My Neighbor Celebrates Valentine’s Day Every Night

When I first moved into the apartment building, I thought my neighbor was just lonely.

His name was Victor. Mid-thirties, quiet, polite in that distant way some people are when they don’t want conversation to go further than “hello.”

We lived across the hall from each other. The walls were thin, the kind where you could hear someone sneeze if the building was quiet enough.

And every night at exactly midnight, Victor had dinner.

Not normal dinner.

Romantic dinner.

I noticed it the first week I moved in.

I’d be lying in bed scrolling on my phone when I’d hear chairs moving across the floor through the wall. Plates clinking. Soft music starting—old jazz, the kind with scratchy piano and slow trumpet.

Then Victor’s voice.

Soft.

Affectionate.

Like he was speaking to someone sitting right in front of him.

“Did you have a good day?”

Pause.

“I missed you too.”

Another pause.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

At first I assumed he had someone over every night.

But something about the rhythm of it felt strange.

Because there was never another voice.

Just him.

Talking.

Pausing.

Responding to silence.

________________________________________

A few nights later curiosity got the better of me.

Our apartments shared a small balcony separated by a thin metal divider. If I leaned out just slightly, I could see into part of Victor’s dining room through his sliding glass door.

That night at midnight, I peeked.

Victor had set up a small table near the window.

Two plates.

Two wine glasses.

Candles lit.

A neat little Valentine-style setup even though it was the middle of March.

Victor sat on one side.

The other chair was empty.

He raised his glass toward it.

“Happy anniversary,” he said softly.

Then he drank.

And smiled at no one.

I remember thinking: okay, that’s creepy.

But also kind of sad.

Maybe he’d lost someone.

People deal with grief in strange ways.

So I stopped watching.

Or at least, I tried to.

________________________________________

But every night it happened again.

Midnight.

Candles.

Music.

Victor talking to the empty chair.

Sometimes he laughed quietly.

Sometimes his voice got softer, like he was whispering something intimate.

Once I heard him say:

“You know I’d never hurt you.”

That one made the hair on my arms stand up.

________________________________________

The first time I realized something was wrong was three weeks later.

I was coming home late from work when I noticed Victor’s door slightly open.

Just a crack.

Inside I could see the dining room table.

Already set.

Two plates.

Two glasses.

Candles waiting to be lit.

But something else caught my eye.

A photograph sitting in the empty chair.

A framed picture propped against the backrest.

I shouldn’t have looked.

But I did.

The woman in the picture was smiling brightly at the camera.

Long brown hair.

Bright eyes.

The kind of smile that looked genuine.

And under the photo frame was a small engraved plaque.

My stomach tightened when I read it.

Emily – Forever Mine

________________________________________

That night I searched Victor’s name online.

At first nothing came up.

Then I added the word missing.

And found the article.

Three years ago, a woman named Emily Carter vanished.

Her boyfriend told police she’d left their apartment after an argument.

She was never seen again.

The article had a photo.

The same woman from the frame on Victor’s chair.

My heart started pounding.

Because the boyfriend’s name listed in the article was Victor.

________________________________________

After that, I couldn’t stop listening.

Every midnight.

Every conversation.

Every eerie pause where he waited for her reply.

Then one night he said something that made my stomach twist.

“I told them you left.”

Pause.

“I told them you walked out.”

Another pause.

Then a quiet laugh.

“But you’re still here with me, aren’t you?”

The chair scraped slightly.

Like he’d leaned toward it.

“You never really left.”

________________________________________

I was already dialing the police when something strange happened.

For the first time in weeks…

Victor stopped talking.

The music cut off.

The apartment went silent.

Then I heard something else.

A chair moving.

Not Victor’s.

The other one.

My blood ran cold.

Because Victor spoke again.

But this time his voice sounded… confused.

“Emily?”

Silence.

Then a quiet whisper from his apartment.

A woman’s voice.

Soft.

Hoarse.

Three words.

“I never left.”

Victor let out a nervous laugh.

“Emily, that’s not funny.”

The chair moved again.

Slowly scraping across the floor.

Closer to him.

I pressed my ear against the wall.

Victor’s voice shook.

“…Emily?”

Then he screamed.

A horrible choking scream that cut off suddenly.

Something heavy crashed to the floor.

The candles must have gone out because the music never came back.

The police arrived ten minutes later.

When they broke into Victor’s apartment, they found him dead on the floor beside the dinner table.

There were deep bruises around his throat.

Like someone had strangled him.

But the apartment had been locked from the inside.

No signs of anyone else there.

Just Victor.

The table.

Two plates.

Two glasses.

And the second chair.

Which was no longer empty.

Because the photograph of Emily had fallen face-down onto Victor’s plate.

And the back of the frame had something written on it.

Three words scratched into the wood.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”