The Demon of Apartment 3B

 

The Demon of Apartment 3B

John and Vanessa moved into a quiet apartment complex tucked between a laundromat and an herbal shop that always smelled like eucalyptus and unfinished spells. It was supposed to be peaceful. The kind of place where you sip tea and forget the world exists for a while. The paint on the walls was chipped, but charming.

 The air felt light. They said a little prayer the day they moved in. Things seemed blessed at first.   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         They lived on the second floor. Their unit was warm and welcoming, full of little signs of answered prayer—sunlight in the right corners, silence when they needed rest. But every time they walked past Apartment 3B, something felt off.

It wasn’t the décor—there was none. Just a faded number barely hanging on the door and a smell that changed by the hour. Sometimes cinnamon. Sometimes sulfur. Sometimes nothing at all. The tenant inside never waved. Never spoke. Just stared. Always in the same grey hoodie, face mostly hidden, moving like someone who didn’t quite belong to time.

They called her Mira. At least, that’s what the mail said. But sometimes there was no name. Just envelopes marked “return to sender.” And once, they saw a package labeled “L. Ashiel.” Mira never responded to greetings. Never nodded. But when John passed her one morning, she whispered, “You’re glowing too loud.”

John laughed. Vanessa didn’t.

Then things started glitching.

The Wi-Fi refused to load Bible verses. The gospel playlist cut off right before the word “grace.” Their smart speaker spoke in strange bursts at 3:17 every morning. Once it said, “They’re watching through the walls.” Just that. No context. No explanation.

Vanessa joined the neighborhood app to see if anyone else was experiencing these issues. And that’s when she found the account.

It called itself “StarVoice333.” But it only posted during the night. Messages like, “Shield your portals, the prayers are piercing my calm.” Or “The hymn vibrations are disrupting the spiritual frequency of this building.”

Vanessa showed it to John. He frowned and pulled out a bottle of anointing oil.

That night, the lights flickered. Their microwave turned on by itself and displayed the word "empty." Their phone alarms went off early—always while they were praying.

And the noises began.

Dragging sounds in the ceiling. Whispers through the air vents. Laughing—soft, high-pitched, but out of sync with reality. One night, John heard footsteps… on the ceiling. Right above their bed. Vanessa whispered the name of Jesus till morning.

They saw Mira twice that week. Once leaving with a box full of crystals. Another time standing perfectly still outside the building, looking up at the stars like she was trying to speak to them.

John tried to ignore her. Vanessa didn’t. She began fasting. Played worship through the old boombox that never glitched. Taped verses to the windows. Prayed in the hallway. The air felt heavy. Mira stopped appearing. But Apartment 3B was louder than ever.

Their laptop was rerouted through something called “The VeilCast.” No password. Full bars. And every time they connected, the screen blinked once, then showed a single word: “Awakened.”

Then came the livestream moment.

Vanessa was watching a service online—just a sermon on spiritual warfare—when the screen went black. Then it flickered. Then it showed the inside of Apartment 3B. A hallway. A single chair. Something moving in the corner. For twenty seconds, they watched. Then the screen cut back to the sermon right at the word “deliverance.”

John didn’t hesitate. He prayed over the router. Oil on the sockets. Vanessa fasted for seven days. Slept with her Bible on her chest. They stopped using electronics at night. Went full analog—worship tapes, paper devotionals, handwritten prayers.

Then one morning, “StarVoice333” was gone. The account deleted. No trace. The Wi-Fi returned to normal. The smart speaker stopped whispering. The lights held steady. For a week, things felt clean.

But one night, just after midnight, Vanessa saw Mira one last time. Standing in the hallway. Hoodie pulled low. Eyes visible for the first time. She didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. She just said, “Your light woke something. Don’t stop burning.”

Then she walked away.

John saw her leave the building the next day carrying nothing but a closed umbrella. It wasn’t raining.

Life returned to stillness. The microwave no longer glitched. The boombox hummed with praise like it had caught a second wind. Their Bible app opened without buffering. The hallway felt normal again.

But every now and then, at exactly 3:17, the lights flicker once.

John always says, “Not today.” Vanessa whispers, “We’re still burning.”

Because sometimes demons don’t leave screaming. They leave watching. And sometimes witches don’t need broomsticks. They’ve got Wi-Fi passwords.