You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Apartment buildings promise privacy through proximity: hundreds of lives stacked in neat rectangles, each behind its own door, each pretending not to hear the others. But sometimes, the walls are too thin. Sometimes the building hears too much.

In 1994, a woman named Dana Reeve moved into Unit 3B at the Maple View Apartments, a mid-century block outside Chicago known mostly for cheap rent and bad insulation. Four months later, she was gone.

No break-in. No sign of struggle. Just her furniture, her clothes, her answering machine blinking with messages that had already been played.

Neighbors claimed they heard things through the walls — whispered voices that weren’t Dana’s, radios that turned on after she left for work, knocks that repeated her own rhythm back to her.

They called it the Apartment That Listened Back.

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