I Rented a Basement Suite That Had a Secret Room

Finding affordable housing in Boston is basically impossible, so when I saw the basement suite listing for $900 a month, I jumped on it. The landlord seemed eager to rent it out fast—kept emphasizing how it had been "recently renovated" and that I'd have "complete privacy."

Should've asked why he was so desperate to fill it.

The suite was actually nice. Separate entrance, small kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. The landlord lived upstairs with his family. Said I probably wouldn't even know they were there. He was right about that—the ceiling insulation was so thick I never heard a single footstep above me.

It was almost too quiet.

Week One: Just Old Building Sounds

The tapping started on night four. Soft, rhythmic, coming from inside the walls. I figured it was pipes or something settling. Old building, basement apartment, whatever. You learn to ignore stuff like that when the rent's this cheap.

But it was always the same pattern. Three taps. Pause. Three taps. Pause. Like someone sending a signal.

I mentioned it to the landlord when he came by to check the water heater. He got this weird look on his face.

"You hear it too?" he said.

"Too?"

"Nothing. Old pipes. I'll look into it."

He never did.

Week Three: The Wall

I was moving my bed one night—trying to position it away from the window where streetlights kept waking me up. That's when I felt it. A draft, coming from the wall behind my headboard.

Not from a vent or a crack. From the wall itself.

I pressed my hand against it, and the drywall felt hollow. I knocked. Definitely hollow. But according to the layout, there was nothing behind that wall except dirt and the house's foundation.

I got a screwdriver and poked at the seam where the wall met the floor. The drywall was newer than the rest—different texture, slightly different color. It had been patched recently.

That night, the tapping got louder. More insistent. It wasn't random anymore. It was responding. I'd shift in bed, and the tapping would stop. I'd settle down, and it would start again.

Three taps. Always three.

Week Five: What the Landlord Said

I cornered the landlord when I saw him getting his mail. Asked him directly about the wall in my bedroom.

His face went pale. "What about it?"

"There's something behind it. A space. Why is there a sealed-off room in my apartment?"

He looked around like he was worried someone would hear us. "It's not a room. It's just dead space. Foundation issue. Had to close it off."

"Why can I hear tapping from inside it?"

"You're hearing the pipes in the wall cavity. That's all."

But the way he said it—he didn't believe it either.

That night, I looked up the property records online. The house was built in 1952. Renovated multiple times. But there was something weird in the permit history. In 2019, there was a permit for "basement structural modifications." The description mentioned "sealing off unauthorized living space."

Unauthorized living space. On my bedroom wall.

Someone had been living back there.

Week Six: I Opened It

I waited until the landlord's family went on vacation. Saw them loading up their car, told them I'd keep an eye on things. As soon as they left, I went to work on that wall.

It took three hours to cut through the drywall carefully enough that I could patch it back later if needed. The space behind was small—maybe 6x8 feet. No windows. No ventilation. Just a small space carved out of the foundation.

And it wasn't empty.

There was a mattress on the floor, stained and moldy. A bucket in the corner. The smell was overwhelming—human waste, rot, mildew. Scratches on the walls, deep gouges in the concrete, like someone had been clawing at it. Words carved into the foundation:

"LET ME OUT" "PLEASE" "ANYONE"

And dates. Dozens of dates scratched into the concrete, marking time. The most recent was from six months ago. Two months before I moved in.

My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped my phone. I started taking pictures, documenting everything. That's when I saw it—a wallet wedged between the mattress and the wall.

Inside was an ID. A woman's ID. Melissa Torres, 24 years old. Address listed as this house.

I searched her name on my phone. Found a missing person's report from eight months ago. Last seen in the Boston area. The case had gone cold.

That's when I heard it. Not tapping this time. Breathing. I came from the dark corner of the space where my phone's flashlight didn't quite reach.

I ran. Didn't pack anything, didn't stop to think. Just ran up the basement stairs and out to my car.

What I Found Out Later

I went to the police. Showed them everything—the photos, the ID, the missing person's report. They got a warrant, searched the property.

They found the room. Confirmed it had been used to hold someone. Found DNA evidence, fingerprints. But nobody. Melissa Torres is still missing.

The landlord claimed he had no idea. Said the previous tenant must have built it, that he'd sealed it off when he found it during renovations, but didn't report it because he "didn't want trouble." The investigation is ongoing. He's been arrested but not charged with anything yet. His wife filed for divorce.

Here's what keeps me up at night, though. The police found something else in that room. A camera. Small, hidden in a vent. Still recording.

The footage showed me. Every night for six weeks, I slept in my bed, completely unaware that I was being watched. And in some of the clips, you could see the lens adjusting, zooming in and out. Someone was actively watching the feed.

But the really disturbing part? The last few days of footage showed something else. After I'd go to bed, the hidden door would open—just slightly. Just enough for someone to slip through. You could see a shadow moving around my room while I slept. Standing over me. Going through my things.

The tapping wasn't coming from someone trapped in the room.

It was someone in the room trying to get out. Into my space.

The police think maybe someone was still using it. Maybe the landlord. Maybe someone else had a key. The investigation found evidence that multiple people had accessed that space over the years. They found belongings from four different missing women.

Four.

And they think whoever was using it was still coming and going right up until I opened that wall. Maybe they were planning to grab me next. Maybe I interrupted something. The police called it "incredibly lucky timing."

I don't feel lucky.

Three Months Later

I'm staying with friends in New York now. Can't bring myself to rent another place yet. Every apartment I look at, I check the walls. Knock on them. Listen for hollow sounds. People think I'm crazy.

The landlord's trial is coming up. I'll have to testify. Face him in court. Look at the man who watched me sleep, who maybe helped keep women trapped in his basement.

Sometimes I still wake up at 3 AM, convinced I hear tapping. Three taps. Pause. Three taps. But there's nothing there. My therapist says it's PTSD. That my brain is still in survival mode.

But here's what really haunts me. Before I left, I went through the photos I took one more time. In one of them, the one I took of the scratched dates on the wall, there's something I didn't notice before.

At the very bottom, barely visible, scratched into the concrete in tiny letters:

"He's watching you, too."

And it was dated the day before I moved in.

When you're looking for apartments—in Boston, Chicago, anywhere—people always tell you to check for bedbugs, water damage, sketchy landlords. No one tells you to check the walls. No one tells you to wonder what's sealed behind new drywall in a recently renovated space.

I'll never rent a basement apartment again. And I'll never stop wondering about Melissa Torres and those three other women. Where they are. If they're still alive.

Some days I think about that breathing sound I heard in the dark. Wonder if it was real or if my mind invented it because I was terrified.

Other days, I'm absolutely certain it was real.

And that whoever it was, they're still out there.