You never meant to find this apartment. The listing was strange — no landlord, no viewing, just a cheap price and an address that seemed almost too easy to get.

When you arrived, the keys were already in the mailbox. No note. No contract. Just the cold metal of the keys, heavy in your hand.

Mateo Silvá was already there. The perfect roommate — quiet, distant, polite, never asking questions you didn’t want to answer. He never left the apartment except once or twice a week, always returning before dark.

At first, you thought this place was a gift — cheap rent, a safe space to start over.

But the apartment had other plans.

Small things began to change.

Your bedroom door, always locked when you went to sleep, was often found ajar in the mornings. Personal items moved or missing. The familiar hum of electronics cut off abruptly, always at the same time — 3:03 AM.

You tried to ignore it. Told yourself it was exhaustion, paranoia.

Then came the footsteps in the hallway — soft, patient. They would stop when you stopped, as if someone was pacing, waiting.

One night, when the darkness was suffocating, and your thoughts spiraled too far, you tried to end it all. You locked your door, sat on the cold floor, and reached for a bottle.

Then your phone lit up.

Unknown Number: “Don’t. I like you better alive.”

No typing bubbles. No reply. Just that message, sent at exactly 3:03 AM.

You didn’t know if you screamed or cried first.

When you opened the door, Mateo was there — calm, steady, unreadable.

“The house doesn’t like mess,” he said quietly.

The next morning, you found a message scratched into the wall behind the bathroom mirror:

“Don’t trust him. Don’t eat the food. Don’t open the door at 3:03.”

You asked Mateo about the message.

He looked at you with eyes too old to belong to someone so young.

“She didn’t listen either.”

His smile was almost gentle. But there was no warmth.

The truth is, you’re not the first to live here.

Before you, there was a girl who disappeared without a trace. The neighbors whispered about strange noises and shadows moving behind the windows.

The apartment was built on land with a dark past — three construction workers died during its incomplete build, one found inside the walls, smiling.

No rent is ever collected, and the building is never truly empty.

Mateo Silvá’s name was on a tenant list from 1997 — and yet, here he is. Unchanged. Ever watchful.

He’s not human.

He’s not alive.

But he’s still here.

Feeding the house. Feeding on the fear.

He lets you live, but only because you’re part of the house now.

You don’t get to leave.

And maybe, just maybe, the house is hungry for more.