Psycho Apartment Novels & Stories

Maybe things aren’t completely ruined. The driver leads me inside and calls the landlord. A middle-aged woman appears a few minutes later. “You are here for the vacant apartment?” she asks. “Yes.” She smiles. “Come in, please.” The apartment is small—one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, and a sitting area barely large enough for a couch and television. Yet, as I stand inside, something inside me eases. It’s mine. No Grey. No Callie. No parents. No memories waiting to haunt me, no siblings to remind me of how big a failure I am.

I could not see a single thing in front of me except thick black darkness stretching out like the apartment had swallowed itself whole. He was not just a monster and he was not just a bastard. He was also a psycho. No doubt about that. A psycho who sat in the dark waiting for me to come home. A psycho who did not move or breathe loud enough for me to hear him. A psycho who had probably been sitting there for hours just waiting to pounce the moment I walked through that door. "Coming back from work." My voice came out steady and low and masculine. I was proud of that. Inside I was shaking so hard I thought my knees might buckle and drop me to the floor right there in front of him. "Sorry capt

CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of sexual assault, drug abuse, and emotional manipulation that may be triggering for some readers. UNSPOKEN THINGS ~CHELSEA POV~ {Playlist Suggestion: "Next" by Shaker, Cobra} My hands shake as I fumble with the key to our apartment door. The hallway reeks of stale cigarettes and broken dreams. Paint peels from the walls like dead skin. This place suffocates me more each day. Inside, silence greets me. Mom's probably passed out. Chase is at the hospital for his overnight observation.

He felt for a switch beside the door, found one, and suddenly light filled the room. They were standing in a single roomed apartment. It was shabby, but clean. There was a bed, an easy chair, and a small cupboard. To Michael's left was the makings of a kitchen without the walls to close it off, to his right, through a door, he could see a bathroom. There were no windows, and the only door was the one they had come through. That suited Michael fine. With the stalker gone, he was regaining control of his mind, starting to think.

She’d laugh if she saw me flinch, but I’d rather be laughed at than wrong. I unlock the door and step inside. The hallway is quiet, save for the drip of a busted pipe in the crawlspace. My apartment is third door left, easy to find by the paper taped to the peephole: OUT OF ORDER. I wedge the door shut behind me and let the heat seep into my bones. For a moment, I stand there, back pressed to the cheap wood, and listen to my own breath slow down.

We climb to the second floor. The apartment is small. One room, a kitchenette, a bathroom. Dust motes dance in the sliver of light coming through the blinds. It looks abandoned. It is secure. I close the door. Lock it. Throw the deadbolt. The silence hits us like a physical weight. No sirens. No footsteps. No shouting. Just the sound of our own ragged breathing. I lean back against the door, the adrenaline fading just enough to let the pain take over. My breath hitches. The agony in my chest blooms, sharp and suffocating.

When Briggs unlocked the door, the heavy scent of stale dust, damp concrete, and old soot washed over them. The apartment was small, cramped, and visibly scarred by the apocalypse. Grimy, peeling wallpaper hung in strips from the walls, revealing the rough drywall underneath. The main living room and connected small kitchen were stripped down to the bare essentials. Greasy, broken countertops lined the kitchen wall, alongside a rusted sink that hadn't seen running water in months.

My mother has a strange obsession with cleanliness. Everything has to be scrubbed down with bleach before she considers it clean. I know full well how damaging bleach fumes are to the lungs, and I pull up research to talk her out of it. She finally stops. But then, my brother catches an infectious disease, and a doctor recommends disinfecting the floors with bleach. She turns on me immediately, screaming that if she hadn't listened to my nonsense, my brother never would've gotten sick. My brother hears this from her every single day and takes it to heart. When his condition gets worse, he pushes me off the top of a building. Maybe even God can't stand how unfairly I died, because I come

"An apartment like this on the eighth floor of The Obsidian Tower should cost double. It almost feels too good to be true." "Kimmy, don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Maya murmured back, nudging my shoulder. "You wanted safe? You wanted quiet? This is literally paradise." "I know, but—" Click. The heavy mahogany door of the apartment directly across the hall—Unit 804—swung open. My breath hitched in my throat as a man stepped out into the quiet corridor.

Before graduation, the five of us decide to rent a four-bedroom apartment together. My older brother, Brandon Wiley, takes the master bedroom with the balcony. My childhood friend, Ricky Sparks, who streams for a living, claims the most soundproof room. My boyfriend, Gerard Albon, says he's swamped with work and needs a room that doubles as an office. And the bedroom with the best natural light goes to my best friend, Joan Corbet. No one asks where I'm supposed to sleep. Joan offers to share her room with me, but Brandon shuts it down at once. "Joan is a light sleeper." Ricky says, "Cynthia can sleep anywhere. She's been doing it since she was a kid. We can buy a sofa bed for the living