"Locked In Fear":
It’s been five years since it happened, but I still wake up some nights drenched in sweat, the memory of those hours sharp and vivid. I’ve never told anyone the full story, and I’m not sure why I’m doing it now. Maybe to purge it, or maybe to warn someone. Either way, this is what happened.
I used to live in a small apartment on the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t much — one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room that barely fit my thrift-store couch. But it was mine, and I liked the quiet. The building was old, and most of the tenants were either retirees or young couples. It was the kind of place where you’d nod at your neighbors in the hallway but never really talk.
That night started like any other. I got home from work around 7 PM, microwaved some leftover spaghetti, and settled on the couch to watch TV. By 10, I was getting sleepy. I turned off the TV, locked the door, and went to bed.
I’m not a heavy sleeper, but that night I must’ve been out cold because I didn’t hear the first noise. What woke me was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. My eyes snapped open, and for a moment, I thought I was dreaming. But then I heard it again — a dull thud, like someone dropping a bag of sand.
I glanced at my phone: 2:17 AM. My first thought was that it was the neighbors upstairs. Maybe they’d dropped something or were moving furniture. Annoying, but nothing unusual. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
Then I heard a faint scraping sound, like metal against wood. This time, it was closer — too close. My heart started pounding as I realized the noise wasn’t coming from upstairs. It was coming from inside my apartment.
I froze, straining my ears. There it was again, a slow, deliberate scrape. Someone was in my living room.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. My mind raced with possibilities. A burglar? A drunk neighbor who’d wandered into the wrong apartment? I didn’t own anything valuable, but the thought of someone creeping around my space made my skin crawl.
Quietly, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and dialed 911. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. The dispatcher’s calm voice was a lifeline.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s in my apartment,” I whispered. “I think they broke in. I’m in my bedroom with the door locked.”
“Stay on the line,” she said. “Officers are on their way. Can you tell me what you hear?”
I tried to focus. The scraping sound had stopped. For a few seconds, there was silence, and then I heard soft, deliberate footsteps. They were coming down the hallway, toward my bedroom.
“They’re outside my door,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. My heart felt like it was about to explode.
“Stay calm,” the dispatcher said. “The police will be there in a few minutes. Do you have anything you can use to defend yourself?”
I looked around. My room was bare except for a lamp and a heavy hardcover book on the nightstand. I grabbed the book and held it like a weapon, though I knew it wouldn’t do much if someone burst through the door.
The doorknob rattled. My breath caught in my throat. Whoever it was, they were trying to get in. I pressed myself against the far wall, clutching the book like it was a shield.
“They’re at the door,” I whispered.
The dispatcher’s voice remained steady. “The officers are close. Stay quiet and don’t hang up.”
The rattling stopped, and for a moment, there was silence again. Then I heard a soft, almost inaudible click. It took me a second to realize what it was: the sound of a lock-picking tool.
My blood turned to ice. This wasn’t a random drunk or a petty thief. Whoever was out there knew what they were doing.
I crouched lower, barely daring to breathe. My mind raced with scenarios. What if they had a weapon? What if they made it inside? I wished I’d bought that baseball bat I’d seen at the store last week. Every second felt like an hour as I stared at the door, waiting for it to burst open.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and frantic. Then, finally, the distant sound of sirens. Relief washed over me like a wave. The sirens grew louder, and then I heard pounding on the front door.
“Police! Open up!”
The noise outside my bedroom stopped. I heard hurried footsteps, and then the sound of the front door being thrown open. There was shouting, the heavy thud of boots, and then silence.
I didn’t move until I heard a firm knock on my bedroom door.
“Ma’am, it’s the police. You can come out now.”
I opened the door to find two officers standing in the hallway. One of them looked around the apartment while the other asked me questions. My front door had been forced open, the lock damaged. Whoever had been in my apartment was gone, but they’d left behind a crowbar and a small pouch of tools near the door.
The officers stayed with me until a locksmith arrived to replace the lock. They said I was lucky — the sirens had likely scared the intruder off before they could do anything worse. I spent the rest of the night sitting on the couch, every light in the apartment blazing.
The police never caught whoever it was. For weeks, I jumped at every noise, barely able to sleep. I’d hear creaks in the floorboards or the hum of the fridge and immediately feel my pulse quicken. I’d double-check the locks on the windows and the door at least three times before bed, often pacing the apartment to make sure everything was secure.
Eventually, I moved to a new place, one with better security — a complex with cameras, a doorman, and a high fence around the perimeter. But even now, I’m always on edge, double-checking locks and sleeping with a heavy flashlight by my bed. I’ve even taken self-defense classes, though I hope I never have to use what I learned.
It’s terrifying to think how close I came to something unthinkable that night. And the worst part? I’ll never know who it was or why they chose my apartment. The not knowing is what haunts me the most. Sometimes I wonder if they ever came back and watched the building, looking for another opportunity. Sometimes I’ll catch myself staring out the window, scanning the street below for unfamiliar faces.
I try not to dwell on it, but the fear is always there, lurking in the back of my mind. Life goes on, but that night changed me. It made me realize how vulnerable we all are, even in the places we feel safest. And that’s a lesson I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
"The Lonely Road":
It started as a routine drive, one I’d done hundreds of times before. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a bruised mix of purple and orange. I was heading back to my apartment from my parents’ house, a solid three-hour trip through the backroads of rural Indiana. I liked taking the scenic route. Less traffic, fewer stops. Peaceful… usually.
The first hour was uneventful. My playlist hummed softly, the monotony of the asphalt blending with the music. I’d barely seen another car since leaving town. The narrow two-lane road cut through endless cornfields, their stalks swaying slightly in the evening breeze. There was a quiet beauty to it, but as the light faded, the isolation began to feel less calming and more… oppressive.
About halfway through the drive, I noticed something in my rearview mirror. Headlights. At first, it wasn’t unusual; it’s a road, after all. But the car wasn’t just behind me—it was trailing me closely, too closely. I slowed down a little, hoping they’d pass. Instead, they slowed down too.
“Maybe they’re just cautious,” I thought. But my gut said otherwise.
For the next ten minutes, they stuck behind me, matching my speed exactly. When I sped up, so did they. When I slowed down, they followed suit. The once-innocuous road now felt like a trap, the tall cornfields on either side hemming me in. My hands tightened on the wheel as I tried to reason with myself.
“It’s probably nothing. They’ll turn off soon,” I muttered, more to hear a voice than anything else.
But they didn’t. When I reached a crossroads, I turned left. They did too. At the next intersection, I took a right. So did they. By now, my heart was racing. My rational mind kept insisting this was coincidence, but instinct screamed something was wrong.
I decided to test them. At the next straight stretch of road, I floored it, pushing my car to speeds I’d never dared before on these narrow roads. For a moment, I thought I’d lost them. The headlights disappeared, swallowed by the night. My heart began to slow as I let out a shaky laugh.
And then they reappeared, closer than ever.
Panic surged through me. I tried calling 911, but the reception out here was spotty at best. The call wouldn’t go through. My mind raced as I tried to figure out what to do. The next town was still miles away, and there were no houses, no gas stations, nothing but endless fields.
I spotted a narrow dirt road branching off to the right and took it without thinking, my tires kicking up dust as I veered off the main route. The headlights followed. My car bounced and jostled over the uneven ground, but I didn’t dare slow down. The dirt road twisted and turned, leading deeper into the cornfields. I had no idea where I was going, but I hoped—prayed—that I could lose them.
Finally, the road ended in a small clearing. I killed the engine and doused the lights, hoping the darkness would hide me. My breathing was ragged as I crouched low in my seat, listening. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the crunch of tires on gravel. The other car pulled into the clearing, its headlights sweeping across the cornfields.
I ducked lower, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure they’d hear it. The car idled for what felt like an eternity. Then, the driver’s side door opened.
A figure stepped out, silhouetted against the headlights. I couldn’t make out any details, but the way they moved… slow, deliberate… made my skin crawl. They stood there for a moment, as if listening, before taking a step toward my car.
I panicked. Without thinking, I turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I slammed my foot on the gas. The other person jumped back as my car barreled past them, back onto the dirt road. My rearview mirror showed them scrambling into their car, the headlights swinging around to follow me once again.
But this time, I had a plan. I remembered passing a rickety old bridge earlier, the kind barely wide enough for one car. If I could reach it, I might be able to trap them on the other side. My car skidded back onto the main road, my tires screeching as I pushed the speedometer to its limit.
There it was, the bridge. I raced across it and yanked the wheel hard, spinning my car sideways to block the narrow passage. Moments later, the other car screeched to a halt on the other side. For a moment, we just stared at each other, two sets of headlights piercing the darkness. Then, without warning, the car reversed, disappearing into the night.
I sat there for what felt like hours, my hands trembling on the wheel. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant rustle of the cornfields. Finally, I managed to compose myself enough to drive. My car groaned in protest as I eased it off the bridge and headed for the nearest town, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly they ached.
When I reached the small, dimly lit police station, the officers on duty listened intently as I recounted everything. They took my statement, asking detailed questions about the vehicle and the figure I’d seen. One officer mentioned that similar reports had been filed in the area over the past few months, but no arrests had been made.
They promised to investigate, but deep down, I knew I’d never get answers. To this day, I don’t know who was in that car or what they wanted. Sometimes, I catch myself replaying the night in my mind, wondering if there was something I missed, some detail that could explain it all. But there’s nothing.
I’ve never taken the backroads again. Some drives are better left unfinished, and some questions are better left unanswered.
"Elevator Experience":
It was a late Friday night, and I was utterly drained after a long shift at the hospital. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, making your legs feel like lead. The fluorescent lights in the hallways buzzed softly, casting harsh shadows that seemed to stretch and flicker. My shift had been chaotic, filled with emergencies and endless paperwork. All I could think about was getting home, collapsing onto my couch, and losing myself in some mindless TV.
As I headed to the elevators, the hospital seemed eerily quiet. It was that strange hour when most visitors had gone, and only the night shift workers and a few restless patients moved about. The stillness was heavy, almost oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of medical equipment. Occasionally, a faint echo of footsteps would carry down the halls, but no one was there when I turned to look. I walked briskly, eager to get out of there.
When the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, I stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. Just as the doors were about to close, an elderly man shuffled in. He was dressed in one of the hospital’s standard gowns, the kind that never quite covers enough, and his feet were bare. His pale skin looked almost translucent under the cold light. He didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge me at all. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, dull and vacant, as if he were lost in some deep, unreachable thought.
Something about him made me uneasy. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, stiff and mechanical, or the pallor of his skin, which was almost gray under the cold light of the elevator. I told myself he was just another patient, maybe disoriented, maybe sleepwalking. It wasn’t unusual for patients to wander around at odd hours. Still, I couldn’t shake the prickling sensation creeping up my spine. The tiny elevator felt suffocating, the air too still. Even the usual hum of the machinery seemed muted.
I decided not to say anything. I was too tired to make small talk or even offer assistance. The man just stood there, unmoving, his hands hanging limply at his sides. The elevator descended in silence, the kind of silence that feels alive, pressing against your ears.
When we reached the third floor, the elevator doors opened with their usual mechanical chime. The man stepped out without hesitation. But what happened next froze me to my core. He didn’t walk away. He didn’t turn a corner or head down the hallway. He simply… vanished.
One moment he was there, and the next, he was gone. I blinked, thinking maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. I even stepped out of the elevator, peering down the hallway, expecting to see him. But the corridor was empty, its fluorescent lights flickering slightly as if mocking me. The air felt colder, sharper. My pulse quickened, and I felt my chest tighten. Where could he have gone? There were no doors nearby, no rooms he could have slipped into that quickly. It was as if he had melted into the walls.
I felt a wave of nausea, a strange mix of fear and disbelief. My logical mind tried to make sense of it. Maybe he’d turned a corner faster than I realized. Maybe I was just overtired and imagining things. But deep down, I knew what I had seen — or rather, what I hadn’t seen. The man was gone. Completely gone.
Feeling unsettled, I stepped back into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor again, desperate to leave the building. The rest of the ride was uneventful, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I kept replaying the moment in my mind, trying to make sense of it. By the time I reached the lobby, I had almost convinced myself it was just my imagination.
Later that night, curiosity got the better of me. I mentioned the incident to one of the night-shift nurses as casually as I could, not wanting to sound ridiculous. Her face went pale, and she stared at me for a long moment before speaking.
“What did he look like?” she asked, her voice low and careful.
I described him — the hospital gown, the bare feet, the vacant stare. As I spoke, I noticed her expression darken. Finally, she sighed and shook her head.
“That sounds like Mr. Jacobs,” she said. “He passed away earlier today. Room 317.”
The blood drained from my face. Room 317. That was on the third floor, the same floor where the man had vanished. A cold shiver ran through me, and for a moment, I felt like the walls were closing in. I didn’t know what to say. The nurse didn’t either. She just gave me a look that said everything we were both thinking but didn’t dare say out loud.
I left the hospital that night feeling like I was carrying some heavy, invisible weight. The streets outside were quiet, the city strangely subdued. As I walked to my car, I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the man again.
To this day, I can’t explain what I saw. I’ve tried rationalizing it, telling myself it was just exhaustion playing tricks on me. But no matter how many times I tell myself that, a part of me knows the truth. That wasn’t my imagination. And every time I’m in an elevator late at night, I can’t help but feel a little uneasy, wondering if I’ll see him again.
Sometimes, I hear whispers in the hospital’s hallways, soft and indistinct, as if carried on an invisible breeze. Other nurses have their own stories, quiet admissions of things they’ve seen or heard in the dead of night. Shadows that move when no one’s there, voices calling from empty rooms. We don’t talk about it much, but we all feel it. The hospital isn’t just a place for the living. And every time I pass the third floor, a part of me tenses, waiting for that soft ding of the elevator doors and the faint shuffle of bare feet.