During my early years, my family and I called an apartment in El Paso home. It seemed like an ordinary place until the nights revealed its secrets. My younger sister had an imaginary friend, a man she named Max. She said Max used to live in our apartment, but I brushed it off as a typical childhood fantasy.
Then one peculiar night, everything changed. I was abruptly awoken by strange voices echoing through the apartment. Intrigued and somewhat frightened, I ventured into my sister’s room. There she sat in the corner, seemingly deep in conversation with an unseen presence. Max, as she called him, had returned. His voice, though ethereal, was undeniably unsettling. I started leaving the lights on every night, hoping to dispel the eerie atmosphere that had taken hold of our home.
But the apartment held more secrets, each one darker than the last. My parents began witnessing the shadowy figure of a man lurking in the hallway, and our nights grew restless. Then came the chilling night when, at the stroke of three, we were jolted awake by incessant knocking at the front door. My dad, brave and determined, decided to confront the source of the disturbance. He listened carefully to the relentless knocking, his heart pounding with anticipation. However, when he finally gathered the courage to open the door, he found nothing but empty darkness on the other side.
As my sister’s interactions with Max persisted and the unexplained knocking continued, my parents reached a decision. It was time to leave our apartment behind and seek refuge elsewhere. We relocated to a new house, eager to leave behind the mysteries that haunted our previous home. I often wonder who occupies that apartment now, and I can’t help but feel relieved to have moved on. One thing is for sure – I won’t forget the name Max, not even as my sister’s new teddy bear.