The Zombie in Apartment 241

My name is William Harrison, but you can call me Bill. If you are frightened easily, don’t read any further. At first you might think this story’s nothing, but you’re wrong.
    
I live in an apartment building. I’m on the second floor, apartment 240. My neighbor across the hall just moved out, and now a young man is moving in. My mom made cookies as a housewarming gift and asked me to deliver them.
    
When I walked across the hall and rang the doorbell, the man answered immediately. I watched my feet as I handed him the cookies.
    
“My mom made these.”
    
As he took them, his hand brushed mine. It felt strange. Cold, and almost lifeless. I looked up for the first time.
    
He had jet-black hair that was very dead and dirty looking. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. His eyes were crimson colored and blank.
    
I hurriedly said, “I need to finish my homework.”
    
He nodded, but as I started back, I felt him watching me. But when I spun around to look, he had vanished. I darted down the hall to my friend John Copeland’s apartment. I told him quickly what had happened.
    
He went white. “Did he talk at all?” he asked, barely audible.
    
“No.”
    
He went amazingly whiter and motioned me to follow him. He led me to his room and extracted a newspaper from a pile on his dresser. He pointed with a shaking finger at the front page headline: “Walter Jones, age twenty-one, died one week ago: Body vanished hour after discovery.”
    
I gulped and let my eyes wander to the photograph below. I drew a sharp breath. It was a young man, early twenties, with jet-black hair and a face identical to my new neighbor’s.
    
My neighbor is the zombie in apartment 241.