Have you ever noticed something?
The children's slide downstairs is full of kids during the day, so noisy it gives you a headache. But have you ever woken up in the middle of the night and heard it moving on its own?
Shush-shush-shush… pause.
Shush-shush-shush… pause.
It sounds just like a child sliding down, climbing back up, and sliding down again, over and over.
The first time I heard it, I thought some kid just wasn't sleeping and snuck out to play. Back then, we were rushing to meet a project deadline, and I worked overtime until eleven every night. I'd pass out as soon as I got home. When the noise woke me up, I'd just turn over, cover my head, mumble a few complaints, and fall back asleep without even opening my eyes. I was so exhausted that I passed out the second I hit the bed, even dreaming about revising plans. I had no energy to wonder why the sound was so strange. I just assumed it was some hyperactive kid in the neighborhood sneaking out while their parents weren't looking.
I didn't think much of it the first few days, chalking it up to kids being kids. I was busy at work all day and dead tired when I got home at night; I had no energy to overthink it. My colleagues even joked that I was practically living at the office, barely aware of what was happening in the neighborhood. I just laughed it off and paid no mind to the slide noises after midnight.
It wasn't until the tenth day that it suddenly hit me.
Our building has four apartments per floor and eighteen floors total. I live on the seventh. From my window, the slide is right next to the flower bed—orange slide, blue handrails, looking lively during the day. But under the streetlamp at two in the morning, the orange turned gray, like a piece of dried-up orange peel. The lamp was an old one, dim and flickering, stretching the slide's shadow long across the ground, like a small curled-up creature.
That night, I heard it again.
Shush-shush-shush… pause.
Shush-shush-shush… pause.
I walked to the window and looked down.
The slide was empty. Not a single person.
I stared for five minutes, and the noise stopped. I thought I was hallucinating and turned to go back to bed.
I'd barely reached the bed when it started again.
Shush-shush-shush-shush-shush—
This time, it was the sound of someone sliding all the way down in one go, smooth and continuous.
I snapped my head back.
The slide was still empty.
But at the bottom of the slide, where kids usually land, there was a dark patch, darker than the rest.
It looked like something was sitting there.
I shone my phone flashlight down, but it was too far to see clearly. The dark shape seemed to move a little… or maybe it didn't. The wind blew gently through the flower bed, making the holly leaves rustle, mixed with the occasional distant car horn, making the neighborhood feel terrifyingly quiet.
I stood by the window for a long time. The noise didn't come back.
The next day after work, I ran into Sister Zhang from across the hall. She was holding her daughter Xiaoyu's hand. Xiaoyu was clutching a lollipop, licking it as they walked. The sky was overcast and a little chilly, so Sister Zhang had put a thin coat on her.
I said hello and casually asked, "Sister Zhang, have you heard the slide downstairs making noise at night?"
Sister Zhang froze. "The slide? What slide?"
"The one by the flower bed. It sometimes makes noise in the middle of the night, like someone's playing on it."
The way she looked at me was odd—not confused, not scared, more like annoyed. She said, "Barely any kids play on that slide during the day. Who'd go there in the middle of the night? You must be hearing things."
Then she tugged Xiaoyu along and quickened her pace. Xiaoyu stumbled, almost dropping her lollipop. Her little eyes glanced timidly toward the slide, then quickly dropped. She squeezed her mother's sleeve tightly and forgot all about her candy.
I stood there, confused. Sister Zhang was usually chatty, always stopping to gossip whenever we met. Why was she avoiding me like the plague today, refusing to say another word?
But I didn't dwell on it.
I only started truly worrying two weeks later.
I'd been sleeping poorly, waking up almost every night at one or two o'clock. And every time I woke up, I heard the slide: shush-shush-shush, pause, shush-shush-shush, pause—an eerily regular rhythm, like someone repeating the same motion on purpose. I could even count the seconds by it; every pause was terrifyingly precise.
I tried wearing earplugs. It didn't work. The sound didn't come through my ears—it felt like it was directly inside my head. Even when I covered my ears, it was still there.
At 2:03 a.m. one night, I woke up again. The slide started right on time.
I lay there listening, and suddenly realized how mechanical the rhythm was—shush-shush-shush, two-second pause, shush-shush-shush, two-second pause.
Like it was counting.
I sat up and went to the window.
There was nothing to see this time. The slide was empty, the flower bed was empty, the whole neighborhood was empty. The streetlamp turned everything pale, like a morgue. Even the stray cats that usually meowed occasionally were gone. The neighborhood was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
I stood there for a while, ready to leave.
Then the slide made a noise.
Not the sound of sliding. A dull thud came from the bottom of the slide.
Like something had jumped down from high up and landed there.
Chills ran down my back.
Because I saw the dark patch at the bottom of the slide moving, slowly dragging itself toward the flower bed.
I stepped back, knocking over a glass on the windowsill. I didn't even care that it shattered; I just stared downstairs. Glass shards scattered at my feet, but I didn't notice. All I could see was the dark, slow-moving shadow at the bottom of the slide.
The shape stopped. Then turned around.
I couldn't make out what it was, but I could feel it looking up—looking at my window. It wasn't like being stared at by a person. It felt like being stuck to something, deeply uncomfortable all over.
I crouched below the windowsill, my heart pounding.
After two or three minutes, I slowly stood up and looked out. There was nothing at the bottom of the slide anymore.
But a section of the holly bushes in the flower bed was crushed, several branches broken, the cuts fresh. There were marks in the dirt—not shoe prints, not animal claws. It looked more like someone had sat on their butt and dragged themselves along.
I suddenly thought of Sister Zhang's expression. She hadn't been annoyed. She'd known something and didn't want to talk about it.
I started paying attention to the other residents.
Uncle Sun lived on the third floor, retired. He went downstairs every morning to practice tai chi. I pretended to exercise and struck up a conversation. "Uncle Sun, how long have you lived here?"
"About ten years."
"When was the slide downstairs built?"
Uncle Sun paused mid-movement, then continued. "Built with the neighborhood. Ten years now."
"Has… anything happened there?"
Uncle Sun finished his form and looked at me, sizing me up and down. "Which floor do you live on?"
"Seventh."
"Seventh floor…" He nodded. "You can hear it from there?"
I froze. "Hear what?"
He didn't answer, going back to his tai chi. "Young man, close your window when you sleep."
Then he said nothing more, acting like I wasn't there.
Close the window.
I thought about that sentence all day. Was it to keep the sound out? Or to keep something else out? I was distracted at work that day, zoning out in meetings and getting reminded by my boss twice. All I could think about was Uncle Sun's words and the slide at night.
That night, I hesitated for a long time before closing the window. It was July, and sleeping with the window shut was sweltering. Even with the fan on, I sweated buckets and tossed and turned for ages without falling asleep.
At two a.m., I still woke up.
But this time, the sound from the slide was different. No more shushing friction. Just soft, rhythmic knocking.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Like someone hitting their head against something.
I lay frozen in the dark. The window was closed, so the sound was much quieter, but I could still hear it—same rhythm: thud, two-second pause, thud, two-second pause.
Then I heard a sound outside my door.
Footsteps in the hallway. Not normal walking. Soft, dragging steps—one step, long pause, another step. The sound was faint but eerily clear, seeping in through the crack under the door, making my scalp tingle.
I rented an old security door with a gap at the bottom, through which I could see the hallway light.
I turned my head. The hallway voice-activated light was on. A shadow fell across the gap—it was too short. A normal adult's shadow would block most of the light, but this only covered a thin strip at the bottom.
It looked like a child.
I held my breath.
Whatever was outside stood there for a long time. Then came the soft sound of fingernails scratching the door.
Screech—
From left to right.
Then silence. The hallway light went out. The gap went black.
I had no idea if it had left. I didn't dare look through the peephole.
I lay there with my eyes open until dawn.
At seven in the morning, my alarm went off. The first thing I did was open the door. The hallway was empty.
But there were four shallow scratches on the door, left to right, like fingernail marks. I touched them—they weren't deep, but I could feel the grooves. They reached just above my knee—height a five-year-old child could reach while squatting.
I went to the property office to check the security footage.
The office was on the first floor. Master Liu, who managed the cameras, was in his forties. I explained what I wanted, and he glanced at me. "The cameras are broken."
"When did they break?"
"Been a while."
"Which ones? The one outside my door?"
"All of them. The whole neighborhood's cameras are broken. Waiting for replacements."
He was lying. When I walked in, I'd seen the camera feed from the neighborhood gate on his screen, with security guards patrolling.
But I didn't call him out. I nodded and turned to leave.
He called after me at the door. "Hey, which floor do you live on?"
"Seventh."
He was quiet for a moment. "Seventh floor… you're the one who keeps waking up in the middle of the night?"
I turned back. "How do you know?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it, waving his hand. "Nothing, nothing. Go home. Don't go out at night."
"Master Liu, what's really going on with that slide?"
His expression shifted, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. In the end, he only said: "Go ask Old Sun. He knows more."
Then he stood up and closed the door. I heard the bolt slide home.
That afternoon, I found Old Sun. He was playing chess in the pavilion. When he saw me coming, his face darkened immediately.
"Uncle Sun, Master Liu told me to ask you."
Old Sun pushed the chessboard away. "I'm done playing." His opponent muttered and left.
Old Sun sighed. "Sit."
I sat down.
He was silent for a long time. Outside the pavilion, an old lady walked her dog. The dog barked twice; she scolded it, and the sound faded away. A faint scent of osmanthus filled the air, but I felt cold all over.
"You live in the west apartment on the seventh floor?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been here?"
"Less than half a year."
"No wonder." He nodded. "The person who lived there before moved out after two months."
My heart sank. "Why?"
Old Sun pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "Do you know when this neighborhood was built?"
"You said about ten years."
"Eleven years. The developer built the slide with the neighborhood. It was nice back then—kids played there every day. But eight years ago, something happened."
I waited.
"A five-year-old girl had an accident on the slide. She didn't fall off. Her mom called her home for dinner at dark, but she refused. Her mom went back first, thinking the girl would come when she was tired. But by eight o'clock, she still hadn't returned. Her mom went downstairs to look, searched the whole neighborhood, and found nothing. Guess where they finally found her?"
I shook my head.
"Right under the slide. Not outside—inside. The slide was plastic, hollow, with a curved space about thirty or forty centimeters high at the bottom. She was wedged in that gap, head inside, feet out, stuck tight. No one knew how she'd crawled in. By the time they found her, she was already gone."
Chills ran down my spine.
"The coroner said she suffocated. But the strange part was, she had no external injuries, her clothes were neat, and she even had a smile on her face. Like she'd crawled in to play and just… never came back out."
"What happened then?"
"Her mom lost her mind. She went to sit by the slide every midnight, calling her daughter's name. After three months, she moved away. But ever since then, strange things started happening with the slide."
"What kind of strange things?"
"First the noises. The slide moves on its own at two a.m., like someone's sliding on it. The property checked many times—the slide was firmly fixed, no loose parts, not even the wind could move it. But it still made noise. Then the seventh floor—that girl's family lived in the west apartment on the seventh floor."
My scalp went numb. That was my apartment.
"Two people lived there before you. The first was a young woman. She stayed three months, said she woke up exactly at two every night, heard the slide, and always felt like someone was in the living room. Then she moved out. The second was a guy, tough and not superstitious. He lasted two months, then ran downstairs in the middle of the night and sat by the slide all night. He terminated the lease the next day. When asked what he saw, he wouldn't say. But the agent said his face was ashen, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking."
"How long was the apartment empty?"
"One year. The landlord repainted it and replaced the furniture, then rented it out. To you."
I suddenly felt a cold breath on the back of my neck, like someone was blowing on me. I snapped around—nothing. Only the osmanthus leaves rustling outside the pavilion.
"Uncle Sun, how do you know all this?"
"I was the property manager back then. I got fired after the accident, but I never moved. I've lived here ever since. I always think… that kid's still here. She didn't mean any harm. She just wants someone to play with."
Old Sun stood up and left. After a few steps, he stopped, his back to me. "Wipe off the scratches on your door. Don't leave them."
I watched his figure disappear into the building entrance.
That night, I didn't close the window.
I don't know why. Maybe Old Sun's words made me think the girl was just lonely. Maybe I was just being stupid. Anyway, I lay on the bed with the window open, waiting for two o'clock.
At 1:58 a.m., I suddenly woke up, like someone had pushed me out of a dream.
Exactly at two, the slide made a noise.
This time, no shushing. Just a faint tremor in the plastic slide, like something light was moving on it.
I sat up and walked to the window. I didn't hide. I just stood there looking down.
The slide was empty, but the dark patch at the bottom appeared again, slowly dragging itself toward the flower bed.
I stared at it. My heart raced, but I didn't look away.
"Who are you?" I called out.
My voice echoed through the empty neighborhood. I sounded ridiculous, talking to a slide.
The noise stopped. The dark shape stopped too. Then it turned around.
I couldn't see its shape, but I knew it was looking at me.
Ten seconds of silence. Then the slide made a noise again—not a tremor, but thud, thud, thud, steady and rhythmic.
This time I recognized it. It wasn't head-banging. It was clapping.
Clapping slowly, thud, thud, thud, like applauding.
For me? Because I'd spoken?
Cold sweat broke out on my back. I stepped back and closed the window. The clapping stopped immediately.
Then I heard footsteps in the hallway, dragging, getting closer.
I stared at the door. The voice-activated light under the gap turned on. The short shadow appeared again.
This time, no scratching. Just soft knocking.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three times, gentle, like a child knocking with knuckles.
I stood in the living room two meters from the door, my hands shaking. But some crazy impulse made me take two steps forward.
I stood in front of the door and looked through the peephole. The light was on. The hallway was empty.
But the knocking continued.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The knocks were directly below the peephole. If someone was there, I would have seen them.
But there was nothing.
I slowly squatted down and peered under the peephole.
And I saw it.
A single eye, looking up at me from below the peephole.
It was big and round, the sclera gray, the pupil so black it didn't look human. It stared unblinkingly at the peephole. At me.
I stumbled backward and fell to the floor, scrambling away, knocking over the shoe rack and spilling shoes everywhere.
A sound came from outside the door—not clapping, not knocking. Soft, intermittent giggling, like a little girl.
Giggle-giggle… giggle-giggle…
Then the sound grew fainter and farther away, like she was running off laughing.
The hallway light went out.
I sat in the living room all night. At dawn, I checked the door. The four scratches had become six. The two new ones crossed over the old ones, like an X.
I called the agent. "Bro, I want to terminate the lease."
"Why again? You've only been here half a year."
"There's something wrong with the apartment."
He was quiet. "What's wrong?"
"Do you know something happened here before?"
A long silence on the line. "Who told you that?"
"People downstairs."
"…Wait. I'll ask the landlord."
He called back twenty minutes later. "The landlord said that was years ago. It has nothing to do with the apartment. If you want to leave, no deposit refund."
"I don't want the deposit."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. I'm moving out in the next couple of days."
The agent was quiet again. "Bro, I'll be honest with you. None of the people who moved out before asked for their deposit back. The landlord knows what's going on, but he won't fix it or lower the price. Just be careful."
He hung up.
I packed my things that same day, fitting everything into two suitcases. While cleaning the kitchen, I found a small hair clip at the very back of the cabinet. It was pink, with a faded bow, the plastic yellowed with age.
Eight years ago. Five-year-old girl. West apartment on the seventh floor. She'd lived here. This was hers.
I set the hair clip on the kitchen counter and didn't take it. I hesitated for a second, remembering Old Sun's words: She didn't mean any harm. She just wants someone to play with.
I said something silly to the clip. "Sorry, I have to go."
Naturally, there was no reply.
As I turned to leave the kitchen, I heard a soft snap behind me, like plastic hitting tile.
I looked back. The hair clip was still on the counter, but it had flipped over—the bow facing down. I'd placed it with the bow facing up.
I hurried out of the kitchen, dragged my suitcases out the door, and didn't look back when I closed it. But I heard a soft sound from inside the door:
Screech.
I stayed at a friend's place for a week, then found a new apartment on the other side of the city, twelfth floor. No slide downstairs—only a road and restaurants across the street. My friend teased me, saying I was so scared of my old place that I'd picked one with no kids around.
I thought it was over.
Three weeks after moving, I was out drinking with a friend until nearly two a.m. When I got out of the car, I checked my phone: 1:58.
I entered the neighborhood, got in the elevator, and pressed twelve. The doors closed. I immediately felt something was wrong—the elevator was rising, but I couldn't feel any shaking. The floor numbers changed slowly: 1, 2, 3, 4…
At the seventh floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. The hallway was empty, not even a breeze. I pressed the close button, and the elevator continued up.
I got out on twelve, took off my shoes, and heard a sound from outside the window—faint, distant, like plastic rubbing, or someone whispering softly.
I froze. There was no slide downstairs in my new neighborhood. The nearest playground was in the next complex, over a wall and across the road, at least two hundred meters away. There was no way I could hear a slide.
But the sound grew clearer. It wasn't coming from next door. It was coming from behind me. From the living room.
I spun around. The living room was dark, only a faint rectangular patch of light from the window on the floor. The sofa, coffee table, TV stand—all were normal.
But there was something on the coffee table.
A small pink hair clip, faded bow, yellowed plastic.
I hadn't taken it. I'd left it on the kitchen counter in my old apartment.
But it was on my coffee table in my new home.
I stared at it, stepping slowly backward toward the door, reaching for the handle.
The hair clip moved. It spun slowly in a circle on the table, the bow pointing straight at me.
Then a voice came from where the hair clip lay—soft, tiny, but perfectly clear:
"Uncle, why did you leave?"
I twisted the door open and ran out.
I stayed at the convenience store downstairs all night. The clerk was a young guy, scrolling on his phone, glancing at me occasionally like I was crazy. I bought a bottle of water, took a sip. The cold water slid down my throat, but I still felt freezing.
At dawn, I went back to grab my ID and wallet, leaving everything else. I stayed in a hotel near work for three days, then moved to another district.
I never saw the hair clip again.
But some things you can't run from.
I now live on the sixth floor of an old neighborhood, no elevator. I checked carefully before moving in: no slide downstairs, no playground, not even a swing. Most residents are elderly, who go to bed early. It's very quiet.
The first month was peaceful. I thought it was finally over.
But last month, I started waking up again at two a.m.
No slide sounds. There was no slide here.
Just knocking. Tap, tap, tap—three soft knocks, long pause, three more.
I looked through the peephole. The hallway was empty. But the knocking wouldn't stop.
I called the property. They said there were no hallway cameras. I asked the neighbors. They said they heard nothing.
Last night, it knocked again. I stood in front of the door without looking through the peephole, pressing my ear against the wood.
The knocking stopped. Then I heard a voice—not from outside the door, but from inside the door itself, from the wooden fibers, from the cracks in the paint, from the lock cylinder:
A tiny, thin voice, as if from behind a thick wall.
"Uncle, I came to find you."
Today I bought a security camera and installed it outside the door.
At two a.m., the camera showed the hallway empty. But a new scratch slowly appeared on the door, left to right, like fingernails, at exactly the height a five-year-old could reach while squatting.
I'm sitting on the bed typing now. The sky is bright. The camera is still on. The scratch is still there. Outside the window, the sky is gray, with light rain misting, blurring the glass and the view beyond.
I don't know if she'll come tonight.
But I remember Old Sun's words: She didn't mean any harm. She just wants someone to play with.
I've moved three times, across three districts, over ten kilometers apart. And she still found me.
Have you ever noticed if there's a children's slide downstairs where you live?
If there is, next time you wake up at two a.m., listen carefully.
Shush-shush-shush… pause.
Shush-shush-shush… pause.
If it isn't the wind, or pipes, or someone dragging a chair upstairs—
don't look downstairs.
Seriously. Don't look.