The sound still echoed in her skull—three hollow knocks, steady and deliberate, coming from inside the wall.
Riya pressed her back against the cold plaster, every muscle in her body rigid. Her apartment was silent now, the only noise her ragged breathing. Yet the air carried a weight, as though the shadows themselves were listening.
She whispered into the dark, "Aarav…?"
Silence.
Her hands shook as she reached for her phone on the desk. The screen glowed, its cold light cutting through the darkness. She opened the diary's fallen page with trembling fingers and held the phone beside it. The sketch looked back at her—her apartment, her desk, her chair, herself. Every detail was exact… except one.
In the drawing, behind her chair, a second shadow stood.
She spun instantly. Nothing. Just the pale wall.
Her phone buzzed suddenly, making her drop it. The caller ID flashed Unknown Number.
She hesitated, heart thundering, then answered.
A distorted voice crackled through, slow and broken, like words dragged from another world.
> "Do not follow the sound."
The call cut off.
Her phone slipped from her hand, clattering against the floor. When she bent to pick it up, the diary's pages had turned again—now showing a sketch of a human figure lying sprawled in a pool of black ink. Words beneath it burned into her mind:
> The first victim.
Her breath caught. What did it mean? Who was the victim?
The room suddenly groaned, the building's frame creaking as though something enormous pressed against the walls. Her lights flickered back on—but dimmer, as if filtered through water.
And then, the knocking returned. Louder. Faster. From everywhere at once.
"No… stop it!" she shouted, covering her ears. But it didn't stop. The sound followed her as she staggered to the door. She needed air, space, reality.
She wrenched the door open and stumbled into the hallway.
At first, it was empty. Just the long corridor stretching into shadow.
Then she saw him.
Her neighbor—the old man from 3B—stood at the far end, his head tilted unnaturally to one side. His eyes were wide, bulging, his lips moving silently as though whispering to someone who wasn't there.
"Mr. Sharma?" Riya whispered, her voice shaking.
He jerked suddenly, his body twitching as if strings pulled him. And then, with a violent crack, he slammed his head against the wall. Once. Twice. Over and over.
Blood sprayed across the peeling paint.
Riya froze, her scream caught in her throat.
The old man staggered, blood dripping down his face, his eyes glassy. Slowly, he turned to her.
And he smiled.
Behind him, the wall was covered in words—freshly scrawled in dripping red.
> She will be next.
Her stomach lurched. She stumbled backward, her body numb. But as she looked down the corridor again, it was empty. No blood. No Mr. Sharma. Just silence.
Her knees buckled. She pressed her hand to her mouth, struggling to breathe. A hallucination. It had to be.
But when she looked back at the diary in her trembling hands, her blood ran cold.
The new page showed Mr. Sharma's face—drawn in grotesque detail, his head split open, his eyes lifeless. And beneath it, three words etched in heavy black ink:
> The first victim.
The hallway light above her popped, plunging her into darkness once more.
And in the dark, she heard it—her brother's voice again, whispering from the walls.
> "You can't save him, Riya. You can't save anyone."