in the Darkin the Dark
T E N C H I L L I N G TA L E S TO R E A D W I T H T H E L I G H T S O F F
"The scariest stories are the ones that could be true..."
B Y A N O N Y M O U S
Table of Contents
01 The Man at the Window 03
02 The Corridor That Shouldn't Exist 06
03 The Phone in the Basement 09
04 The Last Passenger 12
05 Room 404 at St. Marian's 15
06 The Reflection in the Lake 18
07 The Tape That Recorded Itself 21
08 The Elevator to Nowhere 24
09 The Music Box in the Attic 27
10 The Camera in the Nursery
C H A P T E R O N E
The Man at the Window
T R U E C R I M E · P S Y C H O L O G I C A L 1 5 M I N R E A D
I' ve lived in this apartment for three years. It's small, cheap, and sits on the third floor
overlooking a narrow alleyway. I always felt safe here. At least, I did until seven days ago.
It started on a Tuesday. I was doing the dishes late at night when I glanced out the kitchen
window. In the dim glow of the streetlamp below, I saw him. A man. Standing perfectly still in
the middle of the empty alley, staring directly up at my window.
My heart skipped a beat. I froze, a soapy plate still in my hand.
Just a drunk, I told myself. Or someone waiting for an Uber.
But he didn't move. He just stood there. Completely motionless. Like a mannequin dropped in
the rain. After what felt like an eternity, he tilted his head—a slow, deliberate tilt, as if adjusting
his neck to get a better look at me. Then, he stepped back into the shadows and vanished.
I didn't sleep much that night.
The next evening, I made sure all the blinds were tightly shut before dark. I told myself I was
being paranoid. People walk down alleys all the time. But around midnight, I heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three soft knocks against the glass of my living room window.
My blood turned to ice. I held my breath and slowly pulled back the blinds just a crack. There he
was. He had moved from the alley to the side of the building. He was standing on the rusted fire
escape, his face pressed so close to the glass that his nose flattened against it. His eyes were wide
open, unblinking.
I screamed and stumbled backward, knocking over a lamp. When I gathered the courage to look
again, he was gone.
I called the police the next morning. They took a report, drove around the block, and told me
they didn't find anyone. "Probably some neighborhood kids," the officer said, clearly trying not to
yawn. "Keep your windows locked."
Locked? My windows don't even have locks! This is a rental.
That night, I pushed my heavy dresser in front of the living room window and barricaded the
front door with two chairs. I slept with a baseball bat under my pillow. Around 2 AM, the
tapping started again
I didn't scream.
I don't know why. Maybe because my brain simply refused to process what was happening.
The door handle kept turning, left, then right, then left again. Click, click, click. Testing the lock.
Testing my sanity.
"Who... who is it?" My voice cracked. It sounded pathetic, like a child asking for a nightmare to
stop.
Silence.
Then, a voice. Low, raspy, and muffled through the thick wooden door. It didn't sound human. It
sounded like wind blowing through a broken pipe.
"You looked at me first."
A chill shot down my spine. That sentence. It echoed in my skull, rattling every nerve ending. You
looked at me first.
I lunged for my phone, finally hitting dial on 911. I pressed the speaker button, my thumb
trembling so hard I almost dropped it.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"He's at my door!" I whispered, frantic. "The man from the window! He's at my bedroom door
right now!"
"Ma'am, stay on the line. What is your address?"
I gave them the address. Outside my door, the handle stopped turning. Footsteps retreated down
the hallway. Heavy, deliberate footsteps. Not running. Just walking away, as if he had all the time
in the world.
"The police are on their way," the dispatcher said calmly. "Lock yourself in the bathroom."
I didn't wait. I grabbed my laptop, the baseball bat, and ran into the bathroom, slamming the
lock behind me. I sat on the cold tile floor, listening to the sirens growing louder in the distance.
Twenty minutes later, two uniformed officers were in my apartment. They checked the fire
escape, the bedroom window, and the front door.
"Nobody out there, miss," Officer Reynolds said, shining his flashlight into the pitch-black alley
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