This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/myrasam79 on 2024-10-22 02:46:02+00:00.
The moment I stepped into the apartment, it felt right. It was small, yes, but it was mine. After years of moving from one shared space to another, I was ready for something of my own, even if it was just this modest one-bedroom on the outskirts of the city. The rent was reasonable, the area quiet, and best of all, it was a space I could shape to my liking. No more tiptoeing around roommates’ habits or schedules. This place was a fresh start.
The building itself was older, maybe from the 1970s, with the usual quirks of an aging structure. The hallway leading to my door smelled faintly of cleaning products and mildew, the paint peeling slightly at the edges, but I figured I could live with it. It added character, I thought. The apartment had a certain charm, too—wooden floors, a decent kitchen, a view of the tree-lined street below. Nothing fancy, but comfortable.
The first night after I moved in, I went through the usual ritual of unpacking boxes and arranging furniture. The work was exhausting, but satisfying. The routine of it kept my mind occupied, and by the time I finished, I was too tired to do anything but fall into bed. As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I could hear the muffled sounds of the building around me—the hum of distant traffic, footsteps from the apartment above, and the occasional creak of the walls settling. It was normal. Old buildings made noise, I reminded myself. That’s just how it is.
But there was one sound that stood out. It was faint, barely noticeable at first, like a soft rhythmic pulse. At first, I thought it was coming from outside, maybe from the heating system or plumbing. I turned on my side, trying to ignore it. Moving into a new place can be disorienting, especially when you’re not used to the sounds of the building. Eventually, exhaustion won out, and I drifted off.
The next few days were uneventful. I settled into my new routine, going to work, coming home, and slowly making the apartment feel like mine. I found a local café down the street, started exploring the neighborhood a bit, and even managed to meet one or two of my neighbors. Everyone was polite but kept to themselves. It was exactly what I wanted—quiet, low-key, uneventful.
But that sound—that faint, rhythmic pulse—kept coming back. At first, I only noticed it at night, when the apartment was still, and there was nothing else to distract me. I’d be lying in bed, trying to relax, and there it was, a steady, almost mechanical rhythm, like breathing. It was faint enough that I could almost ignore it, but persistent enough that once I noticed it, I couldn’t unhear it.
One night, after a particularly long day at work, I found myself lying awake again, listening to that sound. It seemed to move, or maybe it was just my imagination, but I could swear it wasn’t coming from one fixed place. It shifted—first near the bedroom, then closer to the living room. But every time I got up to investigate, it stopped. I checked the windows, thinking maybe it was something outside, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual sounds of the city, muffled and distant.
I started to rationalize it. The building was old, after all. Maybe it was something in the walls—pipes, or the ventilation system. I convinced myself it was something explainable, even though I couldn’t quite pinpoint where it was coming from. I told myself it didn’t matter. I just needed to adjust to the quirks of the place. Besides, there was no one else around to notice it, and none of my neighbors had mentioned anything strange.
But then, one evening, something happened that I couldn’t ignore. I had been home for a few hours, scrolling aimlessly on my phone, the faint hum of the TV in the background. The apartment felt cozy, almost comforting, and I was beginning to feel like I was finally settling in. That’s when I heard it again—that same rhythmic sound. But this time, it was louder, and for the firsttime, it seemed to follow me.
I got up from the couch, thinking maybe I could track it down. As I walked from the living room to the kitchen, the sound seemed to shift. It was still faint, but now it was more noticeable, like someone softly exhaling just behind me. I paused, turning around, expecting to find something, anything that could explain it. But there was nothing. The apartment was empty, just as it had always been.
Feeling uneasy, I turned on more lights, as if that would somehow drive away the strange sensation. I checked the vents, the windows, even the floorboards, but there was no obvious source for the sound. It wasn’t coming from outside, and it wasn’t some appliance or piece of furniture. It just… existed.
After a while, the sound seemed to fade, leaving me feeling foolish for getting so worked up over something that was probably just the building’s plumbing or some other harmless quirk. Still, that night, I had trouble falling asleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like I was waiting for that sound to come back. Waiting to hear it again.
In the following days, I tried to put it out of my mind. I threw myself into work, met up with friends, and did anything I could to avoid being alone in the apartment for too long. But no matter how busy I kept myself, that feeling of unease lingered. The sound didn’t go away—it was always there, just at the edge of my awareness, especially at night.
Then, one evening, while I was in the middle of cooking dinner, I heard it again—clearer this time, as if someone were standing right behind me, breathing steadily, just out of sight.
I stopped what I was doing, heart racing, and turned slowly, expecting to find someone, or something, standing in the doorway. But again, the room was empty.
This time, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. This wasn’t just the pipes or the walls. Something about the way the sound seemed to follow me was too specific, too deliberate.
I turned off the stove, grabbed my phone, and stepped outside for some air. For the first time since moving in, I felt genuinely unnerved.
And that’s when I decided I had to find out what was really going on in this apartment.
It wasn’t like me to get so spooked. I wasn’t the type to believe in ghosts or paranormal nonsense, and I’d never been prone to anxiety or overthinking things. But ever since that night when the sound seemed to follow me from room to room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off in the apartment. Rationally, I kept telling myself there was an explanation. Every old building had its quirks, right? Maybe it was the ventilation system, or maybe the walls were thinner than I thought, and I was just hearing the neighbors’ movements somehow.
But it wasn’t just the sound itself—it was the feeling that came with it. A sensation that wasn’t easy to describe, like being observed when you know no one else is there. I started wondering if my mind was playing tricks on me, but the sound was so consistent, so steady. It didn’t feel like something I was imagining.
The next day at work, I decided to do some digging. During my lunch break, I searched online for anything about strange noises in apartments. There were the usual results—old buildings settling, faulty pipes, drafts in poorly insulated walls—but nothing that matched the specific rhythmic pattern I was hearing. I kept digging, reading through forums and articles, but still came up with nothing definitive.
I was beginning to think I was alone in this, that it was just some weird thing about the apartment I’d have to live with. But something in me couldn’t let it go. That evening, when I got home, I decided I would try and trace the source of the sound more methodically.
It started almost on cue. As soon as the apartment settled into its evening quiet, there it was—the soft, rhythmic pulse, like someone breathing slowly in the background. I stood in the center of the living room, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. It felt louder tonight, or maybe I was just more attuned to it. Either way, it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I started walking around the apartment, pausing every few steps to listen. The sound didn’t get louder or softer, but it always seemed to be nearby, no matter where I stood. I checked the vents, leaning in close, trying to detect anything that might be causing it, but there was nothing. I pressed my ear against the walls, half-expecting to hear a neighbor’s TV or conversation, but all I could hear was the steady pulse.
Growing more frustrated, I moved into the kitchen and turned off all the appliances. Maybe the refrigerator or the microwave was emitting some kind of sound I hadn’t noticed before. But when everything was off, the sound was still there, unchanged. It wasn’t mechanical. It was too soft, too… human.
Next, I decided to check the windows again. I opened each one, listening for any street noise, but the sound didn’t seem to be coming from outside. I even went so far as to stand in the hallway outside my apartment, wondering if it was something in the building itself. But as soon as I closed the door behind me, the noise disappeared, leaving only the usual hum of the building.
I stood there for a moment, breathing in the stale hallway air, trying to think of what to do next. I felt ridiculous. It was just a sound, after all. But the longer it persisted, the more it seemed like something I needed to figure out. Not just because it was unsett...
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