When Sarah moved into her new apartment, the old lady next door brought her cookies and smiled warmly. Nice, harmless. Two days later, the landlord told her something that made her blood run cold: “There’s no one living in that unit. The last tenant—an old woman—passed away six months ago.” That night, Sarah heard knocking from the other side of the shared wall, soft and steady. Then a voice whispered through the vent: “Did you like the cookies?”

When she opened it, an elderly woman—thin, gray-haired, warm smile—stood in the hallway holding a plate of cookies wrapped in plastic.

“Welcome, dear,” the woman said softly. “I’m Mrs. Harrow. I live right next door.”

Sarah blinked in pleasant surprise. She had worried the building would be unfriendly or noisy, but this felt like something out of a quaint small town. She accepted the cookies and chatted with Mrs. Harrow for a minute. The woman seemed harmless, a little tired, but kind.

The next two days passed quietly. Sarah unpacked, arranged her furniture, and finally decided to ask the landlord about a dripping pipe.

When she stopped by the rental office downstairs, the landlord, Thomas Keene, glanced at her unit number and shook his head.

“You met your neighbor?” Sarah asked casually. “Older lady, sweet smile, brought me cookies.”

Thomas froze.
For a moment, he didn’t blink.

“Ma’am,” he said slowly, “nobody lives next door to you.”

Sarah laughed awkwardly. “No, really. Unit 3B. She said she lives there.”

Thomas swallowed hard. “3B has been empty for months. The last tenant—an elderly woman—passed away six months ago. The place hasn’t been rented since.”

The world tilted slightly. Sarah opened her mouth, closed it, then tried to laugh—but the sound came out thin.

“I… I must have misunderstood.”

Thomas shook his head firmly, as if cutting off any other explanation. “If you see someone going in or out of that unit, call me immediately. You shouldn’t be near it. It’s supposed to be locked.”

That night, Sarah checked the cookies still sitting untouched on her counter. No label. No bakery name. No smell she recognized. Anxiety twisted in her gut. She threw the entire plate into the trash.

Hours later—well past midnight—she sat on her bed scrolling mindlessly, trying not to think about the conversation.

Then she heard it.

A soft, deliberate knock… coming from the shared wall behind her headboard.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

She sat frozen.

The knock came again.
Then a voice drifted through the air vent, thin and breathy—impossibly close:

“Did you like the cookies?”

Sarah’s scream lodged in her throat. She scrambled off the bed, backing toward the bedroom door while her eyes darted to the vent. Her rational mind fought to surface through the panic.

There was no ghost.
This had to be someone real.

Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone and dialed the landlord. He answered on the second ring.

“There’s someone in 3B,” she whispered hoarsely. “Someone is inside that unit right now.”

Thomas inhaled sharply. “Stay on the line, Sarah. Do not confront anyone. I’m coming up.”

The knocking stopped.

Silence swallowed the apartment so completely she could hear the faint ring of her own heartbeat in her ears. Then—closer this time—a soft shuffle from inside the wall, like someone sliding something heavy across the floor.

Her skin crawled.

She crept to the living room, trying not to make noise. The hallway light from under her front door flickered. At that exact moment, the air vent rattled sharply.

Then the same voice whispered:

“Sarah… open the door.”

Her blood ran cold. How did they know her name?

She backed farther away, clutching her phone like a lifeline. “Thomas, please hurry.”

“I’m outside your building now,” he said breathlessly. “Stay inside. I’m heading to 3B.”

A thud echoed from the shared wall—a deep, heavy impact that shook Sarah’s picture frames. She flinched, heart racing.

She thought of Mrs. Harrow’s polite smile, the trembling hands, the cookies. Someone had impersonated an old woman. Someone had been close enough to hand her food. Someone who clearly had access to 3B—or had broken into it long before she moved in.

Suddenly, voices erupted in the hallway.

Thomas shouted, “Hey! Stop!”
A man snarled something unintelligible.
Then the unmistakable crash of a body slamming into a wall.

Sarah pressed herself against her locked door, listening as footsteps pounded past her unit. A heavy scuffle scraped across the hallway. Something metallic clattered to the floor—keys, maybe.

Then silence.

“Sarah?” Thomas called from outside. “It’s me. The intruder ran, but I saw him.”

She cracked open the door an inch. Thomas stood there, panting, sweat dripping down his forehead. “Young man. Disguised. Wig, cardigan, gloves. He must’ve been squatting in 3B for months.”

Sarah covered her mouth.
Mrs. Harrow wasn’t a ghost—she was a costume.

“But why… the cookies? The knocking?” she whispered.

Thomas swallowed. “I think he was watching you long before you moved in.”

Thomas called the police immediately. Officers swept through 3B while Sarah waited in her living room, arms wrapped around herself, trying not to tremble. When the officers finally emerged, their faces were grim.

“Someone’s been living in there,” one said. “Sleeping bag, canned food, stolen mail, wigs, makeup… and holes cut into the drywall.”

Sarah’s stomach twisted. “Holes?”

The officer nodded. “Into your unit. Behind your bedroom wall. Behind the bathroom cabinet. Even one behind your living room vent.”

She felt sick.

“He could see me?” she whispered.

“He was watching you,” the officer confirmed quietly. “Probably long before you moved in. You weren’t his first target. Just the most recent.”

Sarah sat heavily on the couch, fighting nausea. The cookies flashed in her mind—innocent-looking, but given by someone who had studied her timetable, her habits, her vulnerability.

“What about the voice?” she asked. “Was he in the vent?”

The officer gestured for her to follow. They led her to the wall adjacent to 3B. Beneath the vent cover, a small cut-out hole had been carved—a crude tunnel between the units.

“He could speak directly into your walls,” the officer said. “And hear you perfectly.”

Sarah backed away, covering her mouth with both hands.

Within the hour, maintenance workers sealed 3B, police placed a bolo alert on the suspect, and Thomas apologized a dozen times—even though none of it was technically his fault.

“I should’ve checked the unit sooner,” he muttered. “He must’ve had a copy of an old key. That tenant before him… she really did die. He just… took her place.”

That night, Sarah didn’t sleep. She didn’t even turn off the lights. Every creak of the building made her flinch.

But the police promised to increase patrols, and Thomas moved her to a higher-floor apartment the next morning—free of charge, upgraded, all locks replaced.

While packing, Sarah found one last thing on her counter: the empty trash can where she had thrown the cookies away.

She stared at it for a long moment, her breath tight.

Then she whispered to herself:

“No one gets that close to me again.”

Her life hadn’t ended that night. But it had changed.

Changed in the way only fear, survival, and truth can change a person.