I moved into the building on a Wednesday.
It was too quiet for Delhi. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful — just... off.
My flat was 405.
The one across — 406 — always had its door locked. No nameplate. No noise. No sign of life.
Until one night.
I was brushing my teeth when I heard something through the bathroom wall. The wall I shared with 406.
A man’s voice.
> “Stop crying. You weren’t supposed to scream.”
Then — a muffled sob.
And a loud thud.
Metal scraping against the tiles.
I stood frozen. Toothbrush in hand. Heart racing.
Another voice whispered:
> “We’ll dump her behind Majnu Ka Tilla. Same as last time.”
My body went cold. I backed away from the wall slowly, trying not to make a sound.
The next morning, I ran to the security guard and asked about 406. He looked up from his chai and chuckled.
“406? That flat's been locked for three years. No one lives there since that girl went missing.”
I left without replying.
That night, I slid a note under the door of 406.
> “I heard you. I know.”
I thought I was being bold.
I was being stupid.
Later that evening, someone knocked at my door.
I opened it slowly.
It was a woman in her 30s. Pale face, red lipstick, expression unreadable.
“Hi,” she said calmly. “I live in 406. You dropped this under my door.”
I swallowed hard. “I— I thought no one lived there…”
She tilted her head. “People assume too much.”
She smiled and turned to leave.
And that’s when I saw it.
In the hallway mirror behind her — there was no reflection.
The next day, I broke into 406.
It was supposed to be empty anyway, right?
I called in a favor from a locksmith. Told him it was my cousin’s place. He believed me.
Inside the flat, everything was... wrong.
Plastic sheets covered the walls.
There were camera lights.
And a single metal chair in the middle of the room — stained.
Chains bolted to the floor.
My legs felt weak. My breath short.
A diary lay on the floor. Open to a page that read:
> “Target: Room 405
Female. Lives alone.
Witnessed transfer.
Neutralize by 31st July.”
That was today.
I ran.
I rushed to the police. They followed me back. But when we returned, the flat was clean.
No chair. No diary.
Just dust and a faint smell of bleach.
That night, I decided to leave. I packed my bag and booked a room far from the city.
Before leaving, I noticed something on the floor, slid under my door.
A polaroid photo.
It was of me.
Sleeping.
The same night.
On the back, in smudged ink, were the words:
> “Too late. You already heard us.”
Three days passed. I stayed in a shady lodge far outside Delhi. I tried to forget. But I couldn’t.
The screams.
The metal dragging.
The red lipstick.
One evening, I checked the photo again.
Now there was something new.
A second line — not written, but scratched in with something sharp:
> “You moved out.
But you didn’t move on.”
Panic hit me again. I reached for my phone. That’s when it rang.
Unknown number. I picked it up without thinking.
“Hello, room 405,” a man whispered.
I froze.
“We recorded your voice. We’re going to use it.”
Click.
That night, I called Naina — a journalism student I knew from college. She was bold. Curious. And obsessed with crime stories.
She agreed to help. She came the next day with her recorder, a GoPro, and that stupid grin of someone who thought this was just another story for her blog.
We went back to 406.
This time, everything was back — the chair, the walls, the diary.
Only now the diary had a new entry:
> “405 returned.
Unexpected.
New witness: female, age 22.
Neutralize both.”
We didn’t even scream.
We ran.
But the lift stopped midway and refused to move. Phones lost signal. The staircase lights kept flickering.
When we reached the main gate — it was shut.
From the outside.
And someone stood beyond the glass. The same woman from 406. Red lipstick, white saree. That creepy smile .
Holding the same polaroid.
But now there were two people in it.
Me.
And Naina.
Sleeping.
That night.
We don’t know how we escaped. Or if we really did.
All I know is every morning since, I find a new polaroid outside my door.
Different poses.
Same people.
Me. Naina.
Sleeping.
Last night, I flipped the newest photo over.
The scratches had changed again. Now they weren’t words.
They were numbers.
I think they're counting days.
We're on Day 6 now.
And I don’t know when it ends.
React
