Psycho Apartment Novels & Stories

I had heard about panic rooms on TV or in the movies, but I have never actually known someone to have one. I was able to find blueprints for the apartment as well. It was a three bedroom on the eighth floor. This building only had one apartment per floor. After that I hacked into their video cameras and found each floor had a camera in each corner of the hallway. I accessed Ruby’s floor and was flabbergasted when I saw a man entering the apartment. Of all the people I expected to see. I sure as hell was not expecting to see my brother!

I unlocked the door and went inside the house only to realise, my only place also stopped belonging to me. My whole apartment is an absolute mess! Things were torn and thrown in different directions. I was shocked at first and then realised the situation. Maximo's men did this in search of a baby. I mean, in this tiny apartment, where could I even hide the baby? In the bathroom? Or under the bed? Couch? They didn't even think before searching in the kitchen drawers that were so tiny! Seems like, working under the psychotic boss turned them into psycho all along! God bless them!

(Anna’s POV) The door to my apartment groaned in protest as I shoved it open, the hinges shrieking like they knew what kind of night I’d had. I stepped inside, every muscle aching, my heels dangling loosely from my fingers, the thin straps digging into my skin. The second the door closed behind me, a wave of silence pressed in—thick, suffocating. But it wasn’t comforting. It never was, not anymore. The apartment was small. Just a cramped two-bedroom above a pawn shop, the wallpaper peeling in the corners and the air constantly tinged with the scent of lavender cleaning spray and something faintly medicinal—hospital antiseptic that clung to my skin like guilt.

Podcast in her ears so she didn't have to think. She'd moved forty-three blocks south and a whole universe away from the life she'd had on 74th Street. The new apartment was smaller. Third floor, no elevator, a radiator that clanged every night at exactly 2 a.m. like it had something urgent to say. The walls were a shade of white that couldn't decide if it was yellow. The previous tenant had left a rubber plant by the window that Mara had fully intended to throw out and then somehow kept watering instead.

Sophia’s POV The apartment was practically box-sized. It was a one-bedroom, one-bathroom, and the tiniest kitchen I had ever seen. “It's perfect,” I announced to the realtor. Amaya’s eyes widened in horror. “Girl, are you sure?” She whispered beside me, “You know you lived in a mansion?” I had finally given her a rundown of my dark and twisted life. She found it both entertaining and horrifying all at once, and I couldn't even blame her.

It reminds me of when we were kids, before everything got complicated. "Come on," she says. "One more viewing. The listing said there's a dishwasher." "All the dishwashers in this neighborhood are named Miguel." "Shut up." I follow her out of the apartment. Jax The fourth apartment is worse. It's in a building that smells like cabbage and despair. The elevator is broken. The walls are thin enough that I can hear someone arguing in the next unit. And the bedroom is barely big enough for a twin bed. Jess loves it.

The apartment I wasn't supposed to know about was in Temescal, third floor of a converted Victorian that had been split into six units sometime in the 1970s. I'd rented it three months ago using my mother's maiden name, Selene Matthew, and paid six months upfront in cash. My father didn't know it existed. Killian didn't know it existed. Even my mother only knew because she'd helped me set it up, her hands shaking the entire time as she counted out bills from her private safe.

SADIE SINCLAIR “I fucking hate my life.” I kicked the suitcase again. “I hate contracts.” Another kick. “I hate arrogant billionaires with god complexes.” Kick. “I hate overpriced hospital bills. And hospitals. And fucking chemo.” Kick. “I hate this suitcase!” Fucking kick. It was half-packed, fully pissing me off, and dropped down by the side of the mattress that barely passed as a bed. It creaked like it hated me too. My apartment wasn’t much. A studio in East Hollywood with thin walls and one window that hadn’t shut right since I moved in. My dresser was a stack of boxes. My nightstand was a plastic stool I stole from the stables.

The layout was like mine- a small kitchen and living room, separated by a combination island/bar, and a small hallway with doors leading to the bathroom, bedroom and a windowless study roughly in the center. The main living area hadn't been furnished beyond the sofa, coffee table and bar stools that came standard with the apartment. A flat screen, computer, gaming consoles and other electronic components were either on boxes or strewn across the floor. Other than a few posters (a shirtless Jim Morrison in his crucifix pose; Eddie Vedder commanding the stage in all his grunge glory; a conga-line of skeletons, terrapin turtles, and Iko bears dancing into the sunset) it was fairly nondescript.

"I bought this building yesterday for $2 million cash from Mr. Rodriguez. This apartment - Apartment 3B - is mine now. The tenant - Sophia - has not lived here for 1 week, so she abandoned property. Legal." Mr. Rodriguez nodded, scared of Margaret but happy for $2 million. "Yes, Mrs. Blackwood. Sophia... she good girl, but she no pay this month yet... you say you pay me double..." Inside Apartment 3B, Sophia's life for 4 years was packed small. Lily's baby crib - the one Sophia bought second-hand when Lily was born. Lily's wall - with 4 years of crayon drawings - stick figures labeled "Mommy, Lily, Grandma." And in corner, a small wooden box.