The Last Person Who Lived Here Left a Note.📃😱

I never believed in ghosts or curses. I’m a 29-year-old logistics coordinator who moved to Rotterdam for a decent job and cheaper rent than Amsterdam. When I found this apartment in Delfshaven listed at €650 all-in, I thought I’d won the lottery. The landlord barely looked me in the eyes during the viewing. He just said the previous tenant had “left in a hurry” and that the place had been empty for three weeks. The photos looked clean. The building was quiet. I signed the contract the same day. The apartment was on the third floor of an old brick building overlooking a narrow street. Canal water smell mixed with rain most days — typical Rotterdam weather. I moved in on a Thursday evening in late March. By the time I finished unpacking, it was past midnight. That’s when I found the note. I was putting away plates in the kitchen cabinet when I saw it: a single folded piece of A5 paper taped neatly to the inside of the door at eye level. The handwriting was shaky but clear, written in black ballpoint. “If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it out. Don’t answer the door after 2:37 a.m. Don’t look out the living room window if the streetlight flickers three times. Never say your full name out loud after midnight. I’m sorry.” I laughed nervously. Probably some artsy student trying to freak out the next renter. I took a photo of it, showed it to a couple of friends in the group chat, and then tossed it in the drawer. Life went on. The first week was peaceful. I arranged my furniture, bought a second-hand bike, and started my new job. The building had only six apartments, and the neighbors kept to themselves. The only odd thing was how quiet it got after 11 p.m. No footsteps, no TV sounds — just the occasional creak of old wood. Then the dreams started. In them I was standing at the living room window, staring at the streetlight. My reflection in the glass looked wrong — its eyes were slightly delayed, like a bad video call. I woke up sweating at exactly 2:37 a.m. three nights in a row. Coincidence, I told myself. On the eighth night, my phone rang at 2:37 a.m. Unknown number. I ignored it. It rang again thirty seconds later. This time I answered. Complete silence. Then a faint breathing, followed by a voice that sounded exactly like mine, only flatter, tired. “…stop looking for me.” I hung up immediately. My hands were shaking. I checked the call log. It showed the call had come from my own number. I told myself it was a glitch, some spoofing thing. But I couldn’t sleep. The calls became regular. Every night at 2:37. Sometimes the voice cried softly. Sometimes it whispered my address. Once it recited my Dutch BSN number — information I had never shared with anyone in this city. I started putting my phone on airplane mode before bed, but the calls still came through. I’d wake up to missed call notifications from myself. I tried researching the apartment online. The rental listing had been reposted multiple times in the last two years. Previous tenants never stayed longer than six weeks. One review on a Dutch housing forum (which was later deleted) mentioned “strange night calls and feeling watched from the window.” By the end of the second week I was exhausted. Dark circles under my eyes, coffee addiction worse than ever. I started checking the locks obsessively. I even bought a cheap security camera for the hallway, but it kept losing connection between 2:30 and 3:00 a.m. One Thursday night I broke the third rule by accident. I was half-asleep on the couch watching a boring documentary when the clock hit midnight. I muttered to myself, “Come on, Mark van der Linden, just go to bed.” The words left my mouth before I realized what I’d done. The temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Not dramatically — just enough that I could see my breath for a few seconds. Then my phone lit up on the table. No ringtone. Just the screen showing an incoming call from “Mark van der Linden.” I didn’t answer. The voice messages started the next night. Six of them, all recorded at 2:37. In the first, the voice (my voice) sounded calm: “I left the note for you. Why didn’t you listen?” In the fourth, it was screaming my full name. In the last one it was just wet, gurgling breathing and the sound of something scratching wood. I finally confronted the landlord. He met me downstairs in the rain, looking uncomfortable. When I mentioned the note and the calls, his face went pale. He admitted the previous tenant was a woman named Lisa who had lived there alone. One morning the neighbors heard her screaming. By the time police arrived the apartment was empty except for her phone on the kitchen table, still recording. The video showed nothing but the ceiling and her voice begging something not to use her hands. He offered to let me out of the contract. I should have taken it. Instead I got angry and said I wasn’t going to be scared out of my own home. That was my biggest mistake. Last night the streetlight outside the living room window flickered once… twice… three times. I froze on the couch. The rule echoed in my head, but curiosity and fear mixed into something stupid. I walked to the window. On the other side of the glass, standing on nothing but air three stories up, was me. Same hoodie, same messy hair, same tired eyes. It raised its right hand slowly and waved. I watched my own fingers move in perfect sync — except I wasn’t moving mine. Then it smiled. I don’t smile like that. I stumbled backward, heart hammering. That’s when the knocking started. Not on the front door. Inside the apartment. Three measured knocks from the bedroom. Then the bathroom. Then the kitchen cabinet where I’d found the note. I ran to the living room, turned on every light, and grabbed my phone. I’m typing this now at 2:19 a.m. with all the lights blazing and my back against the wall so nothing can sneak up behind me. The knocking has moved closer. It’s in the hallway now. Slow, patient, like it has all night. My phone just buzzed. New voice message from myself, sent thirty seconds ago. I played it on speaker. The voice whispered, calm and close: “Mark van der Linden… open the door. I want to come back inside.” The knocking stopped. Now I can hear the soft sound of bare feet on the wooden floor behind me. If you’re reading this on Vocal, it means I posted it in time. If the story disappears tomorrow… you’ll know why. I’m going to try to run. The front door is only five meters away. Wish me luck.