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[spoopycreepyhorrorcreepypasta]

Stay Safe

I’m on the sixth floor of my apartment complex. It’s a small studio, and almost fully furnished. The only items I moved in were my twin-sized bed, various personal belongings, and kitchenware. Included in the apartment is a desk that folds out on the right side of the wall, a dresser, and coffee table. 

Pat, my realtor, smiled at me with wide eyes when she showed me the apartment. “What do you think?” she asked, hands clutching her clipboard. “It’s fine, I guess,” I said. I had never lived on my own before. I was about to start college at DePaul. Chicago is a big city, and I didn’t know anyone yet. 

“Great!” she exclaimed. “I’ll send you the final paperwork via email as soon as I get home, Becca.” She ushered me out into the hallway, taking a nervous glance behind her as we made our way to the elevator.

The only way that I can explain it is that her vibes were off. But, the apartment was actually below my price-range, and in a decent neighborhood (or so I was told by Reddit), so I couldn’t say no.

That first night, I barely slept. I was startled every time I heard the rushing of trains a few blocks away. Dogs were barking, car horns honking. This was so different from the small, quiet town I grew up in back in Indiana.

I didn’t have to start school until the next month, so I had loads of time to unpack and adjust to my new life in the big city. To help with motivation, I put on pop music and sung along as I unfolded all of my clothes and put them away into my new dresser, put away my kitchenware, and set up my desk space with my new office chair, which I had just ordered from Amazon.

The fold-out desk looked old. I wasn’t sure when the apartment complex was built, but it must have been decades ago. It was a little squeaky, so I dug out the WD40 my uncle had slipped into one of my boxes began dripping the liquid on the rusted metal parts of the desk.

I saw scratches on the underbelly of the wood. This was odd to me as the desk folded down to about thigh-height, so it’s not like anyone could have been underneath, clawing away. Perhaps someone had been working at this desk with some sort of severe anxiety and had dug their nails into the wood. I looked closer. The scratches were tinged with dark red stains. Chills ran through my body. I immediately whipped out my Magic Eraser and began scrubbing. 

The stains were not rubbing out. I clenched my fists and scrubbed harder, to no avail. The scratch makes made my skin crawl, and I was really uncomfortable at the possibly that there would be stained blood right underneath me while doing schoolwork. 

The days were long. I did begin to feel more comfortable as all of my items from home were coming together nicely in my new space. 

The nights were longer. The trains still irked me, the dogs barking was unnerving. The third night, things got worse.

The scratching began. 

As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard a “skritch” on the other side of the wall, opposite the desk. I thought nothing of it. The scratching continued, small noises, intermittently, with no distinct pattern. I tried to ignore them as best I could. I assumed it was a neighbor painting their wall, or maybe it was furniture of theirs scraping for some reason. Maybe they had a desk like me, which wasn’t sturdy, and they were working overnight.

The next morning, I made myself breakfast on my tiny kitchen stove. My eyes were drawn the to the desk, and my wall behind it. 

“I’m going to take out the trash,” I thought to myself, “and explore my new building.”

The trash bag wasn’t heavy, as I didn’t have much to dispose of yet, but this was a good excuse to meander about. As I exited the apartment and turned to lock the door, I realized that there was no apartment on the left hand side of me, as my apartment was snuggled into the corner. The left side of the wall was where the scratches were coming from. 

I ran to the garbage bin outside, tossed the bag, and headed back inside the building. As I approached my door, I questioned myself as to why I was so antsy to go back in. 

"You're being stupid," I told myself. "There must be something in the walls. Maybe I can track down a neighbor and ask them if they've had similar experiences." 

I did run into a neighbor that weekend, in the lobby. 

I mustered up my courage to approach the strange man. "Hi," I said. "I'm Becca. I'm in apartment 608. Do you mind if I ask you a weird question?" 

He was handsome, and his brow gleamed with sweat. His name was Greg, he said, and he was actually moving out. He set down the box he was carrying and brushed off his shirt. I could see the U-Haul parked out front of the complex. 

"Oh," I said. "Congrats on the move?" You never know if someone is moving because they found a better opportunity, or worse, if they are breaking up with a partner. 

"Hah," he said, chuckling a bit. "Yeah, I can't stay in this apartment much longer. So, your question might not be so weird." He chuckled a bit but I could see a glint of fear in his eyes. 

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, you have a weird question, but I bet I have a weirder answer. Let's sit down."

I froze, worried that he would invite me into his apartment, but thankfully he pointed to the couch on the other side of the lobby, next to the Keurig machine (which sadly isn't free, I noticed). 

"Listen," he said, leaning forward. "This place is fucking weird." 

I was taken aback. I wasn't used to cursing nor was I prepared for what he was about to say.

"I moved in about six months ago. I mean, this is a pretty cool place, right? Decent location, close to the train." He looked around, as if reminiscing. "Shit started to go down within the first week. I'm alone, right? How are my keys going to be place on my desk and when I turn around they're in my bathroom? Or in my fucking bathtub?!" He shook his head. "I'm thinking I'm going crazy. I'm hearing all these weird noises. I swear something is watching me. I'm finding nails on the floor. I'm seeing all this weird shit outside my window. And I'm on the third floor!" 

My mouth fell open, agape. 

"Bro, I had the creepiest feelings, too, I can't even explain them. Just like, the heebie-jeebies. Someone is watching me." He said it again. Someone was watching him. "I'm not even religious at all, but I'm praying every night. I had to get out. I was just done. I called the landlord and I broke my lease and I said 'I'm out, I gotta go.' She actually didn't ask questions..." He pondered this for a moment. "..and I didn't ask questions, either. So two weeks later, here I am, bailing."

"I've been hearing scratches," I said shakily. "They started a few days after I moved in. I also feel really...weird."

"The scratches!" He exclaimed. He took my hand, and I instinctively pulled away, but he held on. "The scratches is how it begins. You gotta get out," he said. "You need to leave."

He stood up quickly, before I could ask any questions. "Listen," he said. "I gotta go. I'm on a time crunch here. I really hope you, uh..." he was at a loss for words. "Stay safe." 

Greg picked up the box he had left up front and hauled it out the front door, glancing back at me once, nodding his head, as if confirming his words, which echoed in my head. "You need to leave," he had said. "Stay safe."

I sat in the lobby for another ten minutes, cursing myself that I didn't have quarters for the Keurig. I could have gotten some hot cocoa. My aunt always made it for me when I was feeling anxious or scared.

I didn't want to go back into my apartment. But I had no choice. 

Greg was right. The scratching was how it begun. It got louder, and louder. The scratches sounded longer, like someone scraping their nails across the walls in long strokes. I began to sleep with my AirPods in. The soothing sounds of ocean waves washed around me. "He was just messing with me," I thought. "It's just rats, or mice," I thought. "It's just a creaky old building, this is just in my head, this is all a dream, just a fever dream..."

I was reading in bed one afternoon. The sun was glimmering through the window, and the scratches started again. But they weren't coming from behind the desk. They were coming from the wall behind me.

I jumped out of bed, and flung my bed to the floor. I couldn't stand this anymore. I began knocking on the wall. "Hello!?" I said loudly. "Please be quiet!" 

The scratching became louder. The noise traveled up the wall, creeping over my head, and onto the ceiling. RIPPP! SKREEEET!

I screamed, grabbed my phone and keys, and ran to the lobby, then outside, gasping for air. I looked around. Where was I going to go? What was I going to do?

"My realtor," I thought. "She has go to know something." The memory of her odd behavior when I accepted the space entered into my mind. 

I dialed her number, and surprisingly, she picked up almost immediately.

"Hi Becca," she said. "So... how are things?"

"Listen, Pat. Please be straight with me. What is going on in this apartment."

She drew in a long, labored sigh. "What's happening to you?" she asked.

"Scratching!" I exclaimed. "My desk, it has stains on it. It's like, fingernail scratches and there is blood! There is blood, Pat! And the skritching, the scratching, it's like... creatures trapped in my walls! Is it rats? Mice? Racoons? Greg told me he heard it too." The words were rushing out of my mouth. "He said he saw something outside, Greg said that he was freaked out, Greg is moving out!" I'm almost yelling at this point.

"Hon," she said. "It's going to be okay. Meet me at the Starbucks down the street tomorrow. Does 3pm work for you?"

My breathing is slowing. "Sure," I said. "Sure. I'll see you there."

"I need to go," Pat said, sounding distracted. "I uh, I'll see you tomorrow." She hung up. 

I didn't meet up with Pat the next day.

That night, the pitter patter of rain tapped gently on my window. I decided to not sleep with my AirPods in, as the rain was soothing enough.

Tap, tap! "It must be raining harder," I thought. "Tap, tap, tap." This didn't sound like rain though. 

Scrreeeeeeeeeech! The sound of nails dragging on glass. Scriiiiiiiitch! 

I closed my eyes tighter. "This isn't happening," I told myself. "I am dreaming, you are dreaming." 

SCRIEEEEEEECCCH. I couldn't ignore it.

I shifted my head toward the window, moving at the slowest pace possibly, and saw it.

It wasn't a shadow. It was darker than a shadow. But solid. I was frozen.

Sunken eyes, sunken jowls, sunken cheekbones. The longest face, a dripping chin, like melting wax. Arms raised above it's head, claws like a bird's beak, scritching, scraping down my window. Head tilted, it noticed my presence. A small hole formed where a mouth would be. A small hole growing larger, wider. The scratching, it was scratching faster, and faster, the mouth growing larger, and larger, until it screamed louder than I could have possibly imagined, piecing my ears. Like a banshee, like a demon, a sound from the pits of hell. 

I couldn't move. I couldn't look away. The shrill shriek seemed to last for eons. But then it stopped. It tilted it's head once more, and then scurried sideways out of sight. 

The next morning I gathered my essentials, rented a car, texted Pat that I couldn't make it, and drove back to Indiana. 

I had to break my least, which was a kick in the butt financially. I called Pat about a week later and told her that things just didn't work out. 

"Oh," she said, sounding downtrodden. "Can I ask why?"

"No," I said firmly. "I am never speaking of it again." I hung up the phone. 

I still see it. I see it in my nightmares. I see it in the corner of my eye. I ignore it. I think I made a mistake. I shouldn't have looked at it. I shouldn't have looked in those eyes. Those blackened, sunken eyes.