I was gasping for air, a cold sweat forming on my forehead as I pushed through the rusty, seemingly forgotten door of apartment 614. I had to find out what was happening. It was the rumbling from behind the walls, the whispers of distraught residents, the mysteries of the towering Oakhaven Apartments that led me here. But this… this was beyond anything I’d imagined.
Rewinding to just two weeks prior, I had moved into Oakhaven, lured by the cheap rent and its proximity to downtown. The age-old brick exterior, with ivy creeping up its face, should’ve been the first warning sign. But like so many, I ignored the omens and listened to my wallet.
Late one evening, as I settled into my new apartment on the sixth floor, Ms. Gertrude from 615 knocked, her frail hands trembling.
“Have you heard them?” she whispered, eyes darting left and right. “The…noises? Especially from that apartment?”
I hadn’t, but it didn’t take long. That night, as the clock’s hands crawled past midnight, a low, haunting hum began to emanate from apartment 614, right next to mine. At first, I chalked it up to faulty plumbing or maybe an old refrigerator. But soon, even the walls seemed to pulsate with a rhythm of their own, a heart beating too loud in the silence.
In the following days, I overheard hushed conversations between neighbors, talking about “the previous resident of 614” and “those haunting hours.”
Curiosity piqued, I reached out to a couple of longer-term residents. Their stories sent shivers down my spine. It was said that many years ago, a man named Albert resided in 614. A recluse, he was rarely seen but often heard — peculiar chants and murmurs accompanied by strange symbols painted on his walls.
One night, his chants grew more violent, escalating to a full-blown outburst. The morning after, no one saw him again. The apartment was locked from the inside, and despite multiple attempts, the door couldn’t be breached. Over time, it was left alone, a sealed crypt of secrets, but the disturbances continued.
Determined to uncover the truth, I began researching about Albert. Old newspapers revealed that he was once a renowned archaeologist, with a particular interest in ancient cults. His last expedition was to a remote temple in South America, after which he returned a changed man.
Mid-research, I was jolted by an intense, rhythmic pounding. The noise wasn’t coming from any apartment but rather beneath the building itself. The basement. Perhaps that was the key. But there was one problem — residents were strictly forbidden from entering it.
A plan began to form in my mind.
That night, armed with a flashlight, I made my way to the basement. To my surprise, the door was slightly ajar. The underground space was vast and lined with old wooden beams and brick walls. Cobwebs hung like drapes from the ceiling, and a damp, putrid smell filled the air.
My light caught something on the far wall — symbols. The same symbols Albert reportedly painted in 614. Underneath them, a passage leading further down.
As I hesitated, a whisper echoed through the space, drawing me in. “Discover… Uncover…”. I was in too deep to turn back now.
Following the passage, I came upon a door. Pushing it open, my eyes met a sight that would haunt my dreams forever.
The room was vast, and at its center stood an ornate stone altar, encrusted with dark stains that told tales of rituals long past. Candle holders, formed in the shape of writhing serpents, adorned its corners, their wicks long extinguished. The walls were adorned with more of those cryptic symbols, but now intertwined with disturbing sketches of disfigured humans in states of anguish and despair.
As the shock subsided, a shuffling sound reached my ears, originating from the shadows in the corner of the room. I reluctantly aimed my flashlight, and the beam unveiled a hunched figure, scribbling fervently on the floor.
His back to me, I could see his skeletal frame, clothes tattered and hair a wild mess. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. It was Albert.
He stopped abruptly, his head tilting ever so slightly as if sensing my presence. Then, with a chilling slowness, he turned to face me. His eyes were not those of a sane man but of someone lost to a dark abyss.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, voice filled with a mix of warning and despair.
Trying to muster any courage, I replied, “I had to know the truth, Albert. About the noises, the symbols, about you.”
He let out a heart-wrenching sigh. “They called to me from the temple… The old gods, forgotten by time. They promised knowledge and power, but they take more than they give.”
The room grew colder. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist, reaching out for me. Panic surged through my veins. I had to get out, but Albert’s story, his warning, kept me rooted.
“They’re bound to this place now, through me. Through my foolishness.” He gestured to the symbols around us. “I tried to contain them, to lock them here with these wards, but they demand more. They thirst.”
His hollow gaze met mine, filled with both torment and a plea for understanding. “Each night, they try to break free. Each night, I hold them back. But it weakens me.”
I knew then that the disturbances, the haunting hums, the chilling vibes of Oakhaven weren’t just remnants of Albert’s dark past but an ongoing battle between him and these ancient deities.
Suddenly, a deafening roar erupted from the very walls, making the room tremble. Albert’s face contorted in pain as he clutched his head. “They’re coming!” he shrieked.
A blinding light emanated from the altar, illuminating grotesque, shadowy figures emerging from the walls, their distorted forms menacing and horrifying. The room was filling with them, and their intent was clear.
I had to act. Recalling the symbols I’d seen both in Albert’s apartment and the basement walls, I frantically began drawing them around us with the chalk Albert had dropped.
As the last symbol connected, a barrier seemed to form, and the figures were pushed back, their twisted faces filled with rage.
“They can’t be held for long,” Albert gasped. “You need to leave. Warn the residents. And whatever you do, never let anyone enter this place again.”
His words were a stark contrast to the sense of impending doom that filled the room. But I knew he was right. Without another word, I turned and raced back the way I came, the haunting cries of the old gods echoing behind me.
The hallways of Oakhaven felt longer and more twisted than ever. Each step echoed with urgency, but also with the weight of the knowledge I now bore. The silence of the night was pierced by the distant and haunting hum emanating from the depths below, growing in intensity.
I emerged from the basement, locking the door behind me. There was no time to lose.
Mrs. Gertrude, awakened by the noise, met me in the hallway, her eyes widened in a mix of confusion and fear. “What happened? What did you find?”
“Gather everyone,” I panted, “Meet in the lobby. NOW.”
People filled the lobby in varying states of sleepiness, confusion, and concern. The building’s murmurs, paired with Albert’s harrowing revelations, had everyone on edge. Faces looked to me expectantly, some with skepticism, some with dawning realization.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” I began, “but Oakhaven is more than just a building. It’s a prison - a seal holding back ancient, malevolent beings. We must evacuate and ensure no one ever enters the basement again.”
Murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Some nodded, having experienced enough to believe. Others were skeptical, thinking it a prank or delusion.
But as if on cue, a resounding crash echoed from the basement door, followed by an otherworldly growl that silenced any doubters. The building quaked, lights flickering, as shadowy tendrils began seeping through the floor, the very fabric of Oakhaven under attack.
“We need to leave NOW!” I shouted. Panic set in, residents scrambling for the exits.
As we made our way out, a memory flashed in my mind: a tome in Albert’s research about symbols of protection. With a piece of chalk — salvaged from the basement — I began drawing one of the symbols on the main entrance, hoping to buy us more time.
Outside, we watched in horrified awe as Oakhaven’s facade distorted, windows shattering and walls warping. The building seemed to be imploding, drawn in by the dark force within.
Moments felt like hours, but eventually, the chaos subsided. Oakhaven stood, though forever changed — its windows dark, its structure twisted, an eternal testament to the battle waged within.
Word spread about the horrors of Oakhaven, and it was soon cordoned off. Authorities dismissed the event as a minor earthquake, but we knew better. We formed a pact, each resident vowing to guard the secret, ensuring no one would ever attempt to uncover the darkness sealed within.
Life moved on, but memories lingered. Every time I’d pass the now-abandoned Oakhaven, a cold shiver would run down my spine, remembering the night we faced the unfathomable.
While most of us relocated and tried to forget, one thing remained clear: some doors, no matter how enticing the mysteries behind them, are meant to remain closed.