Ghosts
The Fourth Floor
A high school student left alone in an unfinished rental building hears footsteps and dragging sounds from the floor that shouldn't be occupied—until something starts opening his bedroom door.
I've been browsing paranormal forums for a few months now, and I've always been the curious type. Figured I'd share something that happened to me back in high school.
It was June—muggy as hell, this being the south. Most students at my private boarding school went home on weekends. I'd come down with a fever, probably from being dumb enough to rinse my head with cold water when it was scorching out. My parents were running their business in another province, only home for Chinese New Year, so I usually stayed with my uncle. Called him to pick me up from school, but he was dealing with something out of town and couldn't make it. He rang the teacher, explained the situation, and I was cleared to go home on my own.
First stop: the local clinic for an IV drip. By the time I left, my head was foggy and light. Uncle wasn't home either, so I headed to my grandmother's place instead. She and my grandfather were renting the third floor of a residential building— Landlord lived one floor below, and the place had clearly been built recently, still unfinished-looking with bare walls and minimal fixtures. The fourth floor was completely raw—no装修, no railing on the stairwell, just a wooden board blocking access to the upper landing.
That's where things get interesting.
Grandpa was working the night shift at a security booth in a nearby apartment complex. Grandma had gone back to the village for something, taking my cousins with her—they were supposed to drive back that evening, but the countryside being as remote as it was, they missed the last bus. So I ended up spending the night alone in that building.
After dinner, I closed all the windows except the one in my bedroom—just a crack, enough for air. Living alone, even for one night, you get paranoid about break-ins. Did my usual nighttime routine, brushed my teeth, went to bed. One quirk about me: I can't sleep if the door isn't closed. Lights off, phone out, scrolling.
That's when I heard it.
Footsteps overhead. The heavy, dragging kind—like someone pulling furniture across the floor. Creaking, thudding, the unmistakable sound of a chair being scraped across concrete.
I should mention: the fourth floor was empty. Literally nobody lived there. The wooden board was still in place.
The footsteps kept going. And then—the bedroom door started opening. Slow. Each hinge groaned like it was screaming. Just wide enough to see the gap between the door and the frame widening, inch by inch.
I didn't think. I yanked the blanket over my head and curled into a ball, barely breathing.
The sounds above kept going. But the worst part wasn't the noise—it was the sensation. The unmistakable, crawling certainty that something in that room was standing right beside my bed, watching me. My eyes were squeezed shut but I could feel it: a pressure in the air, a presence so dense it felt solid. The fan was on, blowing across the room, but the air around me felt frozen still. Like the space immediately around my body had been cut off from everything else.
I lay there, too terrified to move, for what felt like hours.
Then, around dawn, I heard a rooster crow outside—one of the neighborhood birds, probably. And just like that, the presence vanished. The weight lifted. The room felt normal again, air moving freely across my skin. I was drenched in sweat, thermometer still reading over 102, but I got dressed as fast as I could and got out of that building.
I didn't go back until months later, when I had to drop something off at my uncle's place. Stopped by and ate a quick meal, then left. Not a word about that night to anyone. A while after, my grandparents moved out of that place too. I never asked why.
Never found out what was on that fourth floor.
I don't want to know.
It was June—muggy as hell, this being the south. Most students at my private boarding school went home on weekends. I'd come down with a fever, probably from being dumb enough to rinse my head with cold water when it was scorching out. My parents were running their business in another province, only home for Chinese New Year, so I usually stayed with my uncle. Called him to pick me up from school, but he was dealing with something out of town and couldn't make it. He rang the teacher, explained the situation, and I was cleared to go home on my own.
First stop: the local clinic for an IV drip. By the time I left, my head was foggy and light. Uncle wasn't home either, so I headed to my grandmother's place instead. She and my grandfather were renting the third floor of a residential building— Landlord lived one floor below, and the place had clearly been built recently, still unfinished-looking with bare walls and minimal fixtures. The fourth floor was completely raw—no装修, no railing on the stairwell, just a wooden board blocking access to the upper landing.
That's where things get interesting.
Grandpa was working the night shift at a security booth in a nearby apartment complex. Grandma had gone back to the village for something, taking my cousins with her—they were supposed to drive back that evening, but the countryside being as remote as it was, they missed the last bus. So I ended up spending the night alone in that building.
After dinner, I closed all the windows except the one in my bedroom—just a crack, enough for air. Living alone, even for one night, you get paranoid about break-ins. Did my usual nighttime routine, brushed my teeth, went to bed. One quirk about me: I can't sleep if the door isn't closed. Lights off, phone out, scrolling.
That's when I heard it.
Footsteps overhead. The heavy, dragging kind—like someone pulling furniture across the floor. Creaking, thudding, the unmistakable sound of a chair being scraped across concrete.
I should mention: the fourth floor was empty. Literally nobody lived there. The wooden board was still in place.
The footsteps kept going. And then—the bedroom door started opening. Slow. Each hinge groaned like it was screaming. Just wide enough to see the gap between the door and the frame widening, inch by inch.
I didn't think. I yanked the blanket over my head and curled into a ball, barely breathing.
The sounds above kept going. But the worst part wasn't the noise—it was the sensation. The unmistakable, crawling certainty that something in that room was standing right beside my bed, watching me. My eyes were squeezed shut but I could feel it: a pressure in the air, a presence so dense it felt solid. The fan was on, blowing across the room, but the air around me felt frozen still. Like the space immediately around my body had been cut off from everything else.
I lay there, too terrified to move, for what felt like hours.
Then, around dawn, I heard a rooster crow outside—one of the neighborhood birds, probably. And just like that, the presence vanished. The weight lifted. The room felt normal again, air moving freely across my skin. I was drenched in sweat, thermometer still reading over 102, but I got dressed as fast as I could and got out of that building.
I didn't go back until months later, when I had to drop something off at my uncle's place. Stopped by and ate a quick meal, then left. Not a word about that night to anyone. A while after, my grandparents moved out of that place too. I never asked why.
Never found out what was on that fourth floor.
I don't want to know.