The Girl in the Wall: How a Neighbor’s Whisper Exposed a Monster in Apartment 17

Erica Zimmerman stood in the narrow hallway of Lynen Straasa 47, her breath fogging in the slivers of winter air that snaked through the drafty entrance. The building, with its concrete façade yellowed by time and the ceaseless exhalation of city traffic, was a monument to the unmemorable. It looked exactly like every other apartment block erected in Munich during the functional, uninspired architectural boom of the 1970s.

It was ordinary, plain, and profoundly boring—precisely the qualities she had been searching for. Her new home, Apartment 21, was on the third floor. It was affordable, modestly sized, and, according to the cheerful but rushed realtor, exceptionally quiet. After years of shared living in overcrowded flats, where the lives of strangers bled through paper-thin walls and the noise of the world never ceased, Erica longed for a profound and healing silence. She didn't just want the absence of sound; she craved the kind of deep, settling quiet that would finally allow her to hear her own thoughts again, to sift through the grief that had become the static of her life.

She ran her fingers over the paint-chipped railing as she ascended the concrete stairs, each footstep echoing with a hollow, lonely resonance. The hallway light above flickered once, a weak yellow pulse against the gloom, then steadied. Signs of life were scattered but muted, like faded photographs. A child’s bicycle helmet dangled from a doorknob. A small, crayon-drawn picture of a cat, its smile lopsided, was taped to another door. These were the quiet artifacts of lives lived in parallel, close but never touching. When she finally turned the key and pushed open the door to her new apartment, the emptiness hit her with the force of a physical wave. Cardboard boxes, filled with the dissected remnants of her old life, sat slumped in the corners. Her bed frame, disassembled and leaning against one wall, looked like the skeleton of a forgotten promise. The air was a strange cocktail of fresh, acrid paint and the faint, sweet smell of old, decaying wood floors.

She stood in the center of the living room, a solitary island in a sea of her own making, and just listened. She heard the low groans and creaks of the old building settling, the distant, mournful hum of a bus navigating the streets outside, and beneath it all, the low, dull heartbeat of the city itself. It was quiet. Almost.

That first night, sleep was a distant shore she couldn't reach. It wasn't the makeshift mattress on the floor or the strange, percussive rhythm of the radiator pipes clanking to life. It wasn't even the deep, emotional fatigue of relocation, the psychic weight of starting over. It was something else entirely. Lying on her back, staring into the impenetrable darkness of the ceiling, Erica heard a sound that didn't belong. At first, it was so faint, so ethereal, that she dismissed it as a phantom of her tired mind. It was a murmur, not quite speech, not quite a cry, just a delicate thread of human sound woven into the very fabric of the building, seemingly seeping through the walls themselves. It came from her left, from the wall that bordered Apartment 17.

She sat bolt upright, every nerve ending firing, straining her ears in the oppressive silence. And just like that, the sound was gone. She rubbed her eyes, the grit of exhaustion scratching at her lids. „It’s probably just someone’s TV,“ she whispered to the empty room, her voice sounding foreign and small. But there was something unsettling about the tone she'd heard. It was too soft for a movie soundtrack, too tragically human to be mistaken for static. She wrapped the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders and lay back down, her mind racing to build a fortress of rationalizations. The building was old, she told herself. Sound travels in strange, unpredictable ways through aging structures. Maybe she was just on edge. Moving to a new city, a new life, always made her nervous. Yet, even as she finally drifted into a shallow, fitful sleep, the sound lingered at the edges of her dreams, a persistent whisper emanating from the invisible cracks in the plaster.

The next morning, Erica made coffee and stood by the window, watching the world awaken in the courtyard below. A lone, skeletal tree stood in the center, its bare branches reaching towards a pale, indifferent sky. Across the way, she saw her neighbor from Apartment 17, an elderly man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and wearing a familiar-looking brown cardigan, step onto his small, cluttered balcony. He methodically adjusted the antenna on a battered portable radio, then retreated back inside without so much as a glance in her direction. Later, in the echoey stairwell, she passed him on his way up. He offered a polite, almost imperceptible nod, but his face remained a mask, devoid of a smile. His eyes, dark and observant, seemed to register her presence without offering any warmth.

„Good morning,“ Erica offered, her voice a little too bright for the dim hallway. He only murmured something unintelligible in response and continued his slow, deliberate ascent. She turned to watch him disappear around the corner. His steps were slow, heavy with age, yet his posture was unnervingly upright, measured, and controlled. A quick glance at the mailboxes in the lobby gave her a name to attach to the enigmatic figure: Ghard Schubert.

That evening, as she unpacked the last of her books, she found the framed photograph of her daughter. Anna, forever six years old, was captured mid-laugh, her wild curls bouncing, her eyes sparkling with a light that had been extinguished far too soon. It was a perfect moment frozen in time, a relic from a life untouched by tragedy. Erica traced the outline of her daughter’s face with a trembling finger, then turned away abruptly, the familiar ache constricting her chest. The apartment was quiet again, a comfortable, welcome silence. But only for a moment.

The sound returned while she was brushing her teeth, the mundane ritual shattered by its intrusion. At first, she thought it was just the gurgle of water in the old pipes. But then it grew clearer, more distinct. It was a soft, rhythmic sobbing, like the ragged, hitching breaths of someone who has been crying for a very, very long time. Erica stood frozen, toothbrush still in hand, minty foam forgotten in her mouth. The sound wasn't loud, but its humanity was undeniable. She took a tentative step closer to the bathroom wall, pressing her ear against the cold, smooth tiles. Silence. Then, three distinct, heavy thuds—like a fist, or an elbow, or a body bumping hard into something solid. She recoiled, a visceral chill cascading down her spine. Her mind, a whirlwind of fear and confusion, raced through a terrible litany of possibilities. A sick relative? A mental breakdown? Domestic abuse?

Should she call someone? Should she knock on his door? No, that would be overreacting, inviting a confrontation she wasn't prepared for. Instead, she retreated to the couch, turned on the television, and cranked up the volume, trying to drown out the sound from next door and the frantic beating of her own heart. Her hand trembled slightly as she gripped the remote. She told herself she was just tired, still on edge, still adjusting to a new and unfamiliar space. Sounds always seemed more sinister in the dead of night. But as the canned laughter from the television filled her empty apartment, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was not just a neighbor, but a witness.

A few days of blessed, uninterrupted silence passed. It was enough for Erica to almost convince herself that her tired, grieving mind had played tricks on her. She saw Mr. Schubert again in the hallway. He was wearing the same brown cardigan, a sort of uniform of his quiet existence. This time, he offered a smile, a thin-lipped, practiced expression that didn't quite reach his watchful eyes. She decided to seize the moment, to confront the unease that had taken root in her. „Excuse me, Mr. Schubert,“ she began, her voice steadier than she felt. He stopped, turning to face her. „I think I heard something strange the other night, coming from your apartment.“

His practiced smile froze, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. „I hope everything is all right,“ she added quickly, trying to soften the accusation in her words. „I thought it might have been the TV, or…“

„I apologize,“ he interrupted, his voice a low, gravelly hum. It was smooth, too smooth. „I have some hearing problems, you see. I tend to turn up the volume quite high. I will buy headphones.“ There was a beat of silence, a space filled with unspoken things. Erica could only nod. „Of course, no problem.“ He inclined his head in a gesture of finality, then continued down the stairs without another word. She stood there for a long moment, watching him disappear. Something about his apology had been too polished, too prepared. It was the way his eyes had darted around, as if he were calculating the safest, most plausible lie to appease her.

That night, she placed her ear to the wall again. Nothing. Just the profound, unnerving silence of a secret being kept. The next morning, she found a folded flyer slipped under her door. It was a missing person notice for a young woman named Anna Hoff, 27, last seen near Sendlinger Tor. The photo showed a woman with bright, hopeful eyes and short, stylishly cut blonde hair. Erica stared at the image, her heart constricting. The name, the same as her daughter’s, felt like a cruel twist of fate. Then, her eyes drifted involuntarily to the wall, the silent barrier between her world and his. She didn't realize until that moment that her hand had started trembling again.

The weeks that followed bled into the dull, monotonous rhythm of early winter. Gray skies mirrored gray streets, and a pervasive grayness seemed to settle over everyone’s mood. Erica fell into her routines: morning coffee by the window, teaching at the elementary school across town, and returning to the oppressive quiet of her apartment by nightfall. The building remained as lifeless as ever. Residents passed each other in the halls with averted eyes and unspoken words. Mailboxes were filled and emptied with the silent efficiency of a well-oiled machine. The only constant presence was the silence, a silence that felt thick and sticky, like smoke that never fully cleared.

But Erica had started to notice things, small, seemingly insignificant details that wouldn't mean anything on their own. Together, however, they began to coalesce into a disturbing, misshapen form. She noticed how her neighbor, Mr. Schubert, never, ever opened his windows. Not once. Not even on those rare, glorious days of winter sun when the rest of the building cracked their windows open to let a sliver of warmth and fresh air inside. His curtains were always drawn, the glass behind them dull and opaque with a film of dust. His apartment door was a blank slate—no decorations, no nameplate, not even a functioning doorbell, just the number 17 etched into a rusted metal frame.

And then there was the smell. It wasn't always present, but sometimes, when he opened his door just as she was passing, or when a draft carried it down the hallway, it would drift out. It was a strange, chemical tang, sharp and acridly bitter, like a harsh antiseptic mixed with something older, something organic. It was the smell of decay masked by disinfectant.

One Saturday afternoon, as Erica was hauling her groceries up the stairs, she saw him. He was emerging from his apartment, carrying two large, black trash bags. They looked unusually heavy, bulging oddly at the bottom, their contents shifting with a disconcerting weight. He moved with a stiff, careful precision, as if he were afraid the contents might shift too much and reveal their true nature. Their eyes met for a fleeting, uncomfortable moment. She offered a polite nod. „Afternoon.“ He nodded back, his face a stony mask, and said nothing. As he passed her in the narrow hallway, the smell followed him, a putrid, chemical cloud that clung to the air, lingering long after the elevator doors had closed behind him.

Erica stood frozen in front of her own door, her hand on the handle, an odd, creeping chill crawling up her spine. She glanced back toward Apartment 17. For a split second, she thought she saw movement behind the dusty curtain, a mere flicker, like a shadow shifting against an unseen light. She quickly went inside and bolted the door.

That night, she dreamt of her daughter again. In the dream, Anna was standing in a hallway that looked just like the one in her building, except all the doors were missing. The walls were smooth, blank, and endless. Anna turned to her, her lips moving, forming words that made no sound. Erica reached out, trying to touch her, to bridge the silent gap between them, but every time she stepped forward, Anna seemed to recede, always just out of reach. She woke with a violent start. The room was silent, but her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. It thudded so violently that in the suffocating stillness of the night, she thought she heard a faint, corresponding tapping from the other side of the wall. Three soft, hesitant knocks. She held her breath, listening, waiting. Nothing followed.

The next morning, while retrieving her mail, she met someone new. A cheerful, energetic voice called out from the top of the stairs, „You must be Erica! I'm Claudia. Just moved in upstairs, Apartment 23.“ Erica looked up to see a woman in her early thirties with vibrant auburn hair tied in a loose ponytail and a smile that seemed to radiate genuine warmth. Claudia descended the stairs like a burst of spring air into the stale, lifeless building, holding a tray of freshly baked muffins.

„I brought extras,“ she announced. „Figured the neighbors could use a little sugar.“ She handed Erica a muffin, still warm from the oven. „You're the schoolteacher, right?“

Erica smiled, slightly taken aback by this unexpected display of friendliness. „Yes, I teach at Holzkirchner Grund.“

„Cool! I'm a nurse. I work night shifts sometimes, so forgive me if I look like a zombie during the day.“

They chatted for a few minutes about normal, harmless things. But Erica noticed the way Claudia’s eyes scanned the hallway, as if she were absorbing the strange, silent character of the place. She, too, had noticed the silence.

„Kind of eerie, huh?“ Claudia said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. „No one really talks here.“

„It’s quiet,“ Erica admitted, the word tasting like a lie on her tongue.

„Too quiet,“ Claudia replied, half-joking, but Erica sensed an undercurrent of shared intuition behind her words.

As they were parting, Claudia gestured with her head toward Apartment 17. „Met that one yet?“

„Schubert,“ Erica said. „He doesn't talk much.“

Claudia raised an eyebrow. „I helped him carry a shopping bag last week. You know what’s weird? His apartment’s layout. It’s not like mine. He has only two rooms, but mine has three. I checked the floor plan online. It should be the same layout, just a mirror image.“

Erica froze, the half-eaten muffin forgotten in her hand. She had never thought to question the layout. She had seen into Schubert’s apartment once, when his door was slightly ajar. A living room, a bedroom. That was it. But her own apartment had three rooms: the living room, the bedroom, and the small, cramped study that barely fit a desk. Where was his third room?

Back in her apartment, Erica frantically searched for the building’s welcome packet. Inside, tucked between advertisements for local businesses, was a fire evacuation map showing the layout of each floor. She spread it out on the floor, her finger tracing the diagram for the third floor. Apartments 17 and 21 were exact opposites, perfect mirror images of each other. The same square footage, the same shape, and yes, each diagram clearly showed three distinct rooms. So why did Schubert’s only have two?

She stood up and walked slowly to the wall that separated her bedroom from his apartment. She placed her palm flat against the cool, smooth plaster, her breath held steady in her chest. Behind this wall, there should be a room. But if there was, it was either completely silent or completely sealed.

Later that day, Erica ran into Claudia again in the stairwell and mentioned the discrepancy she had confirmed on the map. Claudia frowned, her cheerful demeanor replaced by a look of serious concern. „It could be a storage room, I guess,“ she mused. „But why seal it off completely? And if it’s just for storage, why not mention it?“ The question lingered in the stale hallway air, unanswered and ominous.

A week passed. The strange sounds from Apartment 17 had stopped, but Erica couldn't stop thinking about the missing room. She walked past the door every day, her senses on high alert, waiting for a clue, any clue. She watched Schubert, studying how he moved, how he studiously avoided eye contact. She noticed the conspicuous lack of visitors, the way his light often stayed on at odd, erratic hours. One evening, as she was passing by, she paused. His door was slightly ajar. She hesitated for just a second, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, the door closed with a sharp, definitive click. She kept walking, her pulse racing.

That night, she dreamt again. This time, the hallway was darker, the shadows deeper and more menacing. The doors were back, but they were all closed and locked, except one. Behind it, she could hear her daughter’s voice, clear as a bell. „Mommy.“ She walked toward the sound, her hand outstretched, a desperate hope surging through her. But when she opened the door, it led to nothing but a solid, unforgiving wall.

It happened just after 2:00 a.m., in the dead of night, when the building and the city were asleep, wrapped in a heavy stillness that only the deepest winter could bring. Outside, snow had begun to fall again, thick, silent flakes blanketing the courtyard in a pristine, untouched layer of white. Inside, Erica lay curled on her side, the blankets tucked tightly beneath her chin, finally drifting into a restless doze. The radiator ticked gently, a metallic heartbeat in the dark, silent room.

Then the cry came.

It was sharp, raw, and undeniably human. A woman’s voice, cut to shreds by panic. „Help me!“

Erica’s eyes snapped open. She sat bolt upright in bed, her breath caught in her throat, her heart a frantic, wild thing hammering against her ribs. For a fleeting moment, she thought she had imagined it, a fragment from a nightmare slipping into her consciousness. But then it came again, louder this time. „Help! Please!“

It was unmistakable. Muffled, but real. It was coming from the wall. From Apartment 17.

She leapt from the bed, crossing the room in two long strides, and pressed her ear against the cold, unforgiving wall. Her skin prickled. A thud, then a choked silence, then another sound, softer this time, like something heavy being dragged across the floor. A cough, a weak, desperate whimper.

Erica stumbled back from the wall, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold her phone. She fumbled with the screen, her fingers numb and clumsy, and dialed 110. The dispatcher’s voice on the other end was calm, a stark contrast to the terror seizing her.

„There’s someone next door,“ Erica whispered, her eyes fixed on the wall as if she could see through it. „A woman. She’s crying for help.“

The dispatcher calmly asked for the address, the details. Erica gave them all as quickly and clearly as her trembling voice would allow. „They need to come now,“ she added, a note of desperate urgency in her voice. „Please.“

The dispatcher promised to send a patrol car immediately. Erica threw on a cardigan over her pajamas and sat by her front door, the phone clutched in her white-knuckled hand. Her ears strained to catch any sound from next door, but the apartment was now terrifyingly quiet. The only noises were the low hum of her refrigerator and the mournful sound of the wind whistling outside her window.

Ten agonizing minutes passed. Then, she heard it: footsteps ascending the stairwell, heavy and purposeful. Voices, low and official. A firm knock on her door. She swung it open to find two uniformed police officers, one older, with a stern, world-weary face, the other younger, his expression softer, less jaded.

„Miss Zimmerman?“ the older officer asked.

„Yes,“ Erica breathed. „It came from that apartment.“ She pointed a trembling finger toward number 17. „I heard a woman screaming. She called for help.“

The officers exchanged a brief, unreadable look. The older one nodded and stepped up to Schubert’s door. He knocked firmly. „Polizei!“ No response. He knocked again, louder this time, the sound echoing in the silent hallway. „Mr. Schubert! Police!“

After a long, tense pause, the door creaked open. Ghard Schubert stood there in a worn bathrobe and slippers, blinking against the harsh hallway light as if he had just been awoken from a deep sleep. His hair was messy, but his expression was unnervingly calm. Too calm.

„What is this about?“ he asked, his voice scratchy and thick with feigned sleep.

„We had a report of a disturbance,“ the officer said, his voice neutral. „A woman’s voice, possibly coming from your apartment.“

Schubert blinked, a picture of innocent confusion. „A woman’s voice? No, I was asleep. Alone. I was watching a thriller earlier, on the television. Perhaps that’s what your caller heard.“

The officer peered past him into the apartment. The television was still on, its faint blue glow bathing the walls in an eerie light, a late-night rerun playing to an empty room. „May we come in, sir?“

Schubert hesitated for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he stepped aside. „Of course.“

The two officers entered the apartment. Erica hovered by her own doorway, not daring to follow but listening with every fiber of her being. She heard them moving through the space, their voices low and muffled. The living room, the bedroom, the kitchen—all were in perfect, almost sterile order. The furniture was minimal and dated. Books lined the shelves in precise, undisturbed rows. A large leather armchair faced the television, a pair of old slippers resting neatly beside it.

The officers‘ voices became slightly clearer. „Do you live alone, sir?“ „Yes.“ „Any recent visitors?“ „No.“ „Do you own a pet?“ „No.“ They knocked on the walls, opened cabinets, shone their flashlights beneath the bed. They found nothing.

The younger officer stepped back into the hallway where Erica stood, a polite but firm smile on his face. „Ma'am, we didn't find anything unusual. The apartment is clear.“

„But I heard her,“ Erica insisted, her voice a desperate whisper. „It was a woman. She was crying, begging for help.“

The officer’s smile didn't waver. It was the smile of someone placating a hysterical woman. „These old buildings, ma'am, the sound carries in strange ways. It could have come from another floor, or even from outside. It’s not uncommon.“

„I know what I heard,“ she repeated, the words feeling futile against his wall of professional skepticism.

The officer glanced at his partner, who shrugged. „There’s nothing more we can do without any evidence of a crime.“

Schubert reappeared at his doorway, holding a steaming mug. „Hot water with lemon,“ he said casually, as if this were a normal social call. „It helps me sleep.“ His eyes met Erica’s over the rim of the mug. There was something in them now, something that hadn't been there before. A flicker of annoyance, of triumph, of warning. „If there is nothing else,“ he said, the words a clear dismissal.

The officers nodded. „Good night, sir.“ He closed the door quietly, firmly, behind them.

Erica stood frozen in the hallway, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. The older officer looked at her, his expression a mixture of pity and impatience. „Try to get some rest, Miss Zimmerman.“ And then they were gone. The stairwell echoed with the sound of their heavy boots descending.

Silence returned like a thick, suffocating curtain falling.

Inside her apartment, Erica sank onto the couch, her body trembling uncontrollably. Doubt, cold and insidious, crept into her mind like a poisonous vapor under the door. What if she had imagined it all? What if it really was just a movie? What if her own grief-addled mind was finally betraying her? She looked at the wall again, pressing her fingers against the spot where she thought the sound had come from. „Are you still there?“ she whispered to the empty air.

There was no answer. Only the silence. But the silence felt different now. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't empty. It felt like it was watching her.

The next day, Erica could barely function. At work, her students noticed her distraction, and so did her colleagues. She forced a hollow smile, brushed off their concerned questions, and said she hadn't slept well. It was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. That evening, she avoided the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time. She cooked dinner with the radio blaring, left every single light on in her apartment, and tried to read, but the words on the page were a meaningless jumble. Finally, around midnight, she turned everything off and lay in bed, her eyes wide open in the darkness, waiting.

No sound came. Just the lonely howl of the wind. But as she finally drifted towards an exhausted, troubled sleep, a single question circled endlessly in her mind: If you hear someone crying for help, and no one believes you, what do you do next?

For three long days, Erica heard nothing. No cries, no thuds, not even the faint, ambient hum of life from Apartment 17. The silence should have brought relief, a return to the quiet she had so desperately sought. Instead, it felt heavier, more menacing, as if the horror had simply gone deeper underground, waiting.

Claudia knocked on her door that Thursday afternoon, holding a laptop and a thermos. „Want some company?“ she asked, her cheerful demeanor a welcome balm to Erica’s frayed nerves. Erica nodded, stepping aside to let her in. They sat in the small kitchen, mugs of steaming coffee between them, and opened the building’s architectural plans. Claudia had managed to download them from the city’s online archive.

„Okay,“ she said, turning the laptop screen toward Erica. „Here’s your unit, number 21. Three rooms: living, bedroom, and a small office. Kitchen and bath.“ Erica nodded. That was accurate. „Now, here’s 17.“ Claudia tapped the screen, zooming in. „It’s the exact same layout, a perfect mirror image. But remember what I said? When I helped Schubert with his groceries, I only saw two rooms. Bedroom and living room. That’s it.“

„So no office?“ Erica asked, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.

„No door where an office should be. No wall indicating a separate room. It’s just…gone.“

They both stared at the blueprint, the undeniable evidence on the screen contradicting the reality of what Claudia had seen. „The third room isn't just missing,“ Claudia said slowly, her voice low. „It’s been completely covered up, hidden.“

Erica leaned back in her chair, a cold dread seeping into her bones. „Why would someone seal off an entire room?“

Claudia shrugged, her expression darkening. „There could be innocent reasons. Storage, a renovation that was never finished. But why hide it? And if it’s just full of junk, why act like it doesn't exist?“

A beat of heavy silence passed between them. Then Claudia asked the question that was hanging in the air. „You're still thinking about that night, aren't you? The voice.“

„I can't stop,“ Erica whispered. „I keep replaying it in my mind. The sound of her voice, the sheer desperation.“

Claudia was quiet for a moment, then she leaned in closer. „I've heard things too.“

Erica’s eyes widened.

„Not like what you heard,“ Claudia clarified quickly. „No screaming. But…tapping. A few nights ago, I was in my bathroom. I thought it was just the plumbing at first, but it didn't feel right. It was too rhythmic.“

„Where did it come from?“

Claudia pointed up. „The ventilation shaft. I opened the panel to check. There was nothing there, of course. But I swear, when I tapped on the metal, something tapped back.“

They looked at each other, two women from different walks of life, now united by a shared and terrifying suspicion. „I think,“ Claudia said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper, „we need to do something.“

Erica hesitated. „Like what? The police didn't believe me.“

Claudia reached into her bag and pulled out a small, sticky notepad. „We ask,“ she said simply. She scribbled a quick, hopeful message: Are you okay? Below it, she drew a tiny, incongruous smiley face. „I'll leave it by his door,“ she said. „If someone inside takes it, then at least we'll know someone is in there and able to read.“

They tiptoed out into the hallway and slid the small, yellow note under the door of Apartment 17. Then, they waited.

For hours, nothing happened. Claudia eventually went back upstairs to her own apartment. Erica remained on high alert, periodically checking the hallway through her peephole, her heart pulsing like a frantic second heartbeat. Around 2:00 a.m., she was startled awake by a soft creak from the hallway. She tiptoed to her door and peered out. The hallway was empty. But the note was gone.

The next morning, Erica visited the building’s management office, using the guise of requesting a repair for her faulty heating unit. As the receptionist stepped away to make a copy of the work order, Erica’s eyes darted to the wall of floor plans pinned near the desk. There it was again: Apartment 17, clearly showing three rooms. She stepped closer, pretending to be engrossed in the details, but her focus narrowed to the tiny, handwritten notes in the margins. A date caught her eye: Renovation Approved - October 2003. Technical Room Access.

Technical room? That term hadn't appeared on the online blueprints. What technical room? When the receptionist returned, Erica smiled, signed her form, and left, but not without snapping a quick, surreptitious photo of the plan with her phone.

That evening, Claudia came down again. The two women huddled over the image on Erica’s phone. „There’s a space here,“ Erica whispered, pointing to a small, unmarked area between Apartments 17 and 19. „Some kind of service room. But it’s not marked on the updated blueprint Claudia found online.“

„Look,“ Claudia said, her finger tracing the lines. „This newer one from 2019 doesn't show anything. It’s just a solid wall. It’s gone.“

„Could he have absorbed it into his unit?“ Erica wondered aloud.

„If he worked in building maintenance before he retired, which I heard he did, he would have had access,“ Claudia finished. „He could have sealed it off from the outside, turned it into…anything.“

Erica felt her stomach twist into a tight, cold knot. „A room with no official door, no window, and no proper ventilation… that’s a perfect hiding spot. For anything. Or anyone.“

That night, sleep was an impossibility. Erica sat in her dark living room, listening, waiting. Around 1:45 a.m., the sound returned. But this time, it wasn't a scream. It was a knock. Three gentle, deliberate taps from inside the wall.

She stood up, trembling, and walked to the bedroom, pressing her ear against the cold plaster. Another three knocks, a pause, then another three. Faintly, she heard the sound of fingernails scraping against a hard surface. It was deliberate, rhythmic. It wasn't random noise; it was communication.

She grabbed a pencil and a notebook, trying to write down the pattern, her hand shaking so badly the lines were jagged and uneven. Tap…tap…tap…pause…tap-tap…tap…tap. She didn't know Morse code, but she knew this was a message.

She didn't sleep for the rest of the night. The next day, she showed the notes to Claudia. „It’s not Morse code,“ Claudia said after a quick search on her phone. „But it might just be someone too weak to knock properly, trying to create any pattern they can.“

Erica stared at the page. „I think they're trying to get our attention. They know we're listening.“

They decided it was time to act, to force the issue. Together, they drafted a formal, carefully worded letter to the building administrator, requesting an official inspection of the sealed room in Apartment 17, citing suspected building code violations and unauthorized renovations. They made no mention of voices, no mention of knocks, nothing that could be dismissed as female hysteria. They used the cold, hard language of bureaucracy, hoping it would be enough to trigger a response.

The administrator, a stiff, officious man named Herr Klose, responded within a week. He agreed to conduct a floor plan audit, but the inspection itself wouldn't happen for another ten days.

Ten days. Erica marked the date on her calendar with a shaking hand. It felt like a lifetime.

That night, she wrote another note. We hear you. Hold on. Help is coming. She folded it into a tiny square and placed it beneath Schubert’s door. By morning, like the first one, it was gone.