Rain fell in steady sheets against the windows of the Ashcroft Apartments, turning the city skyline into a blur of lights and shadows. The building stood like a forgotten monument on Hawthorne Street, its weathered brick exterior stained by decades of storms, secrets, and silence.
Most people walked past it without giving it a second glance.
Those who lived there knew better.
Apartment buildings have personalities. Some are warm. Some are lonely.
Ashcroft was neither.
It watched.
Ethan Brooks killed the engine of his aging sedan and stared at the six-story building through the windshield. His windshield wipers struggled against the rain, scraping back and forth with an irritating rhythm that matched the pounding in his temples.
“This is home now,” he muttered.
The words felt like a punishment.
Six months earlier, Ethan had been one of the city’s most respected investigative journalists. His reporting had exposed corrupt politicians, crooked executives, and organized crime.
Then one anonymous source lied.
A story collapsed.
A lawsuit followed.
His reputation disappeared almost overnight.
Now he was living in an apartment building where the rent was cheap because the neighborhood wasn’t.
He climbed out, grabbed two boxes from the trunk, and hurried beneath the cracked awning.
The front entrance buzzed open before he reached for the handle.
“You must be the new guy.”
The voice belonged to an older woman sitting behind a cluttered reception desk.
Silver hair.
Large glasses.
A crossword puzzle spread across the counter.
Without looking up, she slid a brass key toward him.
“Apartment 4C.”
Ethan signed the lease paperwork.
“You’ve been here long?” he asked.
She smirked.
“Long enough to know when people ask too many questions.”
He laughed politely.
“I’m a journalist.”
“I figured.”
“How?”
“You’ve already asked three.”
Her eyes finally met his.
“They’ll tell you to mind your damn business.”
“They?”
“The neighbors.”
She leaned closer.
“If they’re warning you…”
She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“…you should probably listen.”
Before Ethan could respond, the elevator doors groaned open behind him.
An older man stepped inside carrying groceries.
He glanced toward Ethan.
Then toward the fourth-floor button.
His smile disappeared.
“You’re moving upstairs?”
“Yeah.”
The old man hesitated.
“Fourth floor…”
He swallowed hard.
“…different kind of place.”
“What does that mean?”
The elevator doors opened again.
The man stepped inside.
“I’d take the stairs if I were you.”
The doors closed before Ethan could ask another question.
The hallway on the fourth floor smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and cigarette smoke.
The overhead lights flickered every few seconds.
Apartment 4C sat near the end of the corridor.
Across the hall…
Apartment 4B.
The dark blue door looked newer than the others.
Its brass numbers gleamed.
No welcome mat.
No decorations.
No signs anyone lived there.
Still…
Something felt wrong.
Ethan couldn’t explain it.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was the unsettling feeling of being watched.
He unlocked his apartment and pushed the door open.
Boxes.
Dust.
Silence.
The apartment was small but livable.
He set the boxes down and walked toward the window overlooking the city.
The rain had slowed.
Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement below.
A siren echoed somewhere in the distance.
Then…
A soft click.
Not inside his apartment.
Outside.
He turned.
The peephole framed the hallway in a tiny fisheye circle.
Apartment 4B.
Its door was opening.
Slowly.
A woman stepped into the hallway.
She wore a dark coat despite being indoors.
Long dark hair covered part of her face.
She carried a single manila envelope tucked beneath one arm.
For a brief moment, she stood perfectly still.
Then she turned her head.
Not toward the elevator.
Not toward the stairs.
Toward Ethan’s door.
Toward the peephole.
Toward him.
Even though there was no possible way she could know he was watching.
Ethan held his breath.
The woman smiled.
It wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t friendly.
It was the smile of someone who already knew something you didn’t.
She slipped the envelope into the apartment across the hall instead of taking it with her.
Then she walked away without making a sound.
The hallway lights flickered once.
Twice.
When they steadied again…
She was gone.
Ethan opened his apartment door immediately.
The hallway was empty.
No footsteps.
No elevator.
No closing door.
Only the envelope remained, resting neatly against the threshold of Apartment 4B.
Curiosity tugged at him.
Common sense warned him to leave it alone.
He took one cautious step forward.
Then another.
As he bent to look more closely, he noticed three words written across the front of the envelope in neat black ink.
For the Next Neighbor.
Ethan frowned.
He looked up at the silent door of Apartment 4B.
Somewhere deep inside the apartment…
A telephone began to ring.
