Here is a short horror story I had finished over the weekend. I named it 301 kinda as a tribute to Stephen King's 1408. However I think the story itself hopefully has an Edgar Allan Poe vibe. Hope you like it. This will be included in my next collection Tales From Apt. 301.
301 By P.C. Snider
Charlie McFarland has been living alone in apartment 301 for about eight years now. It’s not a big place, which suits him fine since he’s been on his own. Inside, there’s a double bed, a dining table, a small library of books, a kitchen sink, refrigerator, and a bathroom. He’s thankful that the bathroom has both a tub and a shower—he switches between the two, depending on his mood.
He also has a small 32-inch TV and a vast DVD collection. Plus, a cheap Yamaha keyboard that he sometimes plays when boredom strikes. His ex-girlfriend Lisa used to love hearing him play classical music—mainly Beethoven and Mozart.
His routine is simple: get up, shower or bath, make breakfast, watch some TV, then off to get coffee before heading to work. After all, he’s got rent and bills to pay—forever, it seems, at least until he dies. Even then, he jokes morbidly, he’d probably still have to work.
He chuckles darkly at the thought. His humour is grim because he’s still haunted by a car crash—an accident that changed everything. His ex-girlfriend, Lisa, didn’t survive; she was in the passenger seat when the transport collided with them on the highway.
He still remembers their last fight—about money, about living in a bachelor apartment, about not owning a house. He feels guilty, wishing he could have done something differently. But he’s come to accept his life as it is. His job as a librarian at the local library keeps him comfortable, and he enjoys the quiet solitude. Reading has always been his refuge, a passion since childhood.
Since the accident, working in the library has become easier—organizing and re-organizing books, helping visitors find what they’re looking for, pointing them toward the restrooms, the librarian’s desk, or the way out. Mostly, he keeps to himself these days. He’s not sure why—maybe it’s a getting older thing, tolerating people less and less.
Today marks what would have been his and Lisa’s second anniversary. He’s been feeling down all day. It doesn’t help that the last customer asked where Beethoven’s biography was located, which only reminded him of her.
Strange things have been happening at night in his apartment. Dishes seem to clean themselves, already spotless by the time he gets home—despite leaving a pile of dirty ones in the sink. His keyboard unexpectedly plays Beethoven or Mozart—sometimes Moonlight Sonata, sometimes Requiem.
Food in the refrigerator gets re-arranged, laundry appears to be done, clothes put away—all without him lifting a finger.
#
One evening, after a long day at work, Charlie sat quietly in his apartment, feeling the weight of loneliness and memories. The room was silent, except for the faint vibrations of a melody—an almost imperceptible hum that seemed to linger in the air. His heart ached with longing, remembering her smile, her voice, the last words they shared.
Suddenly, a soft, tremulous voice filled the space:
*"Maybe we're better apart."*
He froze, a tear slipping down his cheek. The vibration of her words still resonated in the air—faint, beautiful, yet painfully real. For a moment, he hesitated, wishing she could stay, wishing she could be saved.
But then, slowly, he nodded, accepting her absence. He reached out, but the space was empty. Her whisper faded into silence—like a fading song—leaving only the stillness of the room.
In that quiet moment, Charlie understood: some loves linger in memories, in the vibrations of the past, but it was time to let her go. He took a deep breath, finally allowing himself to accept her departure, knowing she was free—her love forever etched in the vibrations of his heart.
He closed his eyes, feeling a gentle breeze brush past him. The room was still, and though her presence was gone, the faint vibration of her love remained—embedded in the quiet, in the memories that would never fade.
Copyright 10/06/2025
~P.C. Snider
