The Girl in Apartment 313

They say love haunts you. I didn’t realize how literal that could be—until her.

I moved into apartment 312 after the breakup. Heart cracked, soul tired, just needing silence.

Next door, apartment 313, was supposed to be empty. The landlord said no one had lived there in months. But I kept hearing things—soft footsteps, humming late at night, like someone was dancing alone. Sometimes, laughter.

I chalked it up to grief, until I saw her.

She stood in the hallway one night, barefoot, long dark hair falling over her shoulders, wearing an old-fashioned red dress like something from the 1950s. Her voice was warm. Too warm for a place so cold.

“You’re the new one.”

I didn’t ask questions. We talked, every night. about love, poetry, and dreams. She listened like no one ever had. I was falling for a ghost—or losing my mind. Maybe both.

She said her name was Amelia. Said she used to live here. Said she never left.

I kissed her on the fourth night.

The air went cold.

She pulled away slowly, and said, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Her face changed—like candle wax melting. Her skin grew pale and cracked, eyes turning hollow, and her smile… her smile stretched wider than her face should allow.

With a thud in my heart, I stumbled back. She whispered, “Love always ends in death here.”

I ran to the landlord the next day.

He turned pale when I mentioned her name.

“Son, Amelia Brooks died in 1957. Murder-suicide. She killed the man she loved and threw herself off the balcony. That was his apartment. 312.”

That night, I packed to leave.

But the lights cut out.

And from the dark, I heard humming.

Then her voice:

“You said you'd never leave me.”