The previous tenant left a map of the walls. I followed it and found a second apartment inside my own.

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I moved into a studio on the fourth floor. Cheap. Too cheap. The landlord said the last tenant left in a hurry. Left all his stuff. I had to clean it out.

Behind a loose baseboard in the closet, I found a folded paper. A hand-drawn map. Not of the apartment. Of the walls. Dashed lines marked pathways between the studs. Arrows pointed to a space near the bathroom.

“Here,” the map said. “Cut the drywall. Be quiet. It listens.”

I should have thrown it away. I did not. That night, I cut a small square near the bathroom sink. The drywall came out clean. Behind it was not insulation. It was a hallway. Narrow. Wooden floor. The walls were covered in old newspaper clippings. All from the same year. 1987.

I stepped through. The hallway turned left, then right, then opened into a room. Same dimensions as my studio. Same window placement. But the window was bricked over. In the center of the room, a wooden chair. On the chair, a journal.

I opened it. The handwriting was the same as the map.

“Day 1: I heard scratching. I thought it was mice. Then I found the hole in my closet wall. I made it bigger. I found this room. It has no door to the hallway. The only way in is through my bathroom wall. I do not know who built it.”

“Day 14: I started sleeping here. The air is stale. But I feel safe. The scratching is louder in my apartment. It is quieter here. I think the room was made to hide from something.”

“Day 30: I saw it. In my apartment. Through the peephole I drilled. A figure. Tall. No face. It stood in my kitchen. It did not move. It just stood there. Waiting. I stayed in the hidden room for three days. When I came out, the figure was gone. But my fridge was open. All the food was gone. The figure ate it.”

“Day 47: I hear breathing now. Not from my apartment. From the wall behind this room. There is a second hidden space. I have not opened it. I am afraid of what is inside.”

The journal ended there. The last page was torn.

I looked at the far wall of the hidden room. A small crack. I put my eye to it. Darkness. Then movement. A shape. It was breathing. Slow. Heavy.

I ran. I crawled back through the hallway. I pushed the drywall square back into place. I taped it. I put the baseboard back.

That was three weeks ago. I have not cut any new holes. I have not gone back to the hidden room. But every night, I hear breathing. Not from the wall. From inside my closet. The one where I found the map.

Last night, I opened the closet. The back wall was gone. A dark hallway. Same wooden floor. Same newspaper clippings. At the end of the hallway, a wooden chair. Empty. But the journal was open on the floor. A new entry. In fresh ink.

“Day 48: He found my map. He cut the wall. He saw me. Now I am in his closet. I am waiting. I am breathing. Soon, he will come back to the hidden room. And he will bring food.”

I closed the closet. I nailed it shut. I am writing this from my bathroom. The only door that locks is the bathroom. I have been here for three hours. The breathing is louder. Not from the closet anymore. From the other side of the bathroom wall. The one with the patched hole.

If you ever find a map inside your walls, do not follow it. Do not cut the drywall. Do not read the journal. And if you hear breathing, leave the apartment. Burn the building. Move cities.

I cannot leave. The bathroom door is locked. But the breathing is inside the wall. And the wall is getting thinner.

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