It was the kind of building you pass a hundred times without ever noticing. Sandwiched between a defunct laundromat and a dusty bookstore that never seemed to open, Crescent Apartment Complex was aging in a way that made it seem invisible. The bricks were sun-faded and uneven, ivy clung to the corners like old secrets, and the wrought iron gate squeaked exactly once when pushed—like a whisper that didn’t want to be heard.
Leona Matthews, 27, graphic designer, recently single, and proudly independent, stood in front of the main entrance with a cardboard box cradled in her arms. The box held everything she thought necessary for the start of her “new chapter”: a French press, two books she hadn’t yet read, a lava lamp, and a framed photo of her and her now-estranged cat, Milo. (He had chosen to stay with her ex.)
The building manager—a thin, wrinkle-rippled woman named Mrs. Eddlebaum—stood beside her with a jangling ring of keys and a scent of antique perfume.
“It’s quiet,” she said, like it was both a promise and a warning.
Leona smiled politely. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Good. No parties. No pets. No smoking. No noise after nine. And absolutely, under no circumstances, should you ever open Room 401.”
Leona blinked.
“Excuse me?”
Mrs. Eddlebaum’s lips pursed. “There is no Room 401. So don’t go looking for it.”
“…Right.” Leona gave a light laugh, unsure whether this was an attempt at humor or eccentricity. “Sure.”
The key clinked into her hand. Unit 305. One bedroom. Kitchenette. Balcony view of the alley. The rent was shockingly affordable, and there was no application waiting list. In Los Angeles, that made it practically a unicorn.
She climbed the creaking staircase, each step releasing a new note from an orchestra of groans. The hallway was painted in a pale green hue that had long since faded into something between seafoam and regret. Oddly, the numbering skipped straight from 399 to 402. Room 401, as she’d been told, did not exist.
But just before she stepped into her new home, Leona glanced back down the hallway.
And she could have sworn, just for a second, that there was something between 400 and 402.
A door. A shadow. A shimmer in the air, like heat rising from asphalt.
Then it was gone.
Her new apartment was everything she'd hoped for—small, old, charming in a haunted kind of way. The living room had parquet flooring that gave an endearing creak underfoot, and the kitchen had vintage teal tiles she found oddly nostalgic.
She set down her box, opened the window to let in the city air, and texted her best friend:
Leona: Moved in! Old building, lots of personality. Landlord seems like a ghost. Love it already. Jules: Bet you it's haunted. Don’t die. Leona: I’m not giving you my stuff if I do. Jules: Rude.
Unpacking took the rest of the day, and by nightfall, she was nestled on her futon, pizza slice in one hand and a Netflix documentary playing quietly on her laptop. But the words from earlier—“There is no Room 401”—lingered in her mind like a riddle begging to be solved.
She opened the Notes app on her phone and typed:
Things to Google Later:
Room 401 Crescent Apartments
Eddlebaum, weird lady
Hidden apartment numbers? Urban legends?
But the search yielded nothing. Crescent Apartment Complex had no digital footprint aside from a single rental listing with a typo in the name. There were no Google reviews. No tenant records. No mention of any Room 401—not even in the floor plan PDF she’d downloaded before signing.
Still, her curiosity simmered.
At around 2:43 AM, Leona awoke with a strange sensation.
It wasn’t a sound that woke her. Not exactly.
It was the absence of one.
The humming of the refrigerator had stopped. The city noise outside had dulled. No sirens. No distant barking. Even the little clock on her nightstand had frozen at 2:43, the second hand stuck between ticks.
Leona sat up slowly.
Something was wrong.
She tiptoed barefoot toward the door, drawn by a feeling more than a thought. She opened her apartment door—and peered into the hallway.
It looked normal. Except…
Where Room 401 should have been—where earlier there had been only a blank strip of wall—there was a door.
Plain. Painted the same seafoam green as the rest. Its number—401—was in brass letters, slightly tarnished but legible. No shimmer this time. No illusion. Just a door.
Leona’s heart beat faster.
She considered turning back. But the silence around her was so complete, it pressed against her like a thick fog. Her hand reached forward before her brain gave it permission. Fingers closed around the doorknob.
Cold.
She twisted.
It didn’t budge.
Locked.
Then—without warning—the brass number plate fell from the door.
Clink.
It hit the floor and shattered.
Brass doesn’t shatter.
But it did.
And when she looked down again…
The door was gone.
Just a blank stretch of wall.
As if it had never been there.
Leona shut her own door carefully and leaned against it, heart racing.
Room 401 didn't exist.
But it was starting to feel like she might not either.
