It started with a squeak.
Floorboard 7C.
Right outside the old linen closet where Noreen Halloway was last seen.
The new maintenance guy—Jared—stepped on it while replacing hallway light bulbs.
It should've groaned. Or creaked.
Instead, it hummed.
Just for a second.
Like a violin string pulled tight.
Curious, Jared pried the board loose.
He expected rotting wood.
Maybe a dead mouse.
Instead: a single red thread.
Thin.
Pulled taut.
Leading down the hallway.
And under it, carved into the wood:
"Follow what binds. Or become what's bound."
Jared, being the kind of man who didn't believe in ghosts—but definitely believed in bad plumbing—followed it.
Down the hall.
Past the mail slot.
Around the stairwell.
The thread didn't dip or rise.
It stayed level.
Threaded cleanly between the seams of floorboards like it had been woven into the very foundation of the building.
He called me.
Of course he did.
Ever since "the incident," I'd become the unofficial historian of this place.
"Hey," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Did this building ever… uh… come with, like, red thread wiring or something?"
I asked him to show me.
What I saw chilled me.
Not because the thread existed.
But because it wasn't just thread.
It pulsed.
Not visibly—but I felt it.
Like it was alive.
Like it remembered being touched.
And more importantly—it had tension.
Something was pulling it taut from both ends.
We decided to follow it.
Together.
Down the stairs.
Through the basement.
Past the laundry room that always smelled faintly of iron and lilacs.
The thread led us to a sealed door.
One that, according to blueprints, didn't exist.
It had no knob.
Just a keyhole.
And carved into the concrete beside it:
"Every contract has a needle. Every soul has a seam."
Jared said, "I don't like this."
I said, "Good. That means you're sane."
We turned to leave.
And the thread tightened.
So fast we nearly tripped.
A new carving appeared, etched by nothing:
"You opened the ledger. Now stitch it shut."
That night, I dreamed again.
The red thread was in my hands.
But not just one strand—hundreds.
All tangled. All frayed. All leading to rooms I recognized.
Some of them still occupied.
Some… not.
In the dream, someone stood behind me.
Thin.
Featureless.
Hands like scissors.
They whispered:
"If you do not sew it, it will unravel.If it unravels, they will return.Not as echoes. Not as ghosts.But as claims."
I woke up to blood under my fingernails.
Not mine.
And a spool of red thread sitting on my pillow.
Jared didn't answer my calls the next day.
I found him in unit 3A.
Staring at the wall.
Mouth sewn shut with the same red thread.
Alive.
Shaking.
Eyes screaming.
I cut it gently, and he collapsed into my arms.
He said only one thing:
"It's not just a thread.It's a timeline."
That changed everything.
It wasn't just connecting rooms.
It was connecting stories—moments, events, traumas, lives.
The thread was a history, held in tension, waiting to be sewn into place.
Or to snap.
And it was fraying.
Fast.
I traced the path again, this time with gloves and chalk.
Every junction in the building—the thread looped it.
Where Noreen vanished: a tight knot.
Where Elias's shadow lingers: double loops.
My unit? No loop.
Just a raw, frayed end.
Like I was the cut.
The gap in the pattern.
And that's when I realized:
The Collector hadn't accepted my terms to end the system.
He'd let me pause it.
But the thread?
It was still trying to heal the break.
Not by repairing it.
But by rewriting me back into it.
At 3:33 AM, I returned to the door in the basement.
This time, the keyhole bled.
Not metaphorically.
Actual blood.
I held the spool I found on my pillow and pressed it to the lock.
It clicked.
And the door opened.
Inside: nothing.
Just thread.
Wall to wall.
A woven maze of red lines, all humming in tension.
Like a heart beating with no body.
And at the center: a chair.
Rocking.
Empty.
Except… not quite.
On the chair sat a pile of leases.
Burned. Torn. Scorched.
Including mine.
And on top of the pile: a needle.
Silver. Long. Cold.
And a note:
"A break in the pattern requires a stitcher.You paused the loop. Now thread it shut."
I took the needle.
Dipped it into my own thumb.
Blood.
Red.
Warm.
And began sewing.
Not with thread.
But with memory.
I whispered names as I passed:
"Noreen. Elias. Ava. Jared…"
For every name, a loop.
For every loop, a knot.
For every knot, a soft hum.
Until finally, the room went still.
The threads relaxed.
And the rocking chair stopped.
I left the room.
Locked the door behind me.
And this time, sealed it.
With wax.
And a signature.
Not mine.
Theirs.
All of them.
Now, the floorboards are quiet.
The humming has stopped.
Jared moved out.
Left a note that said, "Some stories deserve endings. Thank you for giving us one."
And me?
I'm still here.
In apartment 4B.
Caretaker. Witness. Stitcher.
The contract still exists.
But the pattern… is no longer pulling.
It rests.
And so do the dead.
For now.