Chapter Text
Craig Tucker stood in the middle of his new apartment, hands on his hips, taking it all in. The hardwood floors were scuffed and uneven, the kind of floors that made you wonder how many people had stomped across them over the decades. The walls were an unsettling shade of off-white, hovering in that uncomfortable territory between “warm beige” and “dingy yellow.” It was hard to tell if they’d been painted that way on purpose or if years of neglect and cigarette smoke had left their mark. In the corner, a clunky old radiator loomed, covered in chipped paint and specks of rust. It looked like it belonged in a history museum, not a functional living space.
And yet, Craig loved it.
The rent was low, too low, honestly, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune. He’d been searching for months, slogging through countless overpriced shoebox apartments that made this place look like a palace. There were no granite countertops or shiny appliances here, but what it lacked in polish, it made up for in potential. The ceilings were high enough that it felt airy, and the windows, though smudged with dirt, let in just enough light to soften the rough edges.
More importantly, it was his. No parents knocking on the door to tell him to turn down the TV, no little sister barging in without warning, no annoying dorm mate. Just a tiny one-bedroom on the third floor of a creaky old building where every corner seemed to groan under the weight of time. The faint smell of mildew in the hallway didn’t bother him, it was a small price to pay for independence.
Freedom, even in its dingiest form, was still freedom.
Craig ran a hand through his black hair, taking another glance around. The kitchen, barely more than a nook, had cabinets that were held together with duct tape and hope. The fridge hummed loudly, its sound bouncing off the narrow walls. A single ceiling fan spun lazily above him, making more noise than wind.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
“Home sweet home,” Craig muttered, dropping a box labeled KITCHEN STUFF onto the counter. The cardboard sagged ominously under the weight of mismatched plates and dented cookware, but Craig paid it no mind. He stretched his arms, his back popping from the effort of hauling boxes up three flights of stairs, and glanced around the room again.
The apartment looked less welcoming with his belongings stacked haphazardly around, but he could already picture how it would look once he’d unpacked and settled in: a cheap rug over the scratched floors, his second-hand couch against the far wall, maybe even a plant in the corner if he felt ambitious.
Before he could get too lost in thought, the overhead light flickered once, twice, then went out entirely, plunging the room into a dim, late-afternoon glow. Craig frowned, tilting his head up toward the fixture as though staring at it might shame it into working again.
“Cheap wiring,” he muttered, brushing it off. He crossed the room and flipped the light switch off and on. The bulb buzzed faintly, then reluctantly sputtered back to life, casting a weak yellow glow over the room, “that’s what I get for trusting a place with rent this low.”
Shrugging, he went back to unpacking.
By the time Craig dragged the last of his boxes inside, the sun was already beginning to set, painting the room in muted orange light. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and flopped onto the lumpy couch he’d inherited from his parents. He didn’t bother setting up his TV just yet; his phone would suffice for now.
The building’s faint creaks had started to register in the background as he scrolled through takeout options. A pipe groaned somewhere in the walls, its sound echoing like a low moan. The floorboards occasionally let out sharp, startling cracks that made him glance up, only to find the room exactly as he’d left it.
“Old buildings,” he muttered, unsure if it was his actual opinion or if he was just trying to convince himself.
He’d just decided on Chinese takeout when he heard it: a soft creak from the hallway outside his apartment. It wasn’t the gentle settling of old wood but the distinct sound of a footstep, slow and deliberate.
Craig froze, his thumb hovering over his phone screen. He turned his head toward the door, staring at it as though it might swing open on its own. Nothing happened. The apartment remained still, the hallway beyond silent.
After a moment, Craig shook his head, “probably just the neighbors,” he muttered, though he hadn’t seen or heard anyone else in the building all day.
Still, as he stared at the door, a prickling sensation crept up his spine. The hallway had seemed unnervingly quiet when he was moving in, and now, the silence felt heavy, almost expectant. He stood up and walked over to the door, opening it just a crack and peeking into the hallway.
Nothing.
The dim corridor stretched out in both directions, lined with identical doors. The faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead was the only sound.
Craig shut the door, locking it for good measure, “yeah, definitely just the neighbors,” he told himself again.
Still, as he sat back down on the couch and opened his takeout app, the eerie quiet of the hallway lingered in his mind.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Craig devoured a greasy pepperoni pizza straight out of the box, crumbs scattering across the coffee table he hadn’t even bothered to wipe down. The unpacked boxes loomed against the walls like lazy sentinels, waiting for attention he had no intention of giving them tonight. After a few hours of mindless scrolling on his phone, exhaustion finally overtook him.
He dragged himself to the bedroom, which was just big enough to fit his mattress, a dresser, and a single nightstand. The sheets were wrinkled from being crammed into a box for weeks, but he didn’t care. He flopped onto the bed, letting out a long sigh. It wasn’t comfortable, but after a day of hauling furniture and climbing stairs, it felt like heaven.
It wasn’t until he was lying in the dark, the faint hum of the radiator the only sound, that the feeling hit him. A strange, prickling sensation danced along the back of his neck, raising goosebumps on his skin. It wasn’t just the chill of the room, it felt… intentional, as if invisible eyes were fixed on him from somewhere unseen.
Craig rolled onto his side, tugging the blanket up to his chin. Old buildings are noisy, he reminded himself. Nothing to freak out about. Just tired nerves and overthinking.
Still, sleep didn’t come easily. The radiator groaned every now and then, its sound hollow and mournful in the stillness. The wooden floor outside his room made faint cracking noises, as though the building itself were stretching and shifting in its sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., a loud creak jolted him awake. His groggy brain barely registered the sound at first, until he noticed the bedroom door.
It was open.
Craig’s heart leapt into his throat. He stared at the door, its edges outlined faintly by the dim glow of the street lamp outside his window. The hallway beyond was dark, empty, and still. He had shut the door before going to bed, hadn’t he?
His first panicked thought was that someone had broken in. He shot up, his pulse hammering in his ears. His mouth was dry as he croaked out, “hello?”
The word hung in the air, unanswered.
Craig’s eyes darted around the room, searching for any movement. Shadows clung to the corners, but they stayed still. No footsteps, no shifting shapes, nothing.
Swallowing hard, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, his feet sinking into the cold floorboards. The air felt heavier now, pressing against his skin like damp wool. He crept toward the door, each step deliberate and cautious.
The hallway outside was as lifeless as it had been earlier. The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound, its faint buzz almost comforting in the oppressive silence. Craig checked the locks on the front door. Secure.
He lingered in the kitchen for a moment, his breathing still uneven, before heading back to bed. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he noticed how smoothly it moved, no loose hinges, and the lock clicked as it should.
“Drafty building,” he muttered under his breath, though even he didn’t sound convinced.
Craig climbed back into bed and pulled the blanket over his head, trying to block out the lingering unease. Sleep, however, was elusive. Every groan of the radiator, every creak of the floor, felt amplified, like the apartment was alive and restless.
By morning, he hadn’t slept much at all.
Over the next few days, the oddities became impossible to ignore, though Craig certainly tried his best.The lights in the apartment continued their erratic dance, flickering at the most inconvenient times, like when Craig was carrying a stack of plates or trying to shave without nicking his face. At first, he laughed it off, "haunted by a bad electrician," he joked to no one. But the humor wore thin when the strange happenings escalated.
One morning, Craig poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and left it on the counter while he grabbed his phone from the other room. When he returned, the mug was lying on its side, a dark puddle of coffee spreading across the linoleum floor. He stared at it, baffled. The mug hadn’t been near the edge. Maybe the counter isn't level? He tested it, sliding the mug back and forth, but it stayed firmly in place. Shrugging, he cleaned up the mess and went about his day.
Later that night, he woke to a chill breeze brushing over his face. Groggily, he reached for the blanket, only to realize the breeze wasn’t from the drafty bedroom, it was coming from the window. His heart sank when he saw it wide open, the pale moonlight spilling in.
Craig sat up, squinting at the latch. He could’ve sworn he locked it before bed. He got up, shut the window, and double-checked the lock this time. But when the same thing happened the next night, his unease deepened.
“Probably just a bad latch,” he muttered, though even he didn’t believe it anymore.
The worst part wasn’t the flickering lights, the shifting objects, or even the mysterious open window, it was the feeling. That strange, unshakable awareness, like the air itself was watching him. It hovered constantly, prickling at the edge of his mind and making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He told himself it was just his imagination, but the sensation didn’t fade.
One night, while brushing his teeth, the tension in the apartment reached a breaking point. Craig leaned over the sink, spitting out toothpaste foam, when he saw it, something in the mirror. A shadow, faint and fleeting, darted across the room behind him.
His stomach dropped. Spinning around, he half-expected to see someone standing there, but the bathroom was empty. The hallway beyond the door was dark and still. His toothbrush clattered into the sink as he stood frozen, his pulse thundering in his ears.
"Get a grip, Tucker," he said aloud, his voice tight. He rinsed his mouth, refusing to look back at the mirror.
That night, as he lay in bed, every sound seemed amplified, the groan of the radiator, the faint rustle of the curtains, even his own breathing. The oppressive awareness was back, heavier than ever, pressing down on him like a weighted blanket.
He stared at the ceiling, forcing himself to think of anything else, work, baseball, the pizza menu on his fridge. Eventually, exhaustion won out, and he drifted into a fitful sleep.
Craig didn’t notice the figure in the corner of the room, pale and translucent, watching him with wide, anxious eyes. The ghost, a man with messy blond hair and a nervous energy even in death, hovered near the bed. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.
Tweek sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair, “this is gonna be harder than usual,” he muttered, fading into the shadows as the first rays of sunlight crept through the window.