Chapter 1: Apartment 5B

Chapter 1: Apartment 5B

The building smelled of damp concrete and a century of forgotten meals. Rohan pushed open the heavy iron-gate door, which groaned in protest, and stepped into a dimly lit hallway. A single, naked bulb flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows that made the peeling wallpaper look like sloughing skin. Apartment 5B was at the very end.

"You'd think a guy with a brand-new software developer job could afford a place without a ghost in the lobby," Kunal grumbled, nudging Rohan with his elbow.

Rohan managed a tired smile. "Give him a break. It's his first place. He’s proud."

Aman’s pride was on full display when he swung the door to 5B open. His smile was wide, a beacon of defiant cheer in the gloomy corridor. "Welcome to the fortress of solitude!" he boomed, ushering them in.

The apartment was small, a living room that bled into a kitchenette, with a single bedroom door off to the side. It was sparsely furnished with a lumpy second-hand couch, a wobbly coffee table, and a few milk crates. But to Aman, it was a kingdom. The rest of the group—Sneha, Zoya, and Pranav—were already there, scattered around the living room, plastic cups of cheap beer in hand. The air was filled with laughter and the tinny beat of a pop song from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

"It's got character," Zoya, the artist of the group, said with a diplomatic nod. She was eyeing a large water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a screaming face.

"It's shady, is what it is," Aman corrected her, his chest puffed out. "But it's my shady. No more landlords, no more roommates. Just us, whenever we want. Drink up!"

He topped off Rohan's cup, and for a while, the gloom of the building was forgotten. They were six friends, fresh out of college, perched on the precipice of real life. This apartment, however dilapidated, felt like a victory. They laughed about old professors, planned future trips, and teased Pranav for already looking spooked by the flickering lights.

"It's the wiring," Rohan said, trying to reassure him. "Old buildings have terrible wiring."

He had just taken a sip of his beer when the single ceiling light in the living room began to flicker erratically. Not the gentle, rhythmic pulse of a dying bulb, but a violent, spastic strobing.

"Whoa, rave party!" Kunal shouted over the music.

Then, with a final, angry buzz, the light died, plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the grimy window. The laughter caught in their throats.

The music from the speaker didn't stop. Instead, it began to warp. The cheerful pop song slowed, the singer's voice dropping octaves, stretching into a guttural, demonic drawl. The melody twisted into a discordant funeral dirge. For a horrifying moment, the distorted voice seemed to form new words, slithering out of the speaker and coiling in the silent room.

"...six chairs at the table... six souls in the room..."

A collective shiver went through them. Pranav made a small, choked sound.

"...but the seventh is coming... soon..."

Aman scrambled for his phone, fumbling with the flashlight. "What the hell?"

"...don't... let... him... in..."

With a final screech of digital feedback, the speaker fell silent. The only sound was their own ragged breathing in the oppressive dark.

"Okay, that was… weird," Sneha said, her voice trembling slightly.

"It's the battery," Rohan said immediately, the logician in him desperately searching for an anchor. "The speaker's battery must be dying. It causes audio distortion."

"It said 'don't let him in,' Rohan," Zoya whispered.

Before he could formulate another rational explanation, a frantic banging came from the bathroom door. "Hey! Let me out! It's locked!"

It was Sneha's voice. They all turned to look at the sound, then back at Sneha, who was standing right beside the couch, her face pale.

"That wasn't me," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror.

The banging continued, frantic and desperate. "Let me out! Please!"

Aman finally got his phone's flashlight on, its beam cutting a shaky path through the darkness. He rushed to the bathroom door, grabbing the old brass knob. "It's stuck!" he grunted, rattling it uselessly.

"Kick it down!" Kunal urged, moving to help.

Together, they slammed their shoulders against the cheap wood. On the third try, the lock splintered and the door flew inward with a crash. Aman swept the flashlight beam across the tiny room.

It was empty.

The small, frosted window was shut and barred. The shower curtain was pulled back. There was nowhere to hide. The banging had come from an empty room.

A wave of cold dread washed over Rohan, prickling his skin. This wasn't faulty wiring. This wasn't a dying battery.

"Maybe... maybe the sound came from next door?" Pranav stammered, his voice thin. "The walls are thin, right?"

As if in answer, the bathroom door, which had swung open against the wall, slowly began to creak shut on its own. It closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing them in the living room once more.

No one spoke. The party was over. The only goal now was to understand, or to escape.

"I need some air," Zoya said, her voice tight. She pushed past them and stumbled towards the bedroom. Rohan followed, a protective instinct kicking in. He found her splashing her face with water from a bottle over the bedroom's small sink.

"It's just this place, Zoya. It's old and creepy," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He looked at their reflections in the mirror above the sink. Her face was a mask of fear. His own looked pale and drawn. He watched as she took a deep breath, her warm exhalation fogging a small patch of the glass.

But then the rest of the mirror fogged over. Not slowly, but in an instant, as if a hot, wet breath had been released directly onto its surface from the other side. A thick, white blanket of condensation obscured their reflections completely.

Rohan stared, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was cold. There was no steam.

He reached out a trembling hand and wiped a streak across the glass. For a split second, through the clearing mist, he saw his own terrified eyes looking back. And for an even more fleeting, sickening instant, he saw another pair of eyes behind his. Dark, sunken, and ancient. Then they were gone.

"Did you see that?" he choked out.

Zoya just shook her head, unable to speak, her gaze locked on the mirror as it began to slowly, impossibly, clear on its own.

They backed out of the bedroom, rejoining the others who were huddled together in the dark living room, their phone flashlights pointed at the floor like campfire storytellers. The celebratory beer was forgotten. The illusion of safety was shattered.

"We should go," Sneha said, her voice barely a whisper. "Now."

"Yeah," Aman agreed, his bravado completely gone. "Yeah, let's go."

They were gathering their jackets, their hands shaking as they fumbled for keys and wallets, when the sound came.

It was not a creak of the floorboards or a groan from the ancient plumbing. It was not the wind rattling the windowpane.

It was a knock.

Loud. Sharp. Deliberate.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

And it came from inside the tall, dark-wood wardrobe standing against the far wall of the bedroom.