Chapter 5: Face at the Door

I was so scared my legs went weak, almost collapsed.

For a moment, I thought I would faint right there, my knees knocking. I bit down on my lip, trying not to gasp, heart racing like the Mumbai local in rush hour.

But I knew—I couldn’t make a sound, or I’d be found out.

Every muscle in my body tensed. I held my breath, afraid even the smallest sigh would give me away. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, “Beta, chup raho, sometimes silence is your only weapon.”

Who knows what he did to 402, who knows what he’d do to me.

Images flashed through my mind—news stories, police reports, neighbours who said "I always thought he was a bit odd." Nobody wants to be next.

But then I suddenly remembered—the peephole on this door is one-way.

Relief washed over me, but only for a second. It meant I could see him, but he couldn’t see me. Still, the thought of him standing right there, face so close, was enough to make my skin crawl.

So even if I put my eye to it, and he was staring from outside, he couldn’t see me.

I forced myself to take slow, silent breaths, praying he would move on, that I would not hear the dreaded sound of a key turning in my lock.

Thinking of that, I relaxed a little.

But only a little. My hands still shook, my mind still raced. The feeling of danger lingered, thick and suffocating.

But I still didn’t know what was really going on.

I scanned the corridor through the peephole, desperate for answers, for any sign that things would return to normal.

So I steeled myself and looked through the peephole again.

This time, I forced myself to stay calm, to not flinch at the first sign of movement. If I let fear control me, I’d never know what was happening.

But something weird happened—

Nothing. The corridor was empty. Not a soul in sight. The 404 man had vanished, as if swallowed by the very shadows he’d crept out of.

Through the peephole, I saw nothing. The hallway was empty.

My heart pounded louder. Was I imagining things? Was he lurking just out of sight, waiting for me to slip up?

The 404 guy had vanished.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, checked again. Still nothing but the faint light from the staircase and the dusty doormat outside 403.

Was he really that fast?

I strained to hear any sign of movement, but the building was silent. Not even the usual hum of the lift or the distant clang of utensils from someone’s midnight snack.

Even though everything seemed normal again, something still felt horribly wrong.

The silence pressed in, suffocating. I knew, deep down, that normal had just left the building.

But I was so scared, I couldn’t react.

My legs threatened to give way. I clung to the doorknob, whispering a silent prayer—Hanuman Chalisa, the only thing I could remember.

I grabbed my phone and saw 504 had sent several more messages:

The blue ticks glared at me. Messages kept piling in, frantic, filled with worry and that special kind of panic only close friends can have at 2 AM.

[Exactly, I think that last message wasn’t sent by 402, but by the guy from 404.]

[But there’s no way to prove it—it’s the middle of the night, what do we do?]

[How about I try calling 402?]

My heart skipped a beat. The idea of calling felt like lighting a match in a room filled with gas.

I replied quickly: [Don’t call him! You haven’t called yet, right?]

I typed as fast as I could, desperate to stop him before he did something rash. My fingers fumbled, the words almost jumbling together.

Honestly, at that moment, I was mostly worried about myself.

I hated to admit it, but fear makes you selfish. My safety felt more real than the distant, abstract worry about 402.

If his phone was really in the 404 guy’s hands, and 504 called, wouldn’t we be exposed?

The thought chilled me. We were already too close to the fire. Better to wait for help than draw attention to ourselves.

Especially after what just happened—I was sure the 404 guy had noticed something, and that’s why he came to my door.

Every second ticked by like a warning bell. I wondered if I should call my parents, just in case. But what would I say? That a ghost had taken over the fourth floor?

But I hadn’t said anything in the group, hadn’t made a sound, so I’d barely avoided trouble.

In a country where walls have ears, sometimes keeping your mouth shut is the only way to survive.

And if we were found out, I was the closest one—who knows what would happen to me.

Suddenly, my one-room flat felt tiny, my front door thin as paper.

I hadn’t lived here long—I didn’t know how sturdy this door really was.

Was it strong enough to keep out a desperate man? Would anyone hear me if I screamed? I tried not to think about it.

Luckily, 504 replied:

[Didn’t call—what’s up? Wouldn’t calling him directly confirm if he sent the last message?]

[He’s definitely not asleep, but if I can’t confirm that last message was from him, I can’t sleep.]

I let out a quiet breath.

For a moment, relief. At least he wasn’t making things worse. At least I wasn’t alone.

As long as he didn’t call and tip him off, that was good.

In that moment, I realised the power of silence—not just outside, but in action. Sometimes, not doing something is the safest thing you can do.

By then, I was already planning to call the police station.

My thumb hovered over the dialer, my mind running through what I would say. How do you explain this kind of fear? Would they even take me seriously?

But to keep 504 from making things worse, I decided to tell him what just happened to me…

I took a deep breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my pajama pants, and started typing, trying to keep my fear from showing through the screen.

Outside, a shadow slipped across the peephole, and the corridor’s light flickered—just once.