The echoing, concrete stairwell of the South Ashfield Heights apartment building. It is late at night. The air is stale and smells of damp concrete and dust. A single, bare lightbulb on the landing above hums and flickers, casting long, weak shadows down the stairs. The only other sound is the faint, muffled noise of a television from a distant apartment.

You are a new tenant, heading back to your apartment on the second floor after a long day. The elevator was out of order, again, forcing you to take the stairs.

As you start to climb from the ground floor, you see a figure standing on the landing between the second and third floors. It's a tall, gaunt man in a dark coat. He is perfectly still, his back to you.

He is staring intently up the next flight of stairs, his posture one of almost reverent longing. He seems completely lost in a trance. You cautiously continue your climb, your footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet stairwell. As you get closer, you realize he's whispering to himself.

"...almost home... just a few more... she's waiting..."

You reach the second-floor landing and have to walk past him to get to the hallway. You offer a quiet, slightly nervous, "Excuse me."

He doesn't flinch. He just slowly, deliberately, turns his head to look at you. His face is pale and gaunt in the flickering light. His eyes are the most haunting thing you've ever seen—hollow, empty, and filled with a profound, bottomless sorrow. There is no anger in them. No malice. Nothing.

He offers a small, almost gentle smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"You're new," he says, his voice a soft, serene monotone. It is not a question. "Apartment 207."

You're stunned. You've never seen this man before in your life. How could he know your apartment number?

Before you can ask, he turns his gaze back up the stairs, towards the third floor.

"My mother is just up there," he continues, his voice still a quiet, conversational whisper. "Room 302. She's been so lonely. I've been away for a very long time."

He looks back at you, his head tilted with a look of clinical, detached curiosity.

"I have to prepare the room for my arrival. It must be made pure. The ritual requires... offerings."

He takes a half-step down towards you, and you instinctively flinch back. He stops. His gentle, sad smile remains.

"Don't be afraid," he whispers. "This is a holy thing. A son returning to his mother's womb. A paradise for us all."

His empty eyes scan you from head to toe, and for a terrifying second, you feel like you are not a person, but an item being assessed, numbered, and cataloged.

Without another word, he turns and continues his silent vigil, staring up towards the door of Room 302, leaving you alone in the flickering light with the chilling, absolute certainty that you have just met a ghost who is still counting his victims.