My Roommate Swore Our Apartment Was Haunted (Looking Back, He Might've Been Right)

Look, I'm not the kind of person who believes in this stuff. Ghosts, hauntings, whatever, it's always just old pipes or someone's overactive imagination, right? That's what I kept telling myself anyway.

When I found the two-bedroom in Chicago's Logan Square, I genuinely thought I'd won the lottery. Hardwood floors, those high ceilings you see in movies, crown molding that belonged in places charging double. The landlord practically threw the lease at us, even cutting the deposit in half when I said I needed to think about it. Red flag? Maybe. But when you're desperate for a decent place you can actually afford, you ignore the weird stuff.

Jake seemed totally normal when we met up for coffee. The graphic designer seemed clean enough and said he always paid rent on time. All the boxes are checked. He did say something about the apartment having "character" when we signed, but honestly, I thought he just meant the old radiators and how the hallway was kind of crooked.

First night there, I had this weird feeling. Like the apartment was watching us unpack or something. I know how that sounds.

The Footsteps Thing Started Almost Immediately

Third night in the place, I woke up to footsteps. It was like 2 AM, and someone was walking around above us. Slow steps, back and forth, right above the living room. Then they'd stop. Right above my door. The silence after was somehow worse.

The next morning, I brought it up to Jake, trying to sound casual about it. "Upstairs neighbour's a night owl, huh?"

He looked at me weirdly. "We're on the top floor. There is no upstairs."

I checked. He was right. Three-story building, we're on three. Just the roof above us.

That night I stayed awake and listened. Sure enough, at 2:07 AM, there they were again. Same path, same pace. I almost got up to wake Jake, but like... what was I supposed to say? "Hey, new roommate, I barely know, I'm freaking out about phantom footsteps?" You can't be that person right off the bat. So I just pulled the covers over my head and tried not to think about it.

Then the Door Thing Started

Maybe two months in, I noticed Jake started keeping his bedroom door propped open with a chair. Not just open like, wedged open. Then I finally asked him why.

"Because when I close it, I can't get back out. Handle won't turn from inside."

"Dude, that's literally a fire hazard. Let's tell the landlord"

"I did." He wasn't looking at me. "He said the doors are brand new. Said I'm probably just locking it wrong."

Two nights later, I got it. Woke up around 2 AM (of course), and my door was closed. I never close my door. Went to open it, and the handle just... wouldn't turn. I started pounding on it, yelling for Jake, but it was like the sound just died in my room. Then I heard footsteps in the hallway. Those same slow steps. And my door just swung open on its own.

Jake was standing there in the hallway, looking pale as hell. "I didn't touch your door."

We should've asked more questions before we signed that lease. When you're trying to find a place in Chicago, or Toronto, or any expensive city really, you get so focused on the price and location that you ignore your gut. We were in a rush. Needed a place fast. So we ignored the feeling. Big mistake.

Month Four Was When It Got Really Bad

I work from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Jake goes to his studio. One Tuesday, I'm working, and I hear this humming coming from Jake's room. A woman humming some old song I swear I've heard before but can't place. Made my skin crawl. I stood outside his door for probably five minutes before I opened it. Empty room. Laptop closed. The phone is sitting there. But his bed was made differently than when he left pillows on the wrong side.

When he got home, I asked if he'd had someone over. The way his face changed...

"You heard it."

Turns out he'd been hearing it for weeks. When I wasn't home, he'd hear it coming from MY room. Sometimes humming, sometimes whispering. Once he heard his own name, clear as day.

Neither of us had said anything because we both thought we were going crazy. We stayed up that night with all the lights on and compared everything. The footsteps only happened between 2 and 3 AM. The doors would lock when we had people over, we'd both noticed but never mentioned it. The voice only happened when one of us was alone. Whatever was in that apartment didn't want us to have company.

"We need to move," Jake said.

"We can't afford to break the lease. We'd lose everything."

And that's the thing, right? Sometimes you're just stuck. Whether it's Boston's insane market or Vancouver's deposits or wherever, breaking a lease can financially ruin you. So you stay. Even when you shouldn't.

It Got Worse

Jake's room started getting cold. Like, see-your-breath cold, even with the heat blasting. He ended up sleeping on the couch.

"There's something in there," he told me one morning. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. "I can feel it watching. Sometimes I hear breathing."

I wanted to tell him he was being paranoid, but the night before, I'd walked past his room and felt it too. This heaviness in the air. And that smell, like old perfume, the kind that's been sitting in a bottle for like fifty years. It would just appear and then vanish.

The Closet

Jake's girlfriend came over one weekend. Sunday morning, she's making coffee and asks, super casually, "So what's with the shrine in your hallway closet?"

We didn't have anything in that closet. We'd never even opened it, no key. But it was standing wide open.

Inside was old luggage, a ratty fur coat that reeked of that perfume smell, and stacked hatboxes. And photos. So many photos. All of the same woman, taken over like the decades. Different outfits, different hair, but always her. Always standing in front of our building.

The last photo, though. She was at our living room window. The angle was all wrong like the photo was taken from inside, but she was somehow on both sides of the glass. Her eyes were completely black.

Jake left three days later. Middle of the night, didn't even pack everything. Texted me at 4 AM: "I can't do this anymore. I saw her. She was standing at the foot of the couch. I'm sorry."

I got it. Sometimes roommate situations don't work out. This definitely qualified.

Sophie

Found a new roommate pretty quick. Sophie, from Montreal, worked in marketing. We met for coffee, and something made me just tell her everything. Expected her to bail immediately.

She smiled. "When can I move in?"

Weird, right? But I needed a roommate.

Here's the really weird part: everything stopped when Sophie moved in. No footsteps. No locked doors. No voice. Even the photos disappeared from the closet.

"I don't hear anything," Sophie said after a month. "You sure Jake wasn't just paranoid? That kind of thing spreads when you're living together."

She was right. Nothing was happening. I actually started sleeping normally again. Should've known it was too good to be true.

Last Tuesday

I came home early from a trip. Sophie was supposed to be in Montreal visiting family. But I heard her voice in her bedroom. And someone else. Another woman's voice, but wrong somehow. Old and young at the same time. They were laughing. I knocked. Everything just... stopped. Not like a normal stop, like someone hit pause. "Sophie?"

Nothing.

Opened the door. Empty room. Her suitcase was gone like she'd said. Phone on the nightstand buzzing with a text from her mom: "Safe flight! See you tonight ❤️"

The hallway closet was open again. The photos were back. But there were new ones mixed in recent ones, printed on regular photo paper. Sophie is in our apartment. Sophie at that window, same angle as the old woman. Sophie in places I'd never seen her. The newest photo was dated yesterday. Sophie is in her bedroom. But she wasn't alone. Behind her, barely visible, was the woman from the old photos. Holding hands. Both smiling.

Both with those same black eyes. On Sophie's floor were shoes I'd never seen. Vintage heels, perfectly preserved. And a note on her nightstand in handwriting I didn't recognize:

"Thank you for staying. She was so lonely. We both were."

I lock my door every night now. Push my dresser against it. Sometimes I hear two sets of footsteps. Sometimes three.

Sophie gets back tomorrow. I don't think she's coming back alone.