.png "Amanda Restover"){kind=small}
horror short stories to read I Found Terrifying Ritual Symbols Hidden in My New Apartment
 |
| Ritual Symbols Hidden |
The Deal That Was Too Good (Obviously)
You know how it is. Rent is insane right now. So when you see a listing that looks halfway decent for a price that doesn’t make you want to cry, you jump on it. I found it on a rainy Tuesday. A one-bedroom in an older building, recently "renovated," the ad said. The landlord was this sweaty, nervous guy who kept checking his watch and wouldn't really look me in the eye. He mumbled something about the last tenant leaving in a rush, "breaking the lease" or whatever. I didn’t care. I saw exposed brick, new floors, and cheap rent. I signed the papers right there on the kitchen island. I moved in on a Saturday. And honestly? The first week was great. Well, mostly. It was quiet. Maybe a little too quiet. The air in the place always felt... thick? Like the humidity right before a thunderstorm breaks, even when I had the AC cranking. I tried to ignore it. I ignored how my dog, Buster, absolutely refused to go into the bedroom. He’d just stand at the threshold and whine. I just thought, New place, he’s stressed. I was just happy to be home. But looking back, I think the apartment was just holding its breath. Waiting for me to screw up.What Was Behind the Vanity
It started with something stupid. A loose tile in the bathroom. I was brushing my teeth late one night, looking at my own tired face in the mirror, when I noticed the medicine cabinet one of those heavy, mirrored vanity things was pulling away from the wall a bit. It was bugging me. I’m kind of a "fix-it" guy, so I grabbed a screwdriver to tighten the anchor. When I pulled the cabinet forward to get a better angle, I froze. The wall behind the cabinet hadn't been painted like the rest of the bathroom. It was raw, grey plaster. Old stuff. But it wasn't blank. Scrawled across the plaster in something that looked dark, rusty, and definitely wasn't paint, were these symbols. I’d never seen anything like them. Not pentagrams or anything cliché like that. It was this geometric nightmare sharp, angry angles cutting through spiraling circles. It looked like a map of a city designed by a lunatic. And right in the center, there was this shape... it looked like a human eye, but vertical. Like a slit. I just stared at it. I don’t know why I did this I really don’t but I reached out. My finger was shaking. I brushed against the rough texture of the drawing. It felt waxy. And cold. Freezing cold. The second my skin touched that symbol, my stomach dropped. You know that feeling when you miss a step on the stairs in the dark? That lurch? It was that, but times a thousand. A wave of pure, crushing grief and terror just slammed into me. My knees actually gave out. I had to grab the sink to stop from falling. I shoved the cabinet back against the wall, screwed it in so tight I almost cracked the plaster, and backed out of the bathroom. I told myself it was just graffiti. Some goth kid lived here in the 90s, right? It was nothing. I was lying to myself. And I think the thing in the apartment knew I was lying.Short horror stories to read: “Real Encounters With Spirits You Should Never Summon Back” click to read the warnings before it’s too late.
It Just Kept Building
The change wasn't instant. It wasn't like a movie where all the cabinets fly open at once. It was slow. It was insistent. It was building, and building, and building. First, the smells. I’d wake up at 3:00 AM choking on the smell of burning hair. Or ozone, like an electrical fire. I’d run around checking outlets, sniffing the walls, but the second I turned on a lamp, the smell would vanish. Then, the sounds. Scratching. Not rats. I know what rats sound like; they scurry. This was slow. Scratch... pause... scratch... pause. It sounded like someone dragging a long, heavy fingernail down the length of the drywall, right next to my head. I stopped sleeping in the bedroom. I dragged my duvet to the couch, but the living room felt so exposed. I felt like I was an exhibit in a zoo. One night, I came home from work and found my kitchen. Every single cabinet door was wide open. And the cans of soup? They were stacked. A perfect pyramid on the counter. I live alone. Buster was locked in his crate, shivering and peeing himself in fear. I started Googling. Stupid idea. I typed in descriptions of what I saw. "Vertical eye symbol meaning." "Ritual markings hidden in walls." I found some weird forum post from way back in 2009. A guy described a similar symbol he found in a basement in Ohio. He called it a "beacon." He said that the symbol doesn't do anything on its own, but once you acknowledge it... once you touch it... you accept the invitation. I had touched it. I accepted.The Night the Shadows Peeled Off the Wall
It happened on a Tuesday. Exactly two weeks after I found the writing. I was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, way too scared to close my eyes. The streetlights outside were casting these long, orange shadows through the blinds. I was watching a shadow on the far wall. It looked like the shadow of a tall coat rack. Except I don't own a coat rack. I held my breath. My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. The room went dead silent. That heavy, suffocating silence. The shadow detached itself from the wall. I swear to God. It wasn't a trick of the light. It was like a 3D darkness, a void in the shape of a man, but... wrong. Stretched out. Its limbs were too long, like taffy. Its neck was broken, bent at a sickening angle. It didn't walk. It glided. It just drifted toward me, blocking out the light from the window. I couldn't move. I wanted to scream, but my throat was closed up. I could feel the rough fabric of the couch under my sweaty palms. I could smell it now that rotting, old-meat smell. It leaned over me. It didn't have a face. Just a smooth, black surface where a face should be. But I could feel it smiling. I could feel the hate coming off it like heat from a radiator. It whispered something. It wasn't English. It sounded like wet stones grinding together. "You are the vessel." Then, the floor lamp bulb exploded. Just popped. Glass showered everywhere. That broke the spell. I screamed. I grabbed my keys, grabbed the dog by his collar, and I ran. I ran out of the apartment, down four flights of stairs, and burst into the cool night air. I didn't even lock the door. I didn't look back.I Thought I Escaped
I broke the lease the next morning via email. I told the landlord to keep the deposit. I left my furniture. I left my TV. I left my clothes. I didn't care. I moved into a motel across town. I thought I was safe. I thought it was the place that 4B was the haunted spot. I was wrong. It’s been three weeks. I’m in a new place now. A studio. Modern, bright, no history. But the feeling hasn't left. That heaviness in my chest is still there. Yesterday, I was taking a shower. The steam fogged up the glass door. When I stepped out and looked at the mirror... I saw it. Drawn in the condensation. Clear as day. The vertical eye. The chaotic lines. And last night? As I was trying to pass out, I heard it. The scratching. It wasn't in the walls this time. It was coming from under my bed. Scratch... pause... scratch... pause. I realized then and I felt so cold when I realized it that the ritual wasn't about the apartment. The symbols weren't a map of the room. They were a tag. Like tagging wildlife. I touched it. I claimed it. And now, it’s claimed me.It’s watching me right now. I can see it in the reflection of my laptop screen as I type this. It’s standing in the corner of the room, way taller than the ceiling should allow, just waiting for me to turn around. It’s building, and building, and building. I don't think I'm going to make it through the night. Seriously, listen to me: if you find weird symbols in your house... if you find markings behind a mirror or under a rug... do not touch them. Don't even look at them. Just run. Because once it sees you seeing it? It never stops following.
.png "Amanda Restover")