2:17am

The apartment is on the very top floor of an old building in downtown. The landlord confirmed with you twice since you moved in that the only thing above your apartment is sky. When you signed the lease, they pointed at the floorplan spread over their desk.

“Tenth floor,” he says. “Top floor.”

You don't even think much of it. This is your first apartment after the divorce and all you want is to sleep in a bed where you don't feel resentment sleeping next to you.

Not until the night when everything began to feel a little bit off. At 2:17 in the morning you wake up to footsteps. They are slow deliberate footsteps. There is no panic of someone looking for something or the uneven stumble of someone arriving home drunk in the middle of the night.

There is just walking. Four steps are heard from one end of the room to the other. There is a small pause and then you hear four steps walking back. You lie and listen to the impossible sound of footsteps above your head.

The ceiling above your bed echoes a tiny creek and you tell yourself that it is just the sound of the roof settling. Then something scrapes across the floor above you.

You sit up. Then you hear the sound of a chair being dragged. You stare at the ceiling and wait.

Nothing.

Eventually you are able to fall back asleep. In the morning, you almost forget about it happening at all.

Almost.

The next night it happens again at exactly 2:17 am.

Four footsteps, pause, then four footsteps again. This time there is a loud thump. Something rolls across the floor above you but there is no floor. The sound of a marble rolling across the floor echoes through the room.

You listen as it travels across your bedroom to above your kitchen. You get out of bed and the apartment is dark. You can feel the cold floor beneath your feet and you look up. The rolling stops directly above you.

You hold your breath for a moment and then you hear three knocks.

There is no sleep after that.

The next morning you call the landlord but he just laughs at you. Not cruelly but just enough that you immediately you hadn't said anything at all.

"Top floor." He simply reminds you.

"I know."

"There's no one above you. There's nothing there."

"I heard someone walking."

"Pipes?"

"Footsteps."

"Old Building."

There's a moment where you consider letting it go, just moving on.

Then you say, "Can I see the roof?"

"Why?"

You don't know a rational way to explain that you need to see the space above your ceiling but still he gives you a key.

The roof is empty, except for the tar and gravel. There's a vent, two rusted pipes, and open sky.

You walk to the spot that is directly above your bedroom and look down. There is nothing between you and the ceiling of your apartment but the roof.

That night, you stay awake.

2:16.

You sit on your bed.

2:17.

Footsteps.

Four.

Pause.

Four.

You record them on your phone.

You don't move.

You don't breathe.

The footsteps stop.

You look at the recording.

You press play.

Nothing.

You turn the volume up.

Nothing.

You play it again.

Still nothing.

You are about to delete it when you hear something.

Very faint.

Your own voice.

“Hello?”

You stop the recording.

You don't remember saying that.

The next night, you decide to test it.

At 2:17, you walk into the kitchen.

Footsteps sound above you.

You stop.

They stop.

You take one step.

One step answers.

You take two.

Two steps answer.

You smile despite yourself.

It is ridiculous.

Whatever is happening, you have figured it out.

You walk back to the bedroom.

The footsteps follow.

You stop.

They stop.

You turn around.

Nothing.

Then you hear three knocks directly above your head.

You knock back.

Three times.

Silence.

You laugh.

You don't know why.

Maybe because you're relieved.

Maybe because you've been waiting for something to happen that makes sense.

Three knocks answer.

You freeze.

You didn't knock again.

You wait.

Three more.

You step backward.

Three more.

Faster this time.

You leave the apartment.

You don't go back until morning.

The landlord doesn't believe you.

He comes upstairs with you anyway.

You show him the ceiling.

You show him the roof.

You explain the footsteps.

The knocking.

The recording.

He listens to the recording.

There is nothing on it.

He looks at you.

“You've been sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Any medication?”

You stare at him.

“No.”

He nods slowly.

You hate the way he does that.

Before he leaves, you ask him one last question.

“Was this apartment ever different?”

He thinks about it.

“No.”

Then he pauses.

“Well.”

You wait.

“There used to be an attic.”

Your stomach drops.

“An attic?”

“Years ago. Before they renovated.”

“Where?”

He points toward your bedroom.

“Right there.”

You look at the ceiling.

He shrugs.

“They sealed it up.”

That night, you don't sleep.

You sit in the living room with every light on.

You tell yourself you are leaving in the morning.

At 2:17, you hear the footsteps.

You don't look up.

Four steps.

Pause.

Four steps.

Then something new.

A chair scraping.

You hear it move across the ceiling.

Then a sound you recognize.

Your front door opening.

You look toward the hallway.

Your front door is still locked.

You hear footsteps coming through your apartment.

Not above you.

Inside.

They walk from the front door to the kitchen.

You stay perfectly still.

The footsteps stop.

Then they walk toward your bedroom.

You close your eyes.

The bedroom door opens.

You can hear it.

The hinges.

The soft scrape against the floor.

You open your eyes.

The bedroom is empty.

The door is open.

Above you, someone starts walking.

Four steps.

Pause.

Four steps.

You look at the ceiling.

Then you notice something.

The footsteps are moving in the exact pattern you just heard below.

From the bedroom to the kitchen.

Kitchen to living room.

Living room to the front door.

And then back again.

You grab your phone.

You call the landlord.

He doesn't answer.

You call again.

Nothing.

You decide you're leaving.

You grab your keys.

You open the front door.

The hallway is dark.

At the end of it, there is a door you have never seen before.

You know this because you've walked this hallway every day.

The door wasn't there yesterday.

You walk toward it.

You shouldn't.

You know you shouldn't.

But you are tired of being afraid of things you can't see.

There is a small brass number screwed into the door.

Your apartment number.

You touch the knob.

It's warm.

You open it.

The room on the other side is your apartment.

Exactly.

Same couch.

Same lamp.

Same chipped mug on the kitchen counter.

Same jacket hanging over the chair.

You take one step inside.

The air smells old.

Dust.

Mildew.

Something sweet and rotten underneath.

You turn around.

The hallway is gone.

There is only the apartment.

Your apartment.

But everything is wrong.

The couch is torn.

The lamp is broken.

The walls are yellowed with age.

Your photographs are on the walls.

Dozens of them.

You walk closer.

You see yourself at six years old.

You see yourself at sixteen.

You see yourself last Christmas.

You see yourself yesterday.

In every photograph, you are looking toward the camera.

Except in the oldest ones.

In those, you're looking upward.

At something outside the frame.

You step back.

A piece of paper is taped to the wall.

You recognize the handwriting immediately.

Yours.

DON'T ANSWER THE KNOCKING.

Another note:

DON'T GO UPSTAIRS.

Another:

IF YOU HEAR YOURSELF, DON'T RESPOND.

Your hands begin to shake.

You find another note.

This one is dated.

October 8, 2026.

Today's date.

Underneath it, in your handwriting:

YOU HAVE ABOUT THREE MINUTES.

You look at the clock.

2:20.

Three minutes until what?

You hear a knock.

Not above you.

Behind you.

Three times.

You don't turn around.

You remember the note.

Don't answer.

Another three knocks.

Closer.

You close your eyes.

You hear your own voice.

“Hello?”

Your eyes open.

You didn't speak.

The voice came from the bedroom.

“Hello?”

It sounds exactly like you.

Then:

“Are you there?”

You back toward the kitchen.

You don't know what you're trying to escape.

The room.

The voice.

Yourself.

You reach the bedroom doorway.

The door is open.

Someone is standing inside.

You can't see their face.

You don't need to.

You know who it is.

You step closer.

The person steps closer too.

You raise your hand.

They raise theirs.

You take one step forward.

They take one step forward.

You finally see their face.

Yours.

Not a reflection.

Not a stranger wearing your face.

You.

Older.

Tired.

Terrified.

The other you looks past your shoulder.

Their expression changes.

“You're early,” they say.

You turn around.

There is another bedroom behind you.

Another apartment.

Another door.

And above it, you hear footsteps.

Four.

Pause.

Four.

Then three knocks.

The other you grabs your wrist.

“Don't let it know you're here.”

You stare at them.

“What?”

They look at the ceiling.

Then at you.

“It's been trying to get downstairs.”

The footsteps stop.

Silence fills the apartment.

For the first time since this began, there is nothing above you.

Nothing moving.

Nothing knocking.

You almost feel relieved.

Then something knocks from beneath the floor.

Three times.

You look down.

The other you whispers:

“Oh.”

And you realize neither of you is standing on the first floor.

Neither of you is standing on the second.

Neither of you is standing on the third.

You are somewhere between them.

Somewhere the building was never supposed to have.

Something knocks again.

Three times.

The other you takes your hand.

“Whatever you do,” they whisper, “don't answer.”

You hear your voice from beneath the floor.

“Hello?”

The other you starts crying.

And then you hear yourself knock back.