Apartment 904
Skyline Tower in Malad was a typical Mumbai apartment complex—high walls, high rents, and higher gossip. Every resident was in the same WhatsApp group called “Skyline Society Family ”, a noisy space full of forwarded quotes, arguments about parking, and daily “Good Morning ☀️” messages.
Asha Menon, 34, a content writer working from home, muted the group every week, but she still scrolled through it sometimes for laughs. That’s how she noticed it one Tuesday night. A new number had joined Flat 904.
She frowned. Flat 904 had been empty for years. Everyone in the building knew it. The previous tenant, an old man named Deshpande, had died there alone during the lockdown. His family never returned for his things.
“Welcome whoever is moving into 904!”
Typed Mrs. Patel, the overenthusiastic group admin. No response. Later that night, a message appeared. A blurry photo.
It showed the building’s corridor—Asha’s corridor. The time stamp read 1:13 a.m. She wasn’t awake then, but the image clearly showed her own front door at the end of the hallway.
“Who sent this?”
She texted. No answer. A few people joked about someone pranking the group. The number couldn’t be traced. It didn’t have a profile picture, and the “About” section simply said:
I live here too.
The next night, another image appeared.
This time, it was Asha’s living room taken from behind the curtain. The light was off, but the shape of her sofa and laptop were unmistakable. She called the security guard downstairs. He swore nobody had come in or out. She checked her windows and balcony and they were locked. Doors locked. The image had a timestamp again: 2:04 a.m. Asha barely slept.
By morning, she found the group flooded with similar photos—other residents’ apartments. All empty, all taken from inside. Someone wrote:
“Whoever this is, stop this nonsense or I’m calling the police.”
The reply came instantly:
“You can’t call them. The line is already busy.”
Everyone fell silent.
Then Mrs. Patel tried removing the number. But WhatsApp showed: Can’t remove participant. That evening, Asha went up to the ninth floor. The hallway was colder than she remembered. 904’s door was sealed with police tape, dusty and untouched. Except now, the tape was cut clean through.
She reached out, pushed the door slightly. It creaked open to reveal a half-lit room filled with stale air. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and a faint smell of damp wood lingered. On the wall, scrawled in what looked like marker ink, were four words:
“Check the group chat.”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
When she pulled it out, the WhatsApp chat was open on its own. A new photo had just arrived.
It showed her standing at the doorway of Flat 904 phone in hand. She dropped the device. It clattered to the floor, still buzzing.
The final message appeared, from Flat 904:
“Don’t worry. I see you too.”
When the watchman checked later, the ninth floor lights were flickering.
Asha’s door downstairs was locked from inside. And her phone, found lying in front of 904, kept sending the same photo to the group every few minutes each one slightly closer than the last.
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