The New Apartment

The New Apartment (Part One)

A Strange First Impression

The inside of the new apartment was almost cold, oddly so for a warm spring day in Florence. But John liked it. There was something about the stillness in the air, the faint echo of empty walls, the subtle chill despite the sunshine outside, that matched his own internal weather. This was where he would live for the next year while deciding whether Florence would become his forever city or just another pin on the map of his restless life.

The new apartment was on the fourth floor, accessible only by a narrow staircase that creaked with every step. The hallway smelled faintly of furniture polish and something older, something harder to identify. Dust and age, maybe. The apartment door itself was a battered dark brown, and it took John three tries to get the key to turn. It groaned open like it had something to say but had forgotten the words halfway through.

Settling In

He began unpacking his two bags: one large suitcase and a weathered backpack. That was all he had brought with him on the flight from London. Everything else was due to arrive in the coming week. The new apartment came furnished, though whoever chose the furniture either had a wicked sense of humour or had simply given up halfway through the design process.

The bed was the standout piece. Solid, wooden, large enough for him to stretch out diagonally if he wanted. Two matching side tables flanked it, their symmetry providing the only hint of interior coordination in the room. The rest of the apartment felt like it had been assembled by a committee who’d never met. An old bronze wall clock hung above the bed, clashing spectacularly with the freshly painted white walls. A flimsy white plastic table sat near the window, looking embarrassed to be there, while an ancient box television rested on a metal stand that could have belonged in a hospital waiting room. But John wasn’t here for style. He was here to live quietly, think clearly, and maybe, just maybe, figure things out.

In the kitchen, the cabinets hung slightly off their hinges and made soft ticking noises when the wind blew through the open window. A pile of mismatched cutlery sat beside the sink. John rinsed a glass, filled it with water, and stood in the middle of the room drinking slowly while looking out over the terracotta rooftops of Florence. He could see the tip of the Duomo peeking through the skyline like a secret keeping an eye on him.

First Night in Florence

That first night, after a slow stroll through the historic centre of Florence and a modest meal of pasta and red wine at a tucked-away trattoria, he returned to the new apartment. He fiddled with the stubborn gas heater until it lit, poured himself another glass of wine, and crawled into bed. The mattress, to his relief, was firm but forgiving. He opened his Kindle and picked up a fantasy novel he’d been meaning to start for weeks.

As the sounds of Florence filtered through the window,distant music, a couple laughing down below, the occasional thump of footsteps echoing in the internal courtyard, he felt something he hadn’t in a while. Comfort. He turned off the light and lay on his side. The moonlight cast a soft glow across the bed, just enough to make out the outline of the clock and the strange furniture without seeing any detail. He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.

He liked that the new apartment had high ceilings and the way the street outside quieted after midnight, giving him the sense that Florence was slowly folding itself to sleep. For a moment, he thought about what it might be like to stay. Really stay.

The Sound

It started in a dream. A faint tapping. Harmless. Maybe a branch brushing against a window or a pipe shifting as temperatures dropped. The kind of thing your subconscious turns into background noise. But then it got clearer. Four taps. A pause. Four more. Rhythmic. Deliberate.

John stirred. Opened his eyes. The moonlight had faded, now diffused behind what must have been cloud cover. He blinked toward the window and tried to orient himself. Another knock. Louder this time. Same pattern. Four knocks. Pause. Four more.

He reached for the lamp. Nothing happened.

The heater, which had been humming softly earlier, was silent. He looked over and saw that the blue flame had disappeared completely.

He grabbed his phone. The screen lit up instantly. 3:24 a.m.

Something moved.

He turned instinctively toward the window. There was a figure. Standing perfectly still. Watching him from the other side of the glass.

His breath caught. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a shifting curtain or a reflection from one of the apartments across the courtyard. That made more sense. It had to be that. He sat up slowly, telling himself to stay calm, to think logically. He brought the phone closer to his face to cast more light across the room.

Then the figure ran.

The Thing at the Window

It darted forward so fast John barely had time to react. He threw himself backwards, slamming into the wall as the figure’s face came into full view. Rage. Fury. Its eyes were completely white, empty of colour or shape. The mouth moved, forming words that carried no sound.

John’s body reacted before his brain could. Every instinct screamed. This wasn’t human. This wasn’t anything he understood. It had no breath, no heat. Just cold and hatred, as if some ancient anger had been sculpted into a form and sent to find him.

He wanted to run, but his limbs didn’t cooperate. He felt nailed to the mattress. The figure leaned in, mouth still moving, still soundless. Its presence pressed into the room like a storm front.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished.

The Aftermath

The lamp flicked on by itself.

The room was empty.

John jumped from the bed and turned on the overhead light, flooding the space with warm, unthreatening brightness. He stood there, chest heaving, waiting for his hands to stop shaking. No sound. No shadow. Just that old wall clock ticking above the bed.

The new apartment looked exactly as it had when he’d arrived. Harmless. Bland. Familiar. But it was none of those things anymore. It had changed. Or maybe he had.

He was safe. But it didn’t matter. He already knew the truth.

No matter what happened from this point on, he would never feel truly safe in the new apartment again.

The end of Part One. Click here to read Part Two.

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