Psycho Apartment Novels & Stories

Another loud groan of frustration escaped my mouth as I recalled those words he had spoken to me before, whilst eyeing me with that disregarding expression. ' There's nothing there to see anyway ' I held a palm over my chest, now there was nothing there to see. My gaze fell on a pair of socks tossed carelessly on the bed. Oh, it looked so tempting. What are you thinking about! Are you Crazy! My brain screamed. Well, I had never admitted to being normal. I smiled evilly and checked to see if Liz was watching. She was not. I skipped over to the bed, snatching it, I ducked it inside of my bra.

Last day of June, year 4022 In a rental apartment, an apartment is a lot to say because it is nothing more than a room of the lowest category, a simple room of 4m on all sides and its bathroom with only a failed toilet, full of excrement already rotting and full of flies and worms; the room looked more like a prison room in a third world country, but one of the poorest places that could exist. A true burrowing rat, on the outskirts, reigns the chaos, discrimination, hunger, death.

I am still worried about my mother, but I know they wouldn't do anything to her as long as they can use me. Using the phone Norman gave me, I searched for the nearest and cheapest apartment, and found it just a few blocks away from the police station. When I got there, I was guided to a hundred-worth apartment that is the size of a capsule. It has a single bed, small table, small kitchen area and a common restroom for the tentlants to use. It was so narrow that you could reach the kitchen when you stood up from the bed. "Well? Are you going to take it?" The middle-aged woman chewing a gum, impatiently asked me.

I felt it in my soul. *** “He’s the apartment!” Maverick announced. Storm and Gage helped bring in our bags. It was a luxurious apartment on the twentieth floor of a new building on the outskirts of town. “Damn, this place is nice. You’ve got me thinking about moving out,” Storm commented. “As soon as this all blows over I’m moving in next door.” The room was decorated with browns and blacks. It needed a little love, but I wasn’t sure how long we’d be here. However, it seemed I would be spending a lot of time here.

Sexy. My apartment building isn't even an apartment building, not really. It's an old Victorian carved into six "units," each one more cursed than the last. Mine is Unit 5A, a glorified closet with creaky floors, yellow-tinted lighting, and a bathroom that occasionally leaks mysterious fluids. Rent is obscene, naturally. I'm halfway up the porch steps, digging through my bag for the key, when I freeze. There's someone sitting on the top step.

I shook my head, “She was so happy. I didn’t have it in me to ruin that. Let Yvette be alive to one of us.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “How’s apartment hunting going?” She asked, changing the subject smoothly. I had checked out four places so far. One looked like a drug and sex joint, the other had a roach infestation, bugs literally crawling through the walls. I shuddered. The third had scheduled water days. And the rest of the time, you were on your own. Which didn’t suck but for the price it was going for, I expected more.

The small apartment felt unusually quiet when Gian unlocked the door. It was on the seventh floor, with a balcony overlooking the city park. Not very big, but comfortable enough for two people. The living room and kitchen shared an open layout, furnished with modern minimalist pieces. Shades of gray and cream dominated the space, giving it a calm yet slightly cold atmosphere.

"He is a dog. He is not psychic. He just knows the word 'Emma', apparently. I have said it too many times." I am a person who is standing in a doorway with a small grey dog licking her face and a man who is a surgeon holding a wooden spoon. I am a person who is going to be fine. I am going to be more than fine. I go inside. The apartment is small. Smaller than mine, which is saying something, because mine is a studio in Koreatown that was designed for a person who is smaller than me. His is a one-bedroom in a building that looks like it was built in the seventies and has not been updated since. The walls are white. There is a couch. There is a small kitchen with a stove that is currently smo

Finally, after what felt like a year, we reached the top, and the doors opened reluctantly. “What floor are you on?” I asked a last, desperate test. This floor only had four apartments. The dead old lady’s place (mine), the drunkard’s, the landlady’s, and one empty one. He couldn’t be here. “Oh, I just moved in,” he said casually, stepping out. “Room B. Right across the hall. Got it cheap; the old owners fled the country or something.” “Fuck,” I whispered, my confidence turning to dust. Not only the same floor. Directly opposite my door. This meant if I opened my peephole, I’d see his door. What kind of joke was this?

Where was she? This wasn't a hospital. This was a room, a bedroom, and it was aggressively, painfully familiar. The flimsy pine-wood dresser with one knob missing. The tower of CDs precariously balanced beside a clunky silver stereo. The poster of The Killers tacked to the wall, its corners curling. This was her first apartment. The one she’d rented when she was twenty-five, a tiny, sun-starved box in the less glamorous part of North Hollywood. The one she had left eighteen years ago.