Psycho Apartment Novels & Stories

His Infernal Roommate Chapter 1: The Apartment That Breathed Back I never believed in anything I couldn’t measure. Ghosts, demons, curses—those were stories people told when the rent was late and the pipes knocked at night. I dealt in numbers, contracts, and the kind of quiet desperation that came with a new city and a job that barely covered the deposit. When the listing for the rent-controlled one-bedroom appeared at half the market rate, I signed the lease the same day. The building was old, the hallway smelled like dust and lemon cleaner, and the previous tenant had apparently left in a hurry. I didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t afford to.

I grabbed my jacket. "Come on, let's go to the apartment." We soon arrived at the neighborhood. The door to the apartment I had carefully renovated was wide open. Bertha was directing several workers as they carried out the furniture I had bought. She said, "Be careful. Everything's expensive. They'll sell for a lot." When she saw me, she smiled smugly. "Well, well. If it isn't Ms. Shaw. Here you see your unit? Too bad for you. This place belongs to the Carters now."

It worked. Stormy’s apartment turns out to be a penthouse in one of the most expensive apartment complexes in town. Okay, there’s no way this man isn’t into something as shady as he looks. “Who owns this apartment?” My voice comes out rough as I look around. My body still feels like something ran over it, but my mind is finally clear enough to start questioning everything. “I do.” No, no, no. “You?” “Yes.” I narrow my eyes on him. “Can you please get rid of the damned microphone? It’s giving me a headache.”

Third Person POV The apartment was tiny. A one-bedroom in a building that had seen better days. The walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing. The radiator clanked at odd hours. The kitchen was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. But it was theirs. No guards. No security cameras. No reminders of compounds or empires or blood-stained marble floors. Just a small apartment in Brooklyn with mismatched furniture from IKEA and windows that actually opened. Freedom.

I counted it twice, then again, like it might grow if I looked at it long enough. It didn’t. Still, it was enough. Enough to start something. A studio apartment. A room in someone’s house. A place to sleep that didn’t smell like mop water and French fries. Somewhere I could close a door and know no one was coming in unless I said so. I pulled out my phone and searched “apartments near me—cheap.” The results were… grim. But one listing caught my eye. Small. Run-down. Only a kitchenette and a bathroom. But no roommates. No eyes. No judgment.

We drive the rest of the way in silence, broken only by the radio murmuring some forgettable song. The city rises up around us eventually glass and concrete and too many people. A place big enough to disappear in. I chose it for that reason too. The apartment is small. Second floor walk-up. One bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen that smells faintly like lemon cleaner and new paint. I unlocked the door this morning, checked every corner, memorized every exit. Aidan steps inside like he’s crossing a threshold into someone else’s life. “This is… nice,” he says, uncertain but polite.

Just a dirty, beer-soaked bachelor pad with three varsity animals who owned my body. We walked up the external metal staircase, the stairs groaning under our weight. Jake unlocked the door to Apartment 4B and shoved it open. The smell hit me instantly—a thick, heavy mix of stale pizza, cheap weed, dirty laundry, and musky sweat. The living room was a disaster zone. Empty beer cans were stacked into a pyramid on the coffee table, a gaming console was flashing on a massive TV, and there were clothes strewn everywhere. "Welcome home, princess," Marcus laughed, kicking a pair of dirty boxers out of the middle of the floor.

He looked down at the table. “I want to finish here.” The answer came before I could build ten questions around it in my head again. The answer came quietly. I stopped folding. “I like my program. I like the city. I like my apartment.” His eyes lifted to mine. “And I like what I have here.” My fingers went still. Neither of us said anything. Then I looked at the sandwich. “Your apartment has terrible walls.” His mouth twitched. “There she is.” “I’m serious.” “You love those walls.”

If Andrew breaks loose now, the essence of having a house right opposite her ex would be defeated. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, hardening her heart once more as she pulled up to the dreary curb outside Apartment 301. Back inside the stark, stifling confines of Apartment 301, the atmosphere was suffocatingly thick. The air smelled of stale coffee, cheap cleaning supplies, and the lingering, sour tang of cabin fever and bitter resentment.

He had the back door open before I even reached the car. “Ma’am. I’m sorry I was late.” His voice was flat. “It won’t happen again.” He drove, and I kept my eyes on the side mirror, counting the cars behind us. None of them trailed us. The new apartment was on the nineteenth floor of an unnamed building. No sign on the door, every unit owned by a holding company. Just a keypad, a camera, and nothing else. One bedroom, a gray couch, and a kitchen nobody had ever cooked in. I checked the bolt twice, then the chain and the peephole.