Maya didn’t mind the silence.
In fact, after the chaos, she had clawed her way out of a messy breakup, two months of sleepless nights, and a series of panic attacks in the office elevator, she welcomed it like a balm. Flat 4A was small, undecorated, but it was hers. And quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around her like cotton.
Her apartment faced the back of the building. No road noise. No vendors yelling. No footsteps above, there was no one in 5A. According to the watchman, only three other flats in the building were occupied. She liked that. Less small talk. Less judgment.
Most nights, she worked late at the small desk near the balcony. She would light a candle, sip chamomile tea, and sketch until her wrist ached. And every night, before sleep, she would pause and appreciate the stillness.
Until one night, the silence broke.
It began with a murmur. A low, distant hum of conversation, not outside, not above. From the wall behind her bed.
From Flat 4B.
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At first, she thought it was the TV. But the voices didn’t match any show. There was a rhythm to them, low and deliberate. She leaned her head against the shared wall and listened.
A woman’s voice: “She’s here now.”
A pause.
A man’s reply: “We wait. She doesn’t remember.”
Maya backed away.
She considered knocking. But it was well past midnight. And more importantly, Flat 4B was supposed to be unoccupied.
She opened the hallway door. The passage was still, dimly lit, with shadows trembling near the staircase. She walked over to Flat 4B.
The nameplate was missing. The door sealed with a thin film of dust. She pressed her ear against the door.
Nothing.
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The next morning, she asked the watchman, “Someone moved into 4B?”
He blinked. “No, ma’am. Builder still hasn’t sold it. No one’s entered since lockdown.”
Maya nodded, unsure of what unnerved her more, his certainty, or her inability to challenge it.
That night, the voices returned.
She lay in bed, frozen under her quilt, while the wall beside her came alive again.
“She’s listening.”
“Let her. It’s almost time.”
Maya sat upright. This time, she didn’t just hear voices. She heard scratching. Soft, like fingernails dragging against the other side of the wall.
She turned on the lights. Checked the walls. Nothing.
But the mirror on her cupboard, previously clean, now had three long smudges running down the glass.
Like something had pressed against it… from inside.
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By day, everything seemed rational.
She told herself it was stress. She hadn’t seen anyone. Nothing had moved. Maybe she had imagined the sounds. Sleep-deprivation could do strange things to a person.
But by night, Flat 4B continued its slow unveiling.
She started hearing her name. At first a whisper, “Maya…”, then a clearer call, like someone beckoning her through the wall. Then came the laughter. A child's giggle. Then sobbing. Then silence.
And then:
"The mirror. She needs to open the mirror."
Her mirror. The smudges returned, darker now.
On impulse, Maya placed her hand on the glass and recoiled. It was cold. Not just cold, wet.
She looked at her fingers. Moisture clung to them, thick and slightly gray. Like condensation. Or breath.
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On the fifth night, Maya couldn’t take it anymore. She stayed awake, waiting for the whispers.
They came.
But not from the wall.
They came from inside her apartment.
From the mirror.
As if someone was standing behind it, speaking from the other side.
“She’s ready.”
“Bring her.”
Maya approached the mirror, hand trembling. Her own reflection stared back, but it looked wrong. Her mouth wasn’t moving. But the reflection smiled.
And then it said, out loud:
“I’m in 4B. Why don’t you come over?”
The hallway was dark, and the power was flickering. But Maya walked across, barefoot, the floorboards creaking beneath her with each step. She didn’t even feel the cold anymore.
Flat 4B’s door was open.
Not wide, but enough.
Just enough to let her in.
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Days passed.
Neighbours, what few there were, started noticing the odd smell. The flickering lights. The absence of Maya’s footsteps.
The watchman called the builder, who called the police.
Flat 4A was found locked from the inside. Everything neatly arranged. A warm cup of tea sat on the table, untouched. Sketches filled the desk. Eyes, mirrors, shadows.
But Maya was gone.
The only clue?
The mirror in her cupboard. Cracked from the inside. And written across the glass in something dark and crusted:
“Occupied. Flat 4B”
In the corner of her sketchbook, investigators found a final, half-erased drawing: three blurred figures staring through a mirror, reaching for a girl with no face.
And beneath it, in a shaky scrawl:
“They needed someone who wouldn’t be missed. Someone hollow enough to let them in.
The mirror doesn’t reflect. It replaces.”
Flat 4B remains locked to this day.
But at night, residents say they still hear whispers behind the walls.
And sometimes, a voice that sounds a lot like Maya’s:
“She’s listening now.
Let her open the mirror.”
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