The Woman in Apartment 307

The woman in Apartment 307 had been dead for three years.

At least, that was what everyone in the building told Daniel when he moved into Apartment 306.

“She used to live alone,” the landlord said while handing over the keys. “Kept to herself. Quiet woman. Then one winter night…” He shrugged. “Heart attack. They found her in the hallway outside 307.”

Daniel laughed awkwardly. “And now I’m supposed to live next door to the haunted apartment?”

The landlord didn’t laugh back.

The building was old—one of those narrow brick apartment blocks with groaning pipes, flickering hallway lights, and carpets that smelled permanently of dust and mildew. Daniel hated it immediately, but the rent was cheap, and cheap was all he could afford.

The first night passed quietly.

The second night, he heard knocking.

Three soft taps.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Daniel sat upright in bed.

It was 2:17 a.m.

He stared at the wall separating his bedroom from Apartment 307.

Again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He waited, expecting footsteps, voices—something to suggest a living neighbor had moved in.

Nothing.

The next morning he asked the landlord.

“You rented out 307?”

The landlord frowned. “No.”

“But someone’s in there.”

“No one lives in 307.”

The knocking continued every night.

Always at 2:17 a.m.

Always three knocks.

At first Daniel tried to ignore it. Then he tried banging on the wall. Then earplugs. Then sleeping in the living room.

Nothing stopped it.

One night, angry and sleep-deprived, he stormed into the hallway and stood before Apartment 307.

The hallway light above the door buzzed and flickered.

He knocked.

Silence.

He tried the doorknob.

Locked.

He leaned close to the door.

From inside came the faintest sound—

Breathing.

Daniel stumbled backward.

“Hello?” he whispered.

The breathing stopped.

Then, from the other side of the door, a woman’s voice answered:

“Please let me out.”

Daniel ran.

The next morning he demanded the landlord open Apartment 307.

The landlord went pale. “No.”

“There’s someone inside!”

“No one is inside!”

“She asked me to let her out!”

The landlord gripped Daniel’s shoulders so hard it hurt.

“Listen to me carefully,” he whispered. “Whatever you hear from that apartment—ignore it.”

Daniel yanked free. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The landlord stared at the floor.

Then quietly said:

“She died outside Apartment 307 because she was trying to escape it.”

That night Daniel packed a bag.

He didn’t care about losing the deposit. He would stay in a hotel, anywhere but there.

At 2:17 a.m., as he zipped his suitcase, the knocking began.

But this time—

It came from inside his own apartment.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

His bathroom door.

Daniel froze.

The knocks came again.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Then the woman’s voice whispered from behind the bathroom door:

“You let me out.”

The knob began to turn.

Daniel ran for the front door—

Locked.

He fumbled with the deadbolt, hands shaking.

Behind him, the bathroom door creaked open.

A wet dragging sound crossed the floor.

He turned.

A woman stood in the hallway.

Her skin was gray and swollen, her dark hair hanging in wet clumps over a face twisted by death. Her eyes were wide—too wide—bulging from black sockets. Her bare feet left puddles on the carpet.

And around her throat were deep purple fingerprints.

She smiled.

“You shouldn’t have listened.”

The lights went out.

Daniel screamed.

The police found Apartment 306 empty the next morning.

Daniel’s wallet, phone, and packed suitcase remained inside.

No sign of forced entry.

No sign of struggle.

Just one strange detail noted in the report:

Written in condensation on the bathroom mirror were the words—

APARTMENT 307 IS HUNGRY

The apartment remained vacant after that.

Years later, a new tenant moved into 306.

Young woman. College student.

Cheap rent.

On her second night, at exactly 2:17 a.m., she heard three soft knocks from the wall beside her bed.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Then a man’s terrified whisper:

“Don’t open the door.” write by hasnain pathan