A New Home, A Hidden Past

The moment Hira stepped out of the taxi and onto the damp, cobbled street, she felt a chill crawl down her spine. Ridge Town was supposed to be a new beginning — a sleepy hilltop community far from the chaos of her past life in Karachi. She had rented an old Victorian-style apartment at the edge of the town, nestled between pine trees and fog-draped hills.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

Her apartment — 3A Maple Lane — stood tall and slightly crooked, as if time had leaned on it too hard. The windows were high and narrow, and the door creaked with an eerie reluctance when she pushed it open. She could hear the echoes of her own footsteps on the wooden floor.

“This is home now,” she whispered, forcing a smile.

Hira was 27, and this was the first time in years that she was completely alone. No family. No friends. Just the remnants of a life she was desperate to forget. What she left behind was buried — or so she thought.

She spent her first few days unpacking, redecorating, and exploring the town. Ridge Town was small — population just under 10,000. People were polite but distant, especially with outsiders. Her neighbors nodded politely, but no one made an effort to talk, not even Mrs. Allen from 3B who always peeked through her blinds.

But Hira liked the quiet. Silence, after all, couldn’t hurt you.

Until it did.


The First Sign

It was on the fifth night that she heard it — a soft knocking sound from her living room window. She checked her phone. 2:13 AM.

She lived on the third floor.

Hira cautiously crept toward the window. The wind outside howled, trees swayed violently, and shadows danced on the walls. But when she pulled back the curtain, there was no one there.

“Just the wind,” she told herself.

But it wasn’t just the wind.

The knocking happened again the next night. Same time. Same window. Again — nothing outside.

By the seventh night, it wasn’t knocking anymore. It was humming. A soft, almost childlike melody. A tune that felt familiar… too familiar.

She froze.

That lullaby — her mother used to hum it to her when she was seven.

But her mother died when she was ten.


---

The Eyes from Across

There was a man in the apartment across from hers. 7B.

She noticed him the day she moved in — tall, dark jacket, rarely left his window. His curtains were usually drawn, but sometimes she’d catch a sliver of his face. Pale. Emotionless. Watching.

One evening, she waved.

He didn’t respond.

Later that night, she found a sticky note under her door.

“Don’t look into 7B’s window again.”

She ran into the hallway, but there was no one. Just dim lights and a flickering bulb near the staircase.


---

The Photo Frame

While dusting an old shelf in her bedroom, Hira discovered a small crack in the wall. Inside it, tightly wedged, was a photo frame — old and dusty.

She pulled it out and stared in disbelief.

It was a picture of her.

But it wasn’t recent.

She was wearing her school uniform — the same one from 9th grade. The photo had no date, but the background was unmistakable: her childhood home in Karachi.

“How did this get here?” she whispered.

There was something scribbled on the back of the frame in black ink.

"She never left."


---

A Phone Call from Nowhere

That same night, her phone rang. No caller ID. No number.

She hesitated before answering.

A woman’s voice spoke.

“You left the door open, Hira.”

Chills ran down her spine.

She checked — her apartment door was closed.

“I’m watching you,” the voice said again. Calm. Gentle. Like a lullaby in itself.

She hung up, heart racing, and turned off her phone.


The Dreams Begin

Over the next few nights, the nightmares returned — vivid, terrifying, and strangely real. In one, she saw herself standing in a dark corridor with dozens of doors, each one opening to reveal a version of herself: crying, screaming, bleeding, laughing.

In one dream, she opened a door and saw her own body, floating above her bed, eyes open, staring straight at her.

She woke up screaming.

And there — standing at her bedroom door — was a figure.

Tall. Still.

Just standing there.

When she turned on the light, it was gone.



The Journal

In the kitchen cabinet, behind an old cereal box, she found a leather-bound journal. The name on the first page stopped her breath.

"Property of Hira Saeed"

But she had never owned such a journal.

She flipped through the pages.

Entries detailed her thoughts, fears, secrets… things she had never written down.

The final entry read:

“He’s in the walls now. I can hear him breathing. If I disappear, know that it wasn’t by choice.”

Signed: Hira.

Her hands trembled.

What was happening?

Who had been living here before her?

Or worse…

Was she the one who had always been here?

To Be Continued...

Next in Part 2: "The Man in Apartment 7B"
She never saw him… but he watched her every night.