The Cementry Apartment

James didn't ask too many questions when the landlord said the rent was seventy thousand naira for the whole year. In a city where apartments swallowed bank accounts like sinkholes, that kind of deal was nearly supernatural in itself. One bedroom, tiled floor, private kitchen, close to a main road - and no need to pay for light or water.

He signed before the ink could dry.

The building stood at the end of a narrow, quiet street in Ajeromi, an old district carved into Lagos like an infected wound that refused to heal. The air smelled like iron and rain. The trees lining the sidewalk had more birds than leaves. The sky that day was heavy, the kind of grey that felt like it had weight, pressing down on the roof.

The caretaker, a man who called himself Jonah, handed over the key with a strange kind of relief. "Apartment 3B," he said without making eye contact. "You'll be the only one on that floor for now."

James's brow lifted. "No other tenants?"

Jonah chewed his lip. "Not anymore." Then he gave a half-smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Welcome."

James moved in that same evening.

---

The hallway leading to 3B was dim, lit only by a flickering bulb that buzzed like it was being eaten alive. The walls were painted a dull mustard color, and the smell was thick - a mix of old soap, mildew, and something else. Something sweet and rotten.

He turned the key and stepped into the apartment. It was cleaner than expected. A little dusty, sure, but livable. The floor tiles were cold under his feet, and the silence inside the room was unnaturally thick, like the walls swallowed sound instead of echoing it.

There was only one window in the living room, and it looked out onto a narrow alley choked with vines. As he opened the window to let in some air, he noticed something strange: there was no reflection in the glass.

Not of him. Not of anything.

Just blackness.

He blinked and looked again. The alley was still there beyond the glass. But the glass itself didn't show any mirror image. As if it wasn't really glass at all.

He closed it. Locked it. Moved on.

---

That night, the ceiling creaked above him. He assumed it was rats.

Until he remembered Jonah said there were no other tenants on his floor. And no one above him, either - 3B was the top floor.

He lay in bed, covers up to his chest, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying not to breathe too loudly. The sound came again. Not a rat. Not scuttling. Dragging. Slow, deliberate - like a body being pulled across the floor.

Then, silence.

Then... knocking.

Three slow knocks on his front door.

3:17 a.m.

He froze.

The knocks didn't come again.

He waited.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

He finally got up, crept to the door, and peeked through the keyhole.

Nothing. No one.

Except-just as he leaned back, something whispered through the hole:

> "You're not supposed to be here."

He slammed the bolt closed. Backed away.

And noticed... muddy footprints. Just outside his door. Leading in from the hallway. But the building didn't have any mud outside. It hadn't rained all week.

James barely slept.

He lay there for hours, the whisper repeating in his skull like a curse:

> "You're not supposed to be here."

By dawn, the air in the room had grown thick and humid. The walls seemed to sweat. He checked the door again. The muddy footprints were still there. Dried now, cracked, and baked into the concrete like fossilized warnings.

He took a picture with his phone.

The screen flashed white.

"File corrupted."

Twice. Then three times.

He gave up.

---

Later that morning, James stepped out into the corridor. His legs trembled beneath him, but he forced himself forward. He needed to see someone. A living person. Someone who would look him in the eye and say everything was normal.

But the hallway was empty.

The building was silent.

He descended the stairs slowly, his footsteps echoing against the concrete like he was walking through a tunnel. On the ground floor, beside the rusted water tank, he finally saw a boy. Bare-chested, dusty, maybe ten years old. The boy sat crouched beside the stair rail, eating dry garri from a dented tomato tin.

James exhaled in relief. "Morning," he said.

The boy didn't respond.

He stared at James with sunken eyes, unblinking, chewing slowly like his mouth was on autopilot. James hesitated, then crouched to meet his eye level.

"Do you live here?"

The boy blinked once. Slowly. Then nodded.

James felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly. "Okay. I'm James. I just moved in yesterday. Apartment 3B."

The boy's chewing stopped.

He stared harder.

Then, in a flat, brittle voice, he said:

> "That apartment eats people."

James blinked. "What did you say?"

But the boy had already stood up, brushing garri dust off his hands. He turned and walked toward the back of the building, barefoot on broken tiles, his steps silent as smoke. James followed-but when he rounded the corner-

No one.

Nothing.

Just a locked maintenance door and the distant hum of a generator.

---

James tried to shake it off. Maybe the boy was just messing with him. Kids did that sometimes. Especially in places like this.

Still, the words clung to him like damp fabric.

> "That apartment eats people."

When he returned to his unit, he noticed something strange.

His toothbrush was wet.

He hadn't used it. Not once.

He touched the handle - warm, like someone had just put it down.

His towel, too, was damp. Slightly moved. Not the way he left it on the rack.

He checked his front door. Still locked.

His windows - still closed.

And yet... someone had been in here.

He stood still for several minutes, listening. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator. But even that sounded wrong. Too loud. Too steady. As if it were the only thing in the apartment pretending to be normal.

James walked into the living room. Sat down on the couch. Told himself to calm down. Maybe he forgot he used the toothbrush. Maybe he was more exhausted than he thought.

Then he saw it.

On the center of his coffee table.

A single red thread, stretched in a perfect line from one end to the other.

He hadn't put it there. He didn't own red thread.

He leaned in.

It wasn't thread.

It was a vein. Dry. Shriveled. Cut at both ends.

It twitched.

James stared at the dry, red line stretched across his table.

It wasn't moving now. Maybe it never had. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him.

He reached out.

As his finger neared it, the thread - vein - whatever it was - crumbled to dust. Fine and gray, like burnt hair. A sudden wind blew through the closed window and scattered the dust across the table like ashes.

James backed away.

There was no draft. The windows were sealed shut.

He grabbed his phone again, this time to call Jonah.

No service.

No network bars. No Wi-Fi.

Even though the router light was on.

He opened the front door - slowly, cautiously.

The hallway was empty again, though it felt different this time. Heavier. As if the air itself was resisting his steps. He descended the stairs two at a time and stormed across the courtyard toward the caretaker's flat behind the building.

He knocked - once, twice, five times.

Nothing.

He was about to walk away when the door creaked open on its own.

"Jonah?" he called.

No answer.

He stepped inside.

---

The caretaker's room was dim, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from an exposed wire. The walls were covered in yellowed newspaper clippings. James stepped closer, and his skin prickled as he read the headlines:

> "Tenant Vanishes from Local Apartment Complex"

"Woman Found Mummified in Locked Room - No Signs of Entry"

"Building in Ajeromi Linked to Seven Unsolved Disappearances"

The dates ranged from 1999 to as recent as six months ago. And every article mentioned the same location: Apartment 3B.

There were photos too - black-and-white, grainy, taken from security footage and ID cards.

James froze.

One of the pictures was taped directly beneath a headline that read:

'Missing NYSC Corps Member – No Clues Found.'

The photo showed a young man, about James's age, standing in front of the exact same apartment door he had moved into.

The same curtain.

The same doormat.

James stepped back, breathing fast now, heart thudding like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

That's when he noticed the radio on the table.

It was playing static.

Then a voice cut through - faint, distant, broken:

> "3B is... still... open... still hungry..."

The radio went dead.

James turned around-

And saw Jonah, standing in the doorway. Watching him.

Expressionless.

"You shouldn't be in here," Jonah said flatly.

"I-I knocked," James stammered. "Your door-"

Jonah didn't blink. "That apartment isn't for people like you."

James frowned. "What does that even mean?"

Instead of answering, Jonah stepped past him, picked up a small bell from the corner of the room, and rang it once.

A low chime - sharp, metallic - rang out.

The floorboards under James's feet vibrated.

Then stopped.

Jonah turned to him and whispered:

> "Whatever you do... never open your door after midnight again."

---

That night, James didn't sleep.

He sat on the floor, back against the wall, eyes locked on the door.

The digital clock on the table ticked slowly toward 3:00 a.m.

The silence was unbearable.

He tried playing music on his phone. The app froze. The screen glitched, flickered red, then went black. He unplugged the device, tossed it aside.

3:17 a.m.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

He held his breath.

Did not move.

But then, the worst part.

The door handle turned.

Not violently.

Slowly.

Gently.

Like someone on the other side was testing how awake he was.

James sat frozen in the darkness, tears running down his face.

The door clicked - not opening - but unlocking.

Even though he'd bolted it. Twice.

He looked up just in time to see a hand retreating through the wall beside the doorframe.

Not from the door.

Through the wall.