My life's darkest moment
Flat 407 was cheap.
Too cheap.
That should’ve been the first warning.
Me and my cousin Naveen moved into the apartment during the rainy season. The building was old, with cracked walls, flickering corridor lights, and neighbors who avoided eye contact for some reason.
But the rent was unbelievably low for a flat in the middle of the city.
Bro, this is a jackpot, Naveen said while dropping his bags near the sofa.
The owner had only one strange rule.
“Never open the bedroom door between 2:00 AM and 3:00 AM.”
I laughed when he heard it.
“What is this, horror movie promotion ah?”
The old owner didn’t smile.
Just don’t open it.
That first week went normally.
Office. Food delivery. Gaming at night.
But every single night at exactly 2:17 AM…
They heard knocking.
Three slow knocks.
From inside the bedroom.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
The problem was simple.
Both of them slept in the hall.
Nobody used that bedroom because it smelled strange, like wet clothes mixed with medicine.
“Probably rats,” Naveen said the first night.
“Rats don’t knock, idiot,” I replied nervously.
The sounds continued every night.
Sometimes scratching.
Sometimes whispering.
Sometimes the sound of someone dragging furniture slowly across the floor.
One night, Naveen finally got irritated.
“That’s it. I’m checking.”
I immediately stopped him.
“Bro… leave it.”
But Naveen laughed and grabbed the bedroom key from the table.
The digital clock showed 2:16 AM.
The knocking started again.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
This time louder.
Almost impatient.
Naveen walked toward the door while recording on his phone.
“See? Nothing will be ther—”
Before he finished speaking, the knocking stopped.
Dead silence.
Even the ceiling fan sounded louder.
Naveen slowly unlocked the door.
The room was completely dark.
But freezing cold.
I stood behind him, feeling goosebumps rise across his arms.
Then We heard it.
Breathing.
Not from inside the room.
From behind them.
Both slowly turned.
At the end of the hall stood a woman.
Tall.
Hair covering her face.
Water dripping from her clothes onto the floor.
Neither of we had heard the main door open.
Naveen whispered, “Who… who are you?”
The woman tilted her head unnaturally.
Then, in a broken voice:
“Why did you open the door?”
The lights went out instantly.
Everything became black.
I heard Naveen scream somewhere in the darkness.
Then running footsteps.
Then silence.
When the electricity returned a few seconds later…
Naveen was gone.
Completely gone.
Only his phone remained on the floor, still recording.
I grabbed it with shaking hands.
The video showed Naveen opening the bedroom door.
Inside the room was nothing except an old wooden chair.
But in the video…
Something was sitting on the chair.
A woman staring directly at the camera.
Smiling.
I immediately ran out of the flat and never returned.
The next morning, police searched the entire building.
No sign of Naveen.
No fingerprints.
No forced exit.
Nothing.
The owner quietly canceled the rent agreement without asking questions.
Before leaving, I finally asked him:
“What happened in that flat?”
The old man looked pale.
“Ten years ago, a woman locked herself in that bedroom after her husband disappeared.”
He paused.
“They found her dead three days later.”
My throat went dry.
“Then who was knocking every night?”
The old man stared at Flat 407’s window.
“She was.”