The Missing Girl in Apartment 304

No one in the building had seen her leave. Apartment 304 had been quiet for weeks, but now something felt off. The neighbors whispered about the girl who lived there, a young woman named Ayesha, who had moved in six months ago. She kept to herself, mostly staying inside, and people had grown curious but never intrusive.

It was late evening when I noticed the door to 304 slightly ajar. At first, I thought it was the wind. Then I saw a light flickering inside. The apartment was always dark in the evenings, the blinds drawn tight, but tonight, a shadow moved across the window. My heart raced. I knew something was wrong.

I knocked, softly at first, then louder when there was no answer. "Ayesha?" I called, trying to steady my voice. Silence. The smell hit me before anything else. It was faint but unmistakable. Something metallic, sharp. I stepped closer. The apartment smelled of fear.

I reached for my phone to call the police, but before I could dial, I noticed the living room. The furniture was in place, but there was a single chair tipped over near the balcony. Papers were scattered across the floor, and a small photograph lay face down. It showed Ayesha smiling, holding a bouquet of flowers. She looked happy, unaware of what was coming.

I stepped inside. The floor creaked under my weight, and I froze at the sound of a faint tapping from the kitchen. "Hello?" I whispered. There was no answer, only the tapping continued, rhythmic, deliberate. My instincts screamed to leave, but curiosity pushed me forward.

The kitchen door was slightly open. I pushed it gently. The room was empty except for a window swinging in the wind. The tapping stopped. I exhaled slowly, thinking I had imagined it. Then I saw it—her phone lying on the counter, screen cracked, a message flashing. It was incomplete: "I think someone is—" and then it cut off. My stomach dropped.

I backed out of the kitchen and noticed the bedroom door. Something compelled me to look inside. The room was dark, but my eyes adjusted quickly. The bed was neatly made, nothing seemed out of place, yet I felt a weight pressing down in the corner. I moved closer and saw a small piece of paper stuck under the wardrobe. It read, "Help me. 304." My hands trembled as I picked it up.

The building was quiet, almost too quiet. I ran to the lobby, thinking I would find someone to help, but the receptionist was gone. The elevator lights flickered, and the stairwell seemed darker than usual. I didn’t know if I should go up or call someone. Time was slipping, and every second felt heavier.

Suddenly, a door at the end of the hallway creaked. I turned sharply and saw her. Ayesha was standing there, pale, her eyes wide with terror. She didn’t speak, only pointed toward the fire escape. Without hesitation, I followed her instructions. We climbed down the metal stairs, the cold wind biting our faces.

When we reached the ground, she finally whispered. "I was trapped. He watched me every day. I couldn’t leave." Her voice was small, almost broken, yet filled with relief. The police arrived minutes later, alerted by a neighbor who had finally called after hearing the commotion.

Ayesha was safe, but the apartment remained behind us, silent and empty. Apartment 304 would never be the same again, and neither would the building. The mystery of the missing girl had ended, but the memory of her fear lingered in the halls, a reminder of how easily someone could vanish without a trace.