Chapter 3: The Midnight Call and the Chair

Just then, I heard a chair creaking in the apartment, as if someone was rocking back and forth.

The sound was unmistakable—a slow, rhythmic groan, wood rubbing against wood. My heart leapt into my throat, thumping wildly.

I hurried over, but there was no one sitting on the wooden chair.

The chair sat empty, perfectly still. I stared at it, waiting for it to move again, but it didn’t budge. My skin prickled.

And a chair that old-fashioned-looking shouldn’t creak like that.

I knelt down, running my hands over the seat and legs. The wood was smooth, freshly painted. There were no scratches, no signs of age. My mind raced.

I checked it carefully—no loose parts. In fact, it was a brand new chair, still smelling of fresh paint.

I sniffed the air, the scent sharp and chemical. Someone had brought this in recently. But who? And why? My unease doubled.

Suddenly, the place felt icy cold, like something was watching me.

A shiver ran down my spine. The hairs on my arms stood up. I spun around, scanning the room, but saw nothing out of place. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on my back. My heart pounded.

Was there something wrong with this apartment?

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly wishing for a jacket. The shadows seemed to press in, thick and heavy. I swallowed hard.

I was about to call Ben when he called me first.

My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Ben’s name. I answered, my voice shaky, dread curling in my stomach.

"Mr. Walker, the kid drew all over the walls. Should I use the deposit to cover it, or do you want me to hire someone to repaint when I move out?"

The question caught me off guard. I blinked, trying to remember if I’d seen any crayon marks earlier. Ben sounded casual, almost bored. My mind spun.

I was stunned. My jaw dropped, and my mind went blank.

I replayed his words in my head. Hadn’t he mentioned this before? The memory felt fuzzy, like something from a dream. My heart thudded.

Because Ben had said the exact same thing a week ago.

I remembered the conversation clearly—he’d called late at night, apologizing for his kid’s artwork. I’d laughed it off, telling him it was no big deal.

At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it—just told him to take care of it later.

It was a normal landlord-tenant exchange, nothing weird. But now, it felt like a glitch in the matrix. My hands clenched.

But why was he bringing it up again now?

I stared at the chair, then at the phone. Was Ben messing with me? Or was something else going on? My chest tightened.

Maybe he was just double-checking before moving out. Still, calling me at midnight about this was pretty rude.

I glanced at the clock again, irritation flaring. Some people had no sense of boundaries. I shook my head.

Impatience crept into my voice:

"Do you even know what time it is? Just take care of it, all right?"

I tried to keep my tone even, but it came out sharper than I intended. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on.

Ben laughed.

His laugh was light, almost forced. “Mr. Walker, it’s already noon and you’re still not up?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

The absurdity of it all broke through my annoyance. I snorted, shaking my head, letting out a short, sharp laugh.

"Who gets up at noon in your house?"

I pictured Ben’s family—his wife bustling around, his kid drawing on the walls, everyone up before sunrise. It was a running joke between us.

Ben chuckled awkwardly and hung up.

The call ended with a click, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The apartment felt emptier than ever. I stared at the phone, frowning.

I checked my phone—the call had come from Ben’s old number, not the new one.

I scrolled through my call log, double-checking. The number was definitely the old one, the same he’d told me he’d stopped using. My stomach dropped.

Why did he have two numbers?

I frowned, trying to piece it together. If he was hiding from someone, it made sense to get a new number. But why keep the old one active?

The question gnawed at me. Maybe he’d forgotten to cancel it, or maybe someone else was using it. Either way, it didn’t sit right.

I decided I needed to get to the bottom of this.

I grabbed my jacket, ready to confront Ben face-to-face if I had to. I wasn’t going to let this go. My resolve hardened.

I hit redial.

The phone rang once, then twice. My pulse quickened. Maybe I’d finally get some answers. I held my breath.

But the automated message came on:

"Sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service!"

The robotic voice was back, cold and final. I cursed under my breath, frustration boiling over. I wanted to throw my phone.

Out of service again?

I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it. Had Ben blocked me? Or was something else going on? My head spun.

Was I seeing ghosts?

The thought crept in, unbidden. I shook my head, trying to laugh it off, but the chill in the air wouldn’t leave. My hands felt clammy.

I dialed Ben’s new number.

My fingers trembled as I punched in the digits. The phone rang, the sound echoing in the empty room. My nerves were shot.

He picked up, sounding puzzled:

"Mr. Walker, what’s up?"

His voice was calm, normal. I clung to it like a lifeline. I swallowed, trying to steady myself.

I snapped.

My patience finally snapped. “What are you playing at? Two numbers, messing with me?” My voice was tight, almost pleading.

Ben sounded uncertain.

There was a pause, then a sigh. “I just switched to a new number. Haven’t used the old one in days.”

I gritted my teeth.

“Come on, you just called me from it!” My frustration boiled over.

Ben was baffled.

He sounded genuinely confused. “I did? That can’t be!”

Before I could say more, he suddenly asked:

His tone shifted, sharp with worry. “Wait… you’re not still in that apartment, are you?”

"What about it?"

I pressed, convinced Ben was hiding something. My heart pounded in my ears.

He finally spoke up: