In a secluded part of the city edge, a journalist checked in at an old apartment converted into an Airbnb.

It was a normal afternoon. This wasn’t his intended place to stay; the hotel he’d reserved had mistakenly double-booked him. He found out only that morning, after calling to confirm his check-in. The hotel refunded his payment with a small extra for the inconvenience and recommended this apartment instead.

The building looked over a century old, untouched by renovations in decades. At the entrance, a middle-aged receptionist greeted him with a gleeful smile.

“Welcome! Come on in!” he said.

“Hi, I was referred here by the hotel,” the journalist replied.

“Oh yes! Come, come. We’ve prepared your room.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

They seemed friendly and accommodating. The journalist was in town on a case that had been pending for years, and this was his lead.

“Here’s your key, sir—room 35, third floor.”

“Thank you.”

He took the elevator to the third floor. The hallway was long and narrow, the faint glow of the lights revealing its age.

“Room… 32… 33… 34… ah, here it is.”

Room 35 was the second-to-last room at the end of the corridor. Inside, it was surprisingly modern. Fresh wallpaper, a small lamp, a tidy study desk, and neatly prepared bed linens made the room feel comfortable.

That night, he began working on his article. From the room next door, a couple started arguing loudly.

“Ugh, just when I’m about to work,” he muttered, but continued writing.

THUD.

A loud thump rattled the wall. The arguing persisted.

“Seriously?” he groaned. He eventually gave up, deciding to sleep.

The next day, after gathering data for his article, he returned to his room for dinner. It was quiet at first—but soon, the fighting started again.

“Jesus, are you kidding me?” he whispered, irritation mounting. He ate in silence, trying to focus on his work despite the noise.

The following morning, determined to confront the couple, he knocked on their door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

No answer.

He tried again. Silence.

Curiously, he noticed the door had an old-style keyhole, unlike the others. He leaned in. Nothing. Just something red, shiny, perhaps a plastic bag or curtain.

“Hmph. Doesn’t matter. My last day anyway.”

He left for work, forgetting once again to inform the receptionist.

That evening, he returned. The noise resumed. Frustrated, he knocked, checked the keyhole—still red.

THUDD!

A loud, jarring sound made him jump. He called reception, but the phone didn’t work. Scraping noises followed. He forced himself to finish work and sleep.

The next morning, he packed to leave. For one last time, he peeked through the keyhole. Same red. He shrugged and left.

At the reception, the receptionist noticed his tired, grumpy demeanor.

“Haven’t had a good sleep, sir?”

“No… the couple next door. They fought every night, banging on my wall.”

“Couple?” the receptionist asked, puzzled.

“Yes! They were loud, and I tried peeking. Something red was blocking the keyhole.”

The receptionist’s face went pale. “Sir… there’s no couple on that floor. You were the only tenant.”

“What? But every night—”

“Sir… you peeked through the keyhole?”

“Yes! Just wanted to see what was happening. It was red. Probably a plastic bag or curtain.”

The elder receptionist, overhearing, stepped forward. He lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly.

“That wasn’t a plastic bag or curtain,” he said.

“What… then what?”

“Years ago, a couple stayed in that room. They argued every night. One night, a loud thud shook the building. Nobody dared check. The next morning, the authorities found… her. Bloodied, skull bashed with a mallet. Her face unrecognizable, but her eyes… it was all red.”