Title: The man in the closet

The night was brutally cold in S City. The clock had long passed eleven when I sat alone in a dim 24-hour café, the warmth of my mocha barely enough to ward off the chill creeping into my bones. The streets outside were deserted, save for the occasional flurry of snow and the howling wind.

The door swung open with a sharp creak. A man entered, shaking off snowflakes, his eyes briefly meeting mine before he ordered a sandwich and left. He wasn’t W.

Then, a voice muttered from behind me, “It’s freezing.”

I turned to find a man hunched over a laptop, his clothes shabby and his face worn, dark circles shadowing his eyes. There was something about him—an exhaustion that felt more than physical.

That man was W.

At first glance, he was ordinary, even dull—a tired man in a café, nothing out of the ordinary. But then, with a quiet voice, he said, “It’s fine if you don’t believe me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I believe in many things.”

And that was the beginning of a story that would shatter all logic.

W’s story

W was a 24-year-old programmer, commuting between work and his tiny apartment. It was in March of that year that he moved into a new place.

And that was where the story began.

The apartment was in an old wooden building, precariously standing as if time had forgotten it. Inside his ten-square-meter room, the furniture was sparse—only a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. The kitchen and bathroom were shared.

It wasn’t until his first night there that W noticed something odd.

The room contained a row of four built-in wardrobes that stretched along the wall. They were large, old-fashioned wooden closets, nearly touching the ceiling. W only used the one closest to his bed, leaving the rest untouched.

Out of curiosity, he opened the second wardrobe. Empty.

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The third. Also empty.

But when he reached the fourth wardrobe, it wouldn’t budge.

No matter how much he pulled, pushed, or even kicked, the door refused to open, as if it were locked from the inside.

At first, he thought little of it. But as days passed, something stranger happened—his instant noodles kept disappearing.

W had a habit of storing food in his wardrobe since there is no other place in such a small room. Initially, he dismissed it as forgetfulness. But as he started tracking his meals, he noticed that the numbers wouldn’t match. A few always vanished.

Determined to solve the mystery, W set up a small camera in his room. Days passed with no results. Then, one night, he finally caught something.

A figure emerged from the fourth wardrobe.

Tall, unnaturally slender, with elongated limbs and a gaunt frame, the figure moved effortlessly in the darkness. It glided around the tiny apartment, pausing at each corner as if surveying its surroundings. Then, it stopped beside W’s bed and stood there. Watching.

For an entire hour.

The next night, the figure appeared again. This time, it rummaged through W’s belongings, taking a pack of instant noodles before retreating into the wardrobe.

By the third night, W could no longer ignore the truth. The figure was living inside the wardrobe.

That night, the figure stood at W’s bedside once more. It remained motionless, its head tilted downward as it stared at the sleeping W. An hour passed. Then another. Then, slowly, it retreated back into the wardrobe, closing the door behind it.

W stopped sleeping at home after that. He spent nights at friends’ places, 24-hour cafes, and even park benches. Moving out wasn’t an option—his financial situation wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he chose exile over facing whatever lurked in his apartment.

On his last night in S City, just before I left, I received an anonymous email. It contained a short message and a video attachment.

It was from W.

He had moved out. But before leaving, he had recorded three nights of footage.

Night 1: 3:17 AM. The camera caught the door creaking open—from the inside.

The wardrobe door creaked open, and the figure stepped out. It unfolded itself like origami gone wrong: seven feet of jointless limbs, fingers brushing the floorboards. No face, just a concave shadow where features should’ve been. It circled W’s bed twelve times (I counted), pausing each lap to sniff his pillow.

Night 2：3:33 AM.

The figure emerged again. It methodically checked every inch of the room, then opened W’s wardrobe and took a pack of instant noodles before disappearing into the fourth wardrobe.

Night 5: 2:21 AM.

The figure appeared once more. This time, it did not move around the room. It walked straight to W’s bed and stood over him. Watching. Silent. Unmoving.

For over an hour.

The footage ended abruptly.

In W’s final message, he wrote:

“I don’t live there anymore. But sometimes, when I walk past my old apartment, I still see the lights on. Someone else is living there now. I wonder if they’ve checked their wardrobe yet.”

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Do you believe W’s story? Or do you think it was just another urban legend? Either way, if you ever move into an old apartment, do yourself a favor—check your wardrobe.

Next story: A Phone Call from the Unknown.