The Rules of Living in Apartment 13

They forgot to mention rule #7

By Caroline

The landlord handed me a list of six rules when I moved into Apartment 13.

The problem is… a week later, I found a seventh rule hidden behind the bathroom mirror.

It wasn’t much to look at—faded wallpaper, creaky floors, and a hallway that always smelled faintly like old dust and cleaning supplies. But the rent was cheap, and at twenty-two years old, I couldn’t afford to be picky. When I signed the lease, the landlord slid a sheet of paper across the desk.

“House rules,” he said.

I expected something normal. No loud parties. No smoking. The usual.

Instead, the list read:

Rule #1: Lock your door by 11:00 PM every night.

Rule #2: If you hear footsteps in the hallway after midnight, do not open your door.

Rule #3: Never use the elevator between 2:13 AM and 2:20 AM.

Rule #4: If the lights flicker three times, close all curtains immediately.

Rule #5: Ignore any knocking from Apartment 14.

Rule #6: Do not leave your apartment between 3:00 AM and 3:13 AM

I laughed, assuming it was some weird joke for new tenants. The landlord didn’t laugh back.

“Follow them,” he said quietly.

His expression never changed. For a moment, I thought he was trying to scare me.

Then he handed me the keys. “Good luck, MJ.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. The first few days were normal. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. I unpacked my boxes, started decorating, and tried to ignore the strange feeling that someone was watching me whenever I walked down the hallway. The other tenants weren’t very friendly.

Most avoided eye contact.

The few who did speak to me always seemed nervous, especially when I mentioned Apartment 13. One night, around twelve-thirty, I was lying in bed scrolling through my phone when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Step.

Step.

Step.

I froze.

The footsteps stopped directly outside my door. I glanced at the list taped to my refrigerator.

Rule #2:

If you hear footsteps in the hallway after midnight, do not open your door.

A few seconds later, the footsteps continued down the hall.

I laughed nervously and told myself it was probably just another tenant. Still, I double-checked the lock before going back to sleep.

The next morning, I ran into an older woman while checking my mail.

She stared at me strangely.

“Rough night?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

She frowned.

“I saw you walking around the fourth floor around three this morning.”

I felt my stomach drop.

“I wasn’t walking around at three in the morning.”

The woman blinked.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

She looked confused.

“That’s strange. It looked exactly like you.”

Before I could ask anything else, she hurried away.

I stood there holding my mail, trying to convince myself there had been some mistake.

But deep down, I knew there hadn’t been.

At first, I tried to forget about what she said.

“Exactly like you.”

People make mistakes. They misremember things. Hallways all look the same at 3 AM.

That’s what I told myself.

But then it happened again.

Two nights later, I got a knock at my door.

Not the usual slow footsteps.

A knock.

Three times.

Sharp.

Intentional.

I didn’t move.

Rule #2 flashed in my head like a warning sign.

Silence stretched through the apartment.

Then I heard voices outside my door.

Low. Muffled.

“…I swear it was her.”

“No, I saw her too. Same apartment. Same key.”

My blood went cold.

They were talking about me.

The next morning, things got worse.

A note was taped to my door.

No name.

Just one sentence written in messy handwriting:

“I saw you leaving Apartment 13 at 3:07 AM.”

I hadn’t left.

I didn’t even open my door that night.

I went straight to the bathroom.

The mirror still bothered me.

Behind it… that hidden paper.

Rule #7

I pulled it out again, even though I had thrown it away.

It was back.

Neatly folded.

Same yellow paper.

Same ink.

Only this time, there was something new written underneath it.

As if it had been added later.

RULE #7: If someone reports seeing you when you know you were inside, do not correct them. Do not ask questions. Do not investigate. Leave Apartment 13 immediately.

My hands started shaking.

This wasn’t a warning.

It was an expiration date.

That night, I tried to leave.

I packed a bag, grabbed my keys, and stepped into the hallway.

The air felt… wrong.

Too still.

All the doors were closed.

Except Apartment 14.

Its door was slightly open.

And for a split second, I thought I saw someone standing inside it.

Watching me.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

Behind me.

Slow.

Matching mine perfectly.

Step.

Step.

Step.

I turned around.

The hallway was empty.

I stood there for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No movement.

Just silence.

I should’ve felt relieved.

But I didn’t.

I stepped outside.

The cold air hit my face, real and sharp. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe again.

I walked away from Apartment 13 without looking back.

Halfway down the street, I stopped at a red light.

That’s when I noticed something strange.

The thought of Rule #7… felt fuzzy.

Like I was trying to hold onto a dream that was already slipping away.

I shook it off and kept walking.

But then it happened again.

I passed a coffee shop and forgot why I felt scared.

I passed a car and forgot the landlord’s face.

By the time I reached the next block, I couldn’t fully remember what Apartment 13 even looked like.

Just… the feeling.

That something was wrong.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

No contact name.

Just one message:

“You read Rule #7 too many times.”

I frowned.

Read it too many times?

I opened my notes app.

Nothing.

I searched my photos.

Empty.

I tried to remember the rule itself— and felt my mind slip. Like it was being pulled out of my head piece by piece. That’s when I looked up. The street around me felt unfamiliar now. Too unfamiliar. Like I had never really been here before.

A stranger walked past me and glanced at my face.

Then frowned.

“Are you lost?”

I opened my mouth to answer— but realized I couldn’t remember my own name.

Just the apartment.

Apartment 13.

And something about a rule I wasn’t supposed to think about anymore.

My phone buzzed one last time.

Unknown number again.

This time, only one line:

“Good. Now it won’t hurt anymore.”

The screen went black.

And for a second—

I thought I saw the words fade in on it anyway:

RULE #7: The more you remember it, the less you exist