My Landlord Keeps Sleepwalking Into My Apartment – Part 1…
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My Landlord Keeps Sleepwalking Into My Apartment – Part 1
You can touch the opposite walls of my apartment if you stretch your arms out wide enough. It's a concrete box tucked behind the main house's garage, smelling permanently of damp drywall and old paint. For the price, I told myself I could handle the lack of windows and the draft under the door. I even told myself I could handle the landlord, Mr. Curl, who smiled a little too long when he handed over the keys.
I was wrong.
The first night was completely silent, save for the hum of the fridge.
When I woke up the next morning, my keys were sitting perfectly centered on the kitchen counter. I always throw them into a small plastic dish by the door. I figured I was just exhausted from the move and misremembered putting them there.
The second night, I woke up around 4:00 AM to a faint, rhythmic scratching sound. I lay perfectly still, listening, assuming it was a mouse in the drywall. When I turned on the lights, the sound stopped. Right inside the threshold, on the linoleum, was a wet, dark smudge. It looked like the track of a damp, bare heel. I crouched down to look at it more closely, but it was already drying as I watched. The edges went lighter, breaking apart into the grain of the floor until it just didn’t look as defined anymore. I checked the deadbolt. It was locked tight.
Then came the third night.
I woke up at 2:41 AM. I know the exact time because the green glare of my alarm clock was the only light in the room.
The air felt different. Colder.
I shifted my head on the pillow, eyes straining in the dark, and that's when I saw the silhouette standing at the foot of my bed. He wasn't moving, but he wasn't relaxed either.
As my eyes adjusted to the green glow of the clock, the details filled in, and my stomach dropped. Mr. Curl's neck was strained tight, the thick tendons in his throat standing out like cords. His chin was forced upward, though his head wasn't crooked. His arms weren't hanging loose. His forearms were rigid, visibly trembling from sheer muscle strain, his fingers locked into tight, violent claw shapes as if he were trying to rip through the air itself.
He was breathing through his nose, slow, wet, and heavy.
"Mr. Curl?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
He didn't blink. But slowly, the violent tension in his forearms began to melt away. His clawed fingers uncurled, his neck relaxed, and without a single word, he took a step backward. Then another. He moved with a smooth, silent fluidity that didn't belong to an eighty year old man, slipping out the door and clicking it shut behind him.
I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
When morning finally came, I was still sitting up in bed for a while, just listening to the apartment. Waiting for something else to happen. It didn’t.
I eventually got dressed and went outside with a cup of coffee, more out of habit than anything else. I didn’t really feel like being inside.
I was sitting on my steps, trying to figure out how to break my lease, when Mr. Curl walked up the gravel driveway.
He looked totally normal, just an old man in a flannel shirt holding a mug.
"Morning, kiddo," he said, looking genuinely embarrassed. "Listen, I owe you an apology. I checked my Ring camera on my front porch when I woke up, and I saw myself walk out into the yard in my pajamas at one in the morning. My sleepwalking has been acting up. I'm terribly sorry if I disturbed you."
I just stared at him, my coffee freezing halfway to my mouth.
He smiled, patted my shoulder, and walked back toward the main house. It wasn't until he was halfway across the yard that the cold math hit me.
His Ring camera shows his porch. It doesn't show my door. If he was truly sound asleep the whole time.. how did he know he came inside my room?
That night, I double checked the locks.
Not just the deadbolt. The chain. The door handle. I even pressed against the door a few times just to make sure it held firm. The apartment didn’t give me much to work with, but I checked it anyway.
I told myself I was just being cautious. That there was a reasonable explanation for everything. I kept repeating that part in my head.
A reasonable explanation.
The apartment stayed quiet for a while after I went to bed. Too quiet.
I kept waking up without fully waking up. Just drifting up to the surface and slipping back under again, like I wasn’t getting proper sleep at all.
At some point, I remember hearing something outside.
Not scratching this time.
Just movement.
Slow. Careful. Right outside the structure.
I didn’t get up right away.
I just listened.
The sound didn’t move away. It stayed close. Too close.
Then I heard something shift near the door.
Not loud. Just a slight pressure change. Like weight adjusting outside.
I sat up.
The room looked exactly the same as before.
Dark. Still.
But the air felt wrong again. Like it had already been disturbed.
I got out of bed and checked the door.
Still locked.
Nothing had changed.
I stood there for a minute, staring at it anyway.
Then I went back to bed.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night after that.
The next morning, I stayed inside longer than usual. I kept the lights on even though it was already bright outside.
I kept thinking about what he said.
Sleepwalking.
The Ring camera.
Or why it felt like it was more than that.
I was still sitting there when I heard gravel outside.
Slow steps.
Coming up toward the apartment again.
#entertainment
source
You can touch the opposite walls of my apartment if you stretch your arms out wide enough. It's a concrete box tucked behind the main house's garage, smelling permanently of damp drywall and old paint. For the price, I told myself I could handle the lack of windows and the draft under the door. I even told myself I could handle the landlord, Mr. Curl, who smiled a little too long when he handed over the keys.
I was wrong.
The first night was completely silent, save for the hum of the fridge.
When I woke up the next morning, my keys were sitting perfectly centered on the kitchen counter. I always throw them into a small plastic dish by the door. I figured I was just exhausted from the move and misremembered putting them there.
The second night, I woke up around 4:00 AM to a faint, rhythmic scratching sound. I lay perfectly still, listening, assuming it was a mouse in the drywall. When I turned on the lights, the sound stopped. Right inside the threshold, on the linoleum, was a wet, dark smudge. It looked like the track of a damp, bare heel. I crouched down to look at it more closely, but it was already drying as I watched. The edges went lighter, breaking apart into the grain of the floor until it just didn’t look as defined anymore. I checked the deadbolt. It was locked tight.
Then came the third night.
I woke up at 2:41 AM. I know the exact time because the green glare of my alarm clock was the only light in the room.
The air felt different. Colder.
I shifted my head on the pillow, eyes straining in the dark, and that's when I saw the silhouette standing at the foot of my bed. He wasn't moving, but he wasn't relaxed either.
As my eyes adjusted to the green glow of the clock, the details filled in, and my stomach dropped. Mr. Curl's neck was strained tight, the thick tendons in his throat standing out like cords. His chin was forced upward, though his head wasn't crooked. His arms weren't hanging loose. His forearms were rigid, visibly trembling from sheer muscle strain, his fingers locked into tight, violent claw shapes as if he were trying to rip through the air itself.
He was breathing through his nose, slow, wet, and heavy.
"Mr. Curl?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
He didn't blink. But slowly, the violent tension in his forearms began to melt away. His clawed fingers uncurled, his neck relaxed, and without a single word, he took a step backward. Then another. He moved with a smooth, silent fluidity that didn't belong to an eighty year old man, slipping out the door and clicking it shut behind him.
I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
When morning finally came, I was still sitting up in bed for a while, just listening to the apartment. Waiting for something else to happen. It didn’t.
I eventually got dressed and went outside with a cup of coffee, more out of habit than anything else. I didn’t really feel like being inside.
I was sitting on my steps, trying to figure out how to break my lease, when Mr. Curl walked up the gravel driveway.
He looked totally normal, just an old man in a flannel shirt holding a mug.
"Morning, kiddo," he said, looking genuinely embarrassed. "Listen, I owe you an apology. I checked my Ring camera on my front porch when I woke up, and I saw myself walk out into the yard in my pajamas at one in the morning. My sleepwalking has been acting up. I'm terribly sorry if I disturbed you."
I just stared at him, my coffee freezing halfway to my mouth.
He smiled, patted my shoulder, and walked back toward the main house. It wasn't until he was halfway across the yard that the cold math hit me.
His Ring camera shows his porch. It doesn't show my door. If he was truly sound asleep the whole time.. how did he know he came inside my room?
That night, I double checked the locks.
Not just the deadbolt. The chain. The door handle. I even pressed against the door a few times just to make sure it held firm. The apartment didn’t give me much to work with, but I checked it anyway.
I told myself I was just being cautious. That there was a reasonable explanation for everything. I kept repeating that part in my head.
A reasonable explanation.
The apartment stayed quiet for a while after I went to bed. Too quiet.
I kept waking up without fully waking up. Just drifting up to the surface and slipping back under again, like I wasn’t getting proper sleep at all.
At some point, I remember hearing something outside.
Not scratching this time.
Just movement.
Slow. Careful. Right outside the structure.
I didn’t get up right away.
I just listened.
The sound didn’t move away. It stayed close. Too close.
Then I heard something shift near the door.
Not loud. Just a slight pressure change. Like weight adjusting outside.
I sat up.
The room looked exactly the same as before.
Dark. Still.
But the air felt wrong again. Like it had already been disturbed.
I got out of bed and checked the door.
Still locked.
Nothing had changed.
I stood there for a minute, staring at it anyway.
Then I went back to bed.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night after that.
The next morning, I stayed inside longer than usual. I kept the lights on even though it was already bright outside.
I kept thinking about what he said.
Sleepwalking.
The Ring camera.
Or why it felt like it was more than that.
I was still sitting there when I heard gravel outside.
Slow steps.
Coming up toward the apartment again.
#entertainment
source
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