The Familiar Trap of the Ghost Story Apartment
I stood speechless before the sight unfolding right in front of me in the Ghost Story Apartment. I'd thought that after stepping out of the elevator, there couldn't be anything left to surprise me—but the ghost story had one more shock in store, something beyond imagination.
It was an apartment hallway. A scene so familiar, so nostalgic, one I'd longed to return to. Of course, since this was a world conjured by the ghost story, it differed in many ways from the apartment of my memories. The elevator doors had opened in the middle of the corridor. It stretched long to both sides, presenting starkly contrasting views at each end.
One end led to a ominous midnight landscape shrouded in thick clouds, lightning flashing but visibility cut short. The only light piercing the darkness was the faint glow of those bolts within the clouds. The opposite end looked like a perfectly ordinary apartment hallway. You could tell from the external view visible on that side that the building followed a somewhat classic layout: units lined up in a single row. Each door had a room number, and occasionally, items like bicycles or potted plants beside the entrances added a touch of everyday life.
Suddenly, the elevator's announcement echoed in my mind: "Ninth floor." I naturally turned to look above the doors at the digital display. There, in crisp orange letters, glowed "9F." So this elevator was connected to the apartment after all.
It must have been a fairly upscale place originally, but now, abandoned and neglected over the years, it showed decay everywhere. Mold bloomed across the wallpaper in patches, tiles on the floor were cracked, and a musty dust smell mingled with an inexplicable dampness that stabbed at my lungs. It felt like stumbling upon ruins left behind in a post-apocalyptic world after a zombie outbreak or nuclear war.
I should have realized it the moment the elevator appeared—or at least when I saw its interior design. But I'd been too rattled by the relic from my past life to imagine a scene like this.
"What in the world... is this?" Elaine's voice came from beside me, unable to hide her shock.
"W-We were just at the academy a moment ago..."
"Where the hell is this place? Judging by the view outside... don't tell me we've ascended to the heavens!?"
The group was panicking. This wouldn't do. As their guardian, I had to pull myself together.
"Everyone, calm down first. This is just the interior of a building called an apartment."
I began explaining as calmly as possible to reassure the flustered girls.
"An apartment is a structure built for people to live in. It's designed so multiple households share one building, stacked vertically in layers. Each floor is divided into sections, each serving as an individual's living space. Rozalia, you mistook this for the heavens because we're on the ninth floor, which feels high—but that's all it is."
The club members' eyes flickered with subtle uncertainty as they listened. I could sense questions flashing in their gazes, but there wasn't time to teach them everything about modern architecture right then. I decided inwardly to address their doubts later and focused on conveying only the essentials.
"Those doors you see..."
I explained, drawing on my familiar knowledge of apartment layouts.
"Each one leads to a separate household. Think of it like hotel rooms—behind them are living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, and so on. While they share the building, each space behind those doors is essentially its own 'home.'"
I hoped this would help them grasp the concept of an apartment, even a little. But rather than understanding dawning in their eyes, suspicion seemed to deepen. Even Elaine, who always grasped ghost story structures faster than anyone, stared at me with doubt. Hers looked the strongest of all.
Hmm. Normally, they'd at least catch the core idea from this much explanation. Was it impossible to convey an architecture from a world of vastly different technology and styles with just a few words?
But we didn't have time for an architecture lecture now. We'd entered the belly of the beast—this ghost story. Anything could happen, so we couldn't afford to waste time.
"For now, we need more intel on this ghost story. Let's start by checking the visible room numbers one by one."
At my words, the group silently followed without a word. I was a bit taken aback by how the girls, who had been chattering excitedly about this novel architecture moments ago, had suddenly gone quiet. But I brushed it off as them getting serious about the ghost story and started walking.
We headed to the nearest room from the elevator: 906. The door was made of weathered metal, with a black panel above the handle. Rone stepped forward and rattled the door and knob. As expected, it was locked.
"Teacher, this door won't open. It seems locked."
"Hmm. Should we look for a key?" Rozalia suggested from the side.
But I shook my head at her idea.
"No need. This is a door lock. You don't insert and turn a key—you enter a passcode to unlock it."
I flipped open the door lock's cover as I explained. Beep. Fortunately, despite the half-ruined state of the apartment, it wasn't broken. A beep sounded immediately, and a blue light came on.
"Power's on. Good news."
The apartment's electronics might still work too. It wasn't the most fitting thought for a ghost story disaster, but I felt a thrill at the possibility of reconnecting with modern civilization after so long.
The issue was cracking the passcode. With so many rooms, skipping this one wouldn't be a big deal. But since this door had a lock, the others probably did too. If we didn't figure it out here, we'd face the same problem everywhere.
Still, Observation had yielded one clue. From the layout, I'd suspected as much, but this apartment's background was likely an Eastern one. Not 100% certain, but the high-rise corridor style with units in a row and digital locks on every door was more common in the East than the West.
Come to think of it, I'd glossed over it as obvious, but the notices and flyers on the elevator's bulletin board had been in Korean, hadn't they? Makes sense. If this ghost story spawned from my desires, the apartment's origin would match my old world's.
Though it nagged at me that this was an apartment I'd never seen in my memories.
I crossed my arms in front of the door lock, deep in thought. Four digits: 0000 to 9999, 10,000 possibilities. Brute-forcing randomly would hit input limits and lock it completely before we finished.
"So, how to open this door lock..."
A sudden idea struck.
"Ah, right! Fingerprints!"
Frequently used numbers would have prints left behind. Observing them could narrow it down massively. No guarantee the ghost story included fingerprints, but nothing to lose.
I peered closely at the number pad. Jackpot—prints were there, preserved under the cover, untouched by external damage. In the pitch-black night, with only intermittent lightning from the corridor's end as light, spotting them would have been tough. But my Observation gift shone here, aiding me in discerning even faint traces invisible to the naked eye.
The prints were on 2, 4, 6, and 8. Four numbers: 4! = 24 combinations. Not guaranteed, but far better than 10,000 random tries.
I took a deep breath and started inputting sequences.
Beep beep beep beep. Whirr. Beep beep beep beep. Whirr.
A few failures. But on the fifth try, luck struck.
Beep beep beep beep. Ding-ding-ding!
A distinctly different sound from the previous errors. A short electronic chime, followed by the clear click of the lock disengaging.
Computers, TVs, refrigerators—I felt my chest swell at the thought of soon facing relics from my past life.
I opened the unlocked door and turned to the group behind me.
"Alright. Door's open—let's head in."
But their expressions didn't brighten. If anything, they were stiffer than ever, tinged with what seemed like sorrow.
Sorrow? Wait.
Crack! Before I could ponder why they looked so sad, a shattering sound rang out, followed by a dull thud to my head.
My vision shook like an earthquake, my body refusing to obey. Barely tilting my eyes toward the impact, I saw Elaine sobbing, clutching a broken flowerpot.
"Why... El... aine...? You...?"
I barely managed her name through the pain. But she screamed back through tears.
"Give Teacher back!! You ghost story!"
Ghost story? What are you talking about, Elaine?
But I seemed to be the only one confused. The other students wore anguished faces but made no move to stop her.
My questions didn't last. Darkness swallowed my vision.
That was the last sight before my death—and the moment the first party was annihilated from my perspective.