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THE WOMAN IN APARTMENT 904
When Michael moved into Apartment 904, the landlord gave him only one warning.
“Don't answer the door after midnight.”
Michael laughed.
The landlord didn't.
“I'm serious.”
Michael had recently turned thirty-eight and had reached the age where strange warnings from landlords no longer frightened him. He had heard worse from ex-wives, lawyers, doctors, and bank managers.
So he nodded.
“Sure.”
The apartment was cheap for its location.
Too cheap.
It overlooked the city from the ninth floor, had expensive furniture, polished wooden floors, and a view that would normally cost twice the rent.
Michael didn't ask why.
He needed somewhere to live after his divorce.
He didn't want memories.
He wanted silence.
For the first two weeks, everything was normal.
Then, on a Tuesday night, someone knocked on his door.
12:14 AM.
Three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Michael sat on the sofa, staring at the television.
He remembered the landlord.
Don't answer.
The knocking stopped.
Five minutes later, it started again.
Three knocks.
Then a woman's voice.
“Michael?”
He froze.
He didn't know anyone in the building.
The voice came again.
“Michael, please open the door.”
He quietly walked toward the entrance.
He looked through the peephole.
A woman stood in the hallway.
Early thirties.
Dark hair.
Barefoot.
She was wearing a white dress.
And she was crying.
Michael didn't open the door.
“Who are you?”
The woman looked directly at the peephole.
“I need your help.”
Michael stepped backward.
“How do you know my name?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she whispered:
“Because you were here before.”
Michael frowned.
“I've never lived here.”
The woman smiled.
It wasn't a friendly smile.
“You don't remember.”
Then she walked away.
Michael waited until he heard the elevator doors close.
He didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, he called the landlord.
“Who lived in 904 before me?”
There was silence.
Then the landlord said:
“Why?”
“A woman came to my door last night.”
Another silence.
“What did she look like?”
Michael described her.
The landlord's voice changed.
“Don't talk to her.”
“Who is she?”
“I told you not to answer the door.”
“That's not an answer.”
The landlord hung up.
Michael searched the building records.
The previous tenant of 904 had lived there for eleven years.
David Mercer.
Michael searched the name online.
Nothing unusual.
Business owner.
Married.
One daughter.
Then Michael found an old newspaper article.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN DISAPPEARS WITHOUT TRACE.
The date was eight years earlier.
Michael read the article twice.
David Mercer had disappeared from Apartment 904.
No body.
No evidence.
No explanation.
His wife had claimed he left suddenly.
But the final paragraph made Michael's stomach tighten.
Police had discovered evidence suggesting Mercer had been planning to leave the country.
His wife and daughter had remained in the apartment.
Then Michael noticed the woman's photograph.
David Mercer's wife.
Anna Mercer.
It was the woman from the hallway.
Michael stared at the screen.
She hadn't aged.
Not even slightly.
That night, he stayed awake.
11:50 PM.
12:00.
12:13.
At 12:14 AM—
Three knocks.
Michael didn't move.
Then Anna whispered:
“Michael.”
He slowly approached the door.
“I know you found the photograph.”
Michael's blood ran cold.
“How?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“What should I ask?”
She whispered:
“Why did David choose you?”
Michael stepped away from the door.
“What are you talking about?”
A photograph slid underneath the door.
Michael picked it up.
It showed a younger David standing beside Anna.
And beside them—
Michael.
Twenty years younger.
Michael dropped the photograph.
He knew that face.
It was him.
But he had never met them.
Then Anna whispered:
“Now you remember.”
Michael suddenly heard something behind him.
A man's voice.
Very close.
“Don't trust her.”
Michael turned around.
Nobody was there.
The television switched itself on.
The screen displayed an old security recording.
A hallway.
Apartment 904.
A man entered.
David Mercer.
Then another man appeared.
Michael.
The younger version of Michael.
They entered the apartment together.
The timestamp read:
AUGUST 30, 2006 — 11:57 PM
Michael stared at the screen.
Twenty years earlier.
His phone suddenly rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A man's voice whispered:
“You were paid to forget.”
Michael couldn't speak.
“Who are you?”
The voice replied:
“Ask Anna what happened to David.”
The line went dead.
The knocking returned.
But this time, there were four knocks.
Michael looked at the door.
Anna whispered:
“Michael…”
Then she said something that made his blood run cold.
“David is standing behind you.”
Michael slowly turned.
A man was standing in the darkness of his bedroom.
Older.
Pale.
Smiling.
David Mercer.
And he was holding a photograph.
Michael's photograph.
Taken twenty years earlier.
On the back, written in faded ink, were six words:
HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO REMEMBER.
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