The apartment was already rented. That was the problem—the last tenant never left.
The landlord didn't say that on the phone. He only told me the place felt wrong, which is what people say when they don't want to sound crazy.
I arrived just before sunset. Three floors, old but not falling apart. The kind of building that should have people in it—lights on, voices through the walls, something. Instead, it sat there like it was holding its breath. Even from the sidewalk, I could tell something was off. Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just… off.
I didn't go in right away. I stood at the entrance for a moment, looking at the windows, the door, the ground. The air felt still—not quiet, but still, like it had nowhere to go.
"You're the feng shui guy?"
I turned. The landlord was already watching me. Mid-fifties, tired eyes, the kind of man who hadn't slept well in weeks.
I nodded. "You said the last tenant moved out."
"He did."
I waited, but he didn't add anything.
The front door wasn't locked.
When I pushed it open, the smell hit first. Not rot, not mold—just something stale, like the air had been used too many times and never replaced.
"Which unit?" I asked.
"3B."
"Anyone else living here?"
"No."
He said it too quickly.
The stairs creaked under my feet. Old wood—normal. Everything looked normal. That was the problem.
Halfway up, I stopped.
There was a mirror on the landing, facing the stairs. Cheap frame, something you'd buy without thinking.
"Who put that there?" I asked.
The landlord frowned. "What?"
I pointed.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then shook his head slowly. "…That wasn't there before."
Of course it wasn't.
I stepped around it without touching it and continued upstairs.
Unit 3B was at the end of the hall. Door closed, no light underneath. I stood there for a moment, listening. Nothing.
Then I knocked.
Behind me, the landlord shifted uneasily. "You don't have to—"
I knocked again.
Something moved inside. Not footsteps. Not exactly.
The door wasn't locked.
When I opened it, the room looked empty. Furniture gone. Walls clean. Windows shut. But the air—
I stepped inside and stopped at the threshold.
"Don't come in," I said.
"Why?"
I didn't answer.
The floor tiles were wrong. Not broken. Not dirty. Wrong.
One tile near the center of the room was slightly darker than the rest—just enough that you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it.
I walked around it, careful not to step on it.
"You had anyone else check this place?" I asked.
"A plumber. Electrician. They said everything was fine."
"Yeah," I said quietly.
I crouched down, studying the tile without touching it.
"Did the last tenant say anything before he left?"
The landlord hesitated. "…He said the room felt crowded."
I let out a small breath. "Yeah. That sounds right."
"Is it bad?" he asked.
I stood up and looked around the room again, slower this time.
"Not yet."
I stepped back toward the door, still avoiding the tile.
"Get me the lease agreement," I said. "And anything with his name on it."
"Why?"
I glanced at the floor one last time.
"Because this isn't about the apartment."
I paused.
"It followed him here."
Then, after a moment—
"Or he brought it in."
I stepped outside and closed the door.
Inside, something shifted. Not loud. Just enough.
Like it knew I had noticed.