The Arrival
A mysterious encounter. An unexplained phenomenon. A mind caught between reality and illusion. But the real mystery is this: who can you trust?
By Me
They say old buildings have stories. This one felt like it was hiding something.
Crimson Heights stood quietly on a narrow street between a closed-down paan shop and a laundry with a flickering neon sign that buzzed like it was alive. I paused for a moment outside, clutching my bag tighter. Not exactly what I dreamed of for my first independent home, but it was affordable.
I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The lobby was cold and smelled faintly of damp wood and something else — something stale. The walls had peeling wallpaper, faded yellow from years of neglect. There was a small reception desk, but no one was there. Just a rusty bell.
I rang it twice.
No sound but the echo of my own fingers.
After a moment, a door behind the desk creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was tall and thin, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that looked tired — like he hadn’t slept in days. His voice was low and rough when he spoke.
“Apartment 907,” he said without looking at me. “Top floor. Elevator’s down the hall.”
He slid an old brass key across the counter and disappeared through the door without another word.
No ID check, no contract, no “welcome.” Just the key — and a chill crawling up my spine.
I walked down the hall to the elevator.
It looked ancient. The metal doors were scratched, the buttons worn and yellowed. Inside, the mirror was cracked, and soft, eerie music played from a tiny speaker. I looked at the buttons carefully.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7… 9.
No 8.
I frowned. Maybe it was a superstition? Some buildings avoid the number. I pressed 9. The elevator shuddered and slowly climbed. It felt like it hesitated briefly between floors — like it stopped at a floor no one was supposed to see.
Apartment 907 was small but neat. Cream-colored walls, wooden floorboards, and an old but clean sofa. Nothing special, but it was mine.
I unpacked a few things, then lay down on the sofa, too tired to do more.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Suddenly, I woke up cold and shaking.
This wasn’t my apartment.
The walls were cracked and stained. The windows were boarded up with thick planks. The air was damp and smelled musty.
My phone was dead, even though I was sure I left it charging.
On the far wall, written in shaky letters:
“DON’T TRUST HIM.”
My heart raced.
Who? Who was him?
Before I could think more, the lights went out.
I was in total darkness.
And then, I heard it — the elevator, moving again.
End of Part 1.