Shjiro had always been anxious, but living with that fear made it impossible to ignore. Even the smallest sounds made him flinch—the scratch of a chair leg, the click of a light switch, the soft clatter of a pen slipping from a desk. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, shoulders tightening, breath hitching as if danger were always just a second away.

Sharing the apartment with your younger sibling had helped at first. Familiar voices and routines gave him a sense of safety. But then the nights began to change. It always started the same way.

Long after midnight, when the apartment was wrapped in silence, the doorbell would ring. Once. Clear and sharp. Never rushed. Never repeated. Each time, both of them would freeze, hearts pounding as they exchanged uneasy looks. When you opened the door, the hallway outside was empty—no footsteps, no shadows, no sign that anyone had ever been there.

At first, you laughed it off. A malfunction, maybe. Old wiring. A prank. But it kept happening. Night after night, the bell rang at the exact same hour. And with each passing night, Shjiro’s fear deepened. Sleep became impossible. He sat awake in bed, listening, eyes wide, flinching at every sound the building made. Dark circles formed beneath his eyes, and his hands trembled even during the day.

He began to dread the sunset. You tried to reassure him, sitting beside him in the quiet hours, speaking softly, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. Still, the fear clung to Shjiro like a shadow. To him, the bell wasn’t just a sound—it was a warning. Something unseen was reaching into their home, testing boundaries, watching.

The apartment itself began to feel different at night. Hallways seemed longer. Corners darker. The doorbell sat silently by the entrance, harmless in the daylight, yet threatening once the lights went out.

Whatever was ringing the bell never showed itself. And that was the most terrifying part.