When my wife and I first moved into the apartment block in Singapore, we were drawn to its peculiar charm. It was a 17-story building, once owned by an affluent Malay family. But stepping into our new home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the charm came at a cost. The apartment was suffused with an old, oppressive aura, as though the past lingered in every corner. The antique furniture, beautifully crafted yet ominously weathered, seemed to hold secrets in its intricate carvings. The walls were painted in an unsettling combination of red and green floral patterns, their vibrant colors somehow discordant with the apartment's dim, heavy atmosphere.
One room in particular stood out—the locked room. Our landlord was adamant that we not touch it or use anything from within. His vague warnings sent a chill through us, but we complied, leaving it undisturbed. Still, its presence loomed large, an unspoken specter that weighed on the entire apartment.
As the days turned to nights, the apartment’s true nature began to reveal itself. The air became heavier after sundown, and a suffocating silence settled in, broken only by faint creaks and groans from the antique furniture. Then, one night, as I worked late on a tech project, a new sound emerged—a soft but unmistakable scraping noise. It was coming from the locked room.
It started faintly, like fingernails gently running along the walls. But with each passing moment, the sound grew more insistent, more desperate, as if something—or someone—was clawing to get out. My stomach churned as I approached the door. The scratching ceased the moment I stood in front of it, replaced by an eerie stillness that made my skin crawl. I backed away, telling myself it was nothing, but the unease lingered.
In the following days, the scratches returned, accompanied by another grim discovery. Bloodstains—faint at first, but unmistakable—began appearing on the walls in uneven patches. They seemed to bloom like dark flowers against the garish paint, spreading in erratic patterns. They looked fresh, as though they had seeped through from some unseen layer beneath.
My wife and I were plagued by unease that deepened with each passing night. The air grew colder, and the scratching from the locked room grew louder, more frantic. Sleep became impossible. The nights stretched on endlessly, filled with the maddening sound of nails raking against walls and faint, whisper-like voices that seemed to echo just beyond the edge of hearing.
Then came the night that broke me. I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, too afraid to close my eyes. The bed suddenly tilted, as though something heavy had shifted beneath it. I froze. The antique mirror beside the bed caught my eye, and in its warped surface, I saw her.
A shadowy figure stood behind me, the shape of a woman, her outline distorted and flickering like a candle about to be extinguished. Her eyes were dark voids that seemed to pull at my soul. I wanted to scream, to run, but my body refused to obey. I could only watch in paralyzed horror as her shadow moved closer, her hand outstretched toward me.
When morning finally came, the apartment felt colder, emptier—yet the dread remained. My wife and I didn’t exchange many words. We didn’t have to. The unspoken agreement was clear: we needed to leave.
As we packed our belongings, I glanced back at the locked room one last time. The door was slightly ajar, though I couldn’t recall ever seeing it open. I didn’t dare approach. The air around it seemed to thrum with a sinister energy, daring me to step closer.
We moved out that very day, leaving behind the antique furniture, the bloodstained walls, and the echoes of something I hope never to understand. Even now, I feel its grip on me in quiet moments, a cold reminder of the horrors we left behind—but never truly escaped.
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