A cold wind rushed through the corridor, carrying the smell of damp earth and something rotten. Daniel heard faint whispers coming from the darkness below the floor.

The elevator lights went out.

Something grabbed Daniel's arm and dragged him into the darkness.

He screamed and tried to hold on to the doorframe, but his fingers slipped across the cold metal. The last thing he saw was the little girl standing perfectly still, watching him disappear.

Then the elevator doors closed.

The next morning, a new tenant moved into apartment 407.

As he unpacked his belongings, he noticed that the apartment felt strangely familiar. The rooms were clean, but the air was cold, and the bedroom closet had a deep scratch running down its wooden door.

His phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number appeared:

“Whatever happens tonight, don't open your door at 3:17 AM.”

He laughed and deleted it.

For the rest of the day, he tried to ignore the uneasy feeling growing inside him. But just before midnight, he found a small, rusted key lying beneath his bed.

He had never seen it before.

Then, from inside his empty closet, someone knocked three times.

And a familiar voice whispered:

“Please… don't leave me here again.”

The tenant slowly turned toward the closet.

From behind the door, something began to scratch.

Once.

Twice.

Then the apartment number outside started to change.

407 faded away.

In its place, new numbers slowly appeared.

1101.

THE END… OR IS IT?

This is a fictional horror story created for entertainment.