🕵️‍♂️ "The Room Across the Hall"

The apartment was small, but it had clean floors, cheap rent, and enough space for Ava and her books. After everything that happened in the city—the panic attacks, the stalker, the job loss—it felt like a reset. The town of Westridge was nothing special, but it was quiet. Exactly what she needed.

She moved in on a Tuesday.

By Thursday, she noticed something strange.

The door across the hall—Unit 3B—never opened.

Not once.

No creaks. No footsteps. No sounds of TV or movement. The hallway was always silent, save for her own door and the distant hum of the elevator.

At first, she didn’t care. Not everyone’s life was noisy. But it stayed in her mind. Every time she locked her door or came home from work, her eyes flicked to 3B.

Still. Still. Still.

One evening, about a week in, she passed by and paused.

There was something stuck under the door. A piece of paper.

Her pulse picked up. Curiosity mixed with caution. She bent down and gently pulled it out.

It was an envelope.

Her name was written on the front.

Ava.

No stamp. No return address. Just her name, in neat, narrow cursive.

She looked down the hallway. Empty.

Heart racing, she opened it right there.

“You seem kind. Please don’t tell anyone I’m still here.

They think I left. But I never did.

— M.”

She blinked, rereading the words.

Her first thought was prank. But who even knew her here?

Her second thought was worse.

Was someone hiding in the apartment across the hall?

That night, she didn’t sleep.

The next morning, she knocked on the super’s door.

“Hey,” she said casually. “Just wondering—who lives in 3B?”

The man rubbed his beard. “No one. Empty since March. Girl used to live there. Quiet. Moved out suddenly.”

“What was her name?”

He frowned. “Marla, I think. Why?”

Ava forced a smile. “Just curious.”

But she wasn’t just curious anymore. She was afraid.

That night, she left her hallway light on. At 1:23 a.m., she heard it.

A scrape

Metal on tile.

She sat up in bed.

Another scrape.

Then silence.

She crept to the peephole and pressed her eye to it.

Unit 3B’s door was slightly open.

A shadow passed behind it.

Ava stumbled back, heart hammering. She reached for her phone—but stopped.

Call the police for what? A shadow? A note with no proof?

Instead, she slid a piece of her own paper under 3B’s door.

“Are you in danger?”

She waited. Hours passed.

Nothing.

The next morning, the door was closed again. Her note was gone.

She tried to push it all from her mind. Focus on work. Call her sister. Go for walks.

But then the second note appeared. This time inside her apartment.

Taped to her bathroom mirror.

“He checks sometimes. If he finds me, it starts again.”

She didn’t scream. She wanted to.

She scanned every window, every door. No signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen.

She packed a bag. Just in case.

That evening, she stood outside 3B. Her hands trembled.

She knocked.

Nothing.

Knocked again.

Then a voice—barely audible.

“Don’t.”

A whisper.

She backed away.

Later that night, a loud crash shook the hallway.

She opened her door. 3B’s door was wide open now.

No lights.

No shadow.

She stepped inside.

It was empty.

No furniture. No bed. Just dust and darkness.

And one thing more:

A small notebook, lying on the floor near the wall.

She picked it up. It was filled with entries.

Marla’s writing. Day after day of being watched. Locked in. Left without food. Someone had kept her here, hidden, until she escaped—or something worse.

The last page read:

If someone finds this, I was real. I was here. I mattered.

Ava did go to the police.

They searched the apartment. Found hair samples. Scratches under the window sill. Dried blood under the floorboard.

But no Marla.

The super swore he didn’t know.

No suspects. No clear evidence. Case closed.

But Ava knew better.

She left the notebook with them, then moved out a week later.

Still, before she did, she left something behind.

Taped to the door of 3B.

“You were here. You mattered. We remember you.”

🔍 The Lesson:

Sometimes the people who vanish leave behind whispers—quiet proof that they were real. If we listen closely, we can carry their stories forward. In a world eager to forget the missing, remembering is resistance.

A story by : Pir Ashfaq Ahmad