Emma didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
She sat in her bed with the lights on, watching the ceiling, too terrified to move. Every few minutes, she swore she heard faint creaks above her head — like someone crawling.
By sunrise, she convinced herself it had to be rats or pipes, anything but what she imagined.
Still, when she told Mr. Greene what happened, his expression turned pale.
“I’ll… send someone to check,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “Maybe a raccoon got in through the attic.”
But days passed. No one came.
And every night, exactly at 2:47 a.m., the sounds returned.
On the fifth night, Emma decided she couldn’t take it anymore.
She borrowed a step ladder and flashlight, determined to look for herself.
Her ceiling had a small access hatch — one she’d never noticed before, hidden behind a smoke detector.
Her hands trembled as she climbed up and pushed the cover aside. Cold, stale air drifted down, smelling faintly of rot and dust.
She pointed the flashlight inside. A narrow crawlspace ran between her ceiling and the floor above. At first, she saw only insulation and cobwebs.
Then… something glinted. She leaned closer.
There, pressed between two beams, was a small mirror angled downward — directly above her bed.
Her breath caught. Someone had been watching her.
She shined the light farther and froze. Footprints. A trail of dusty handprints leading deeper into the dark crawlspace.
And then — a sound. A quick scrape, like fingernails against wood.
Something was up there, moving.
Emma dropped the flashlight, which clattered into the dark.
A soft whisper came from the crawlspace, inches from her face:
“I told you not to look up.”
She screamed, stumbling off the ladder and slamming the hatch shut. She ran from the apartment barefoot, straight into the hallway.
The police arrived twenty minutes later. They checked the crawlspace. At first, they said it was empty — just old insulation and dust.
But when one officer crawled farther back, he shouted for backup.
They found a makeshift bed, piles of food wrappers, and a small notebook filled with drawings of Emma — sleeping, eating, changing clothes.
The last entry was written the night before:
“She’s starting to hear me again. 2:47 is our time.”
Emma moved out that same day. Mr. Greene locked the unit and promised to renovate.
But sometimes, when he walked past her old apartment late at night, he swore he heard footsteps pacing — three steps, pause, three steps back.
And if you ever find yourself in a quiet, empty apartment at 2:47 a.m. — maybe don’t look up.