I moved into the apartment on February 9th. Not that the date matters…I only remember because the wind that night felt like knives. And the building manager forgot to leave the heat on.
The place was on the second floor of a crumbling old brick four-plex. Nothing fancy. A little outdated. But I didn’t care. I just needed a place of my own. Somewhere no one would know me. Somewhere quiet.
I had two tall windows in the living room. Old wooden frames. Single pane. They let in a constant draft. And those curtains… Heavy. Beige. Dusty. They dragged across a metal rod with that slow, sickening sound…
Fsshht
Like someone shuffling across a hospital floor.
The first night I closed them tight. Even double checked. I remembered the way the rod stuck on the left side. I had to tug. I made sure they overlapped. I stood there afterward…staring at my reflection in the glass.
The next morning…they were open. Just a sliver. Enough to let in the morning light. Enough to make me question myself.
But then it happened again. And again.
So, I tested it. I wedged a broomstick across the window ledge. Took a photo. Time stamped. The next morning… The curtain was open. Just slightly. The broomstick? Still in place. Unmoved. But the fabric had…parted. Around it.
That was the first time I felt real fear.
I stayed up one night. No lights. No sound. Just me, sitting in the hallway, watching.
At 3:07 a.m. I heard it. That slow sliding sound. The curtain…shifting. But nothing moved. Except…
A floorboard creaking near the window. Then silence.
The next morning… I found a smudge on the glass. An oily handprint. Too small for an adult. Too large for a child. The fingers…were too long.
I called the landlord. He brushed it off. Said it was probably the wind. Old building. Loose windows. But when I asked about the last tenant… He paused. Then said:
“She called about the curtain too.”
She left. No notice. Left everything behind. Just…gone.
That night, I nailed the curtains shut. Ten nails. Maybe more. It didn’t move that night.
But the next morning… I found one of the nails on the floor. Bent. Like it had been pulled out. Or pushed. And now there were scratches on the wall. Thin gouges. Erratic. Like fingernails dragged across plaster.
I started sleeping with my bedroom door closed. Lights low. But it didn’t matter.
One night…I heard it again. Not the curtain. The rod.
Shht.
Metal to metal.
Then footsteps. Soft. Bare. Crossing the floor. They crossed outside my bedroom door. The knob turned… Just slightly. Then stopped.
The next morning…the curtain was gone. Gone. Rod. Nails. Fabric. Everything… Just an empty window.
I moved an hour later.
A few weeks passed. Then I met someone who used to live there. She said her roommate also complained about the curtain. She found her bedroom empty one morning. Untouched. Curtain open. She never came back.
I’ve never returned.
But sometimes… I hear it. That soft sound of fabric sliding.
Fsshht…
And I think… Someone was always there. Watching. Waiting. Right behind the curtain.