The rain began exactly at 11:47 PM.
Not earlier. Not later.
A slow tapping first — like fingernails testing glass — then a violent downpour that swallowed the streets of Old Delhi in darkness.
Aman Verma watched the rain from the balcony of Shiv Residency, a worn-out apartment building squeezed between abandoned shops and a closed cinema hall. He had moved there only three days ago after accepting a late-night security job nearby.
Cheap rent. No questions asked.
That was enough.
The landlord, Mr. Batra, had handed him the keys with unusual haste.
"Room 307," he said. "Top floor. Don't disturb other tenants."
Aman noticed something strange then.
There were no other tenants.
The Building
Shiv Residency looked older than it should have been. The paint peeled like dried skin. Tubelights flickered even during daytime. The lift didn't work; a rusted board read:
OUT OF ORDER SINCE 2018
The staircase smelled faintly of damp cloth and something metallic.
On his first night, Aman heard footsteps above him.
But there was no floor above the third.
He ignored it.
People imagine things in new places.
Right?
Night Three
At 12:03 AM, the power went out.
Aman cursed softly and turned on his phone flashlight. The room stretched into shadows — single bed, wooden table, cracked mirror, and a window facing another dark building.
Then came the sound.
Knock.
Three slow taps on the door.
Aman frowned.
Who would visit at midnight?
He opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
Only a long hallway illuminated by emergency light.
And at the far end…
A woman stood.
White dress. Long black hair covering her face.
She didn't move.
She didn't breathe.
Aman blinked.
The emergency light flickered.
She was gone.
He laughed nervously.
"Too many horror movies."
He shut the door.
But sleep never came.
The Whisper
At 2:17 AM, Aman woke up suddenly.
Someone whispered near his ear.
"…leave…"
He sat up instantly.
The room was silent.
His heart hammered.
Then the mirror rattled.
Not shaking — vibrating, as if someone on the other side was knocking to come out.
Aman stepped closer.
His reflection stared back.
But half a second late.
He froze.
His reflection smiled.
He wasn't smiling.
The lights came back.
The reflection matched again.
Aman backed away slowly.
He didn't sleep again that night.
The Watchman
Next morning, Aman found an old watchman sitting outside the building gate drinking tea.
An elderly man with tired eyes.
"Bhaiya," Aman asked casually, "How many people live here?"
The watchman looked confused.
"Live?"
"Yes… tenants."
The old man hesitated.
"Only you."
Aman laughed.
"Come on. I saw someone yesterday."
The watchman's face drained of color.
"You saw… her?"
Aman felt cold.
"Who?"
The old man lowered his voice.
"Room 307 stays empty."
Aman's throat tightened.
"But I live there."
The watchman shook his head slowly.
"No one stays there long."
The Story
The watchman finally spoke after much convincing.
"Five years ago," he said, "a girl named Meera rented Room 307. College student. Quiet. Always alone."
One night, neighbors heard screaming.
Police came.
Door locked from inside.
When they broke it open…
Meera was dead.
Hanging from the ceiling fan.
But the strange part?
Her feet touched the floor.
As if someone held her up while she died.
The case closed as suicide.
But after that—
People heard crying.
Doors opening.
Mirrors breaking.
Every tenant left within days.
Some claimed they saw a woman standing in the corridor.
Watching.
Waiting.
Aman laughed it off publicly.
Inside, fear crawled slowly into his chest.
The Photograph
That evening, while arranging his belongings, Aman noticed something stuck behind the mirror.
A photograph.
A young woman smiling brightly.
White dress.
Long hair.
The same woman from the corridor.
Behind the photo, written in red ink:
"DON'T TRUST ROOM 307."
Aman's hands trembled.
He turned the photo over again.
Another line appeared — one he was sure wasn't there before.
"She knows you're here."
The room temperature dropped suddenly.
The bathroom tap turned on by itself.
Water flowed.
Then stopped.
The Phone Call
At midnight, Aman received a call from an unknown number.
Static filled the speaker.
Then a soft female voice.
"…why did you come back?"
Aman's breath froze.
"Who is this?"
Silence.
Then—
"I waited for you."
Call disconnected.
He checked call history.
No record.
The Locked Door
At 1:30 AM, Aman decided to leave the apartment.
Enough was enough.
He packed his bag and opened the door.
The corridor stretched impossibly long.
Longer than before.
Lights flickered one by one.
The staircase door slammed shut at the far end.
A woman's laughter echoed softly.
Aman ran toward the stairs.
But every door now read:
307
Left side. Right side.
All 307.
He spun around.
The woman stood behind him.
Closer this time.
Hair slowly lifting as if underwater.
Her face pale.
Eyes hollow.
Lips blue.
She spoke without moving her mouth.
"You came back."
Aman screamed and ran into his room.
Door slammed shut.
The Truth
Breathing heavily, Aman searched online for news archives.
After hours, he found an article.
"College Student Meera Verma Found Dead in Apartment."
Verma.
His last name.
He read further.
Meera Verma.
Age 22.
Native of Kanpur.
Brother: Aman Verma.
His hands shook.
"No… no…"
Memories flickered.
A hospital.
Police questioning.
Funeral smoke.
He hadn't visited her hostel for years.
They had fought.
He never answered her calls.
The article mentioned something else.
Before her death, Meera filed a harassment complaint against a man in the building.
Case never investigated.
She died three days later.
Aman collapsed onto the bed.
He whispered:
"Meera…?"
The room went silent.
Then the mirror cracked loudly.
The Return
The ghost stood inside the mirror now.
Not outside.
Inside.
Meera's face appeared clearly.
Tears ran down her pale cheeks.
"You didn't come," she whispered.
Aman cried.
"I didn't know… I thought you were angry…"
Her expression changed.
Sadness turning into rage.
"They locked the door."
"They watched."
"They let me die."
Voices suddenly filled the room.
Men laughing.
Footsteps.
A struggle.
A scream.
Aman saw flashes — memories not his own.
Meera being followed.
Threatened.
Begging for help.
Calling her brother again and again.
No answer.
Her phone ringing unanswered.
His phone.
Ignored calls.
The lights exploded.
Darkness swallowed everything.
The Real Haunting
Meera floated closer.
"I waited," she said.
"For someone who would listen."
Her eyes softened.
"You came back."
Aman whispered, "What do you want?"
She pointed toward the landlord's office downstairs.
"Truth."
The Basement
Against all fear, Aman went downstairs.
The basement door creaked open.
Dust filled the air.
Old files lay stacked.
He searched frantically.
Then found it.
A hidden complaint file.
Meera's handwritten statement.
She accused the landlord's son and two tenants of harassment and attempted assault.
Complaint never submitted.
Batra had hidden it.
Covered it up.
Two days later — she died.
Not suicide.
Silenced.
Aman felt rage replacing fear.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
Mr. Batra stood there.
"You shouldn't have come here," the landlord said coldly.
"You people never learn."
Aman realized something horrifying.
Batra knew.
He always knew.
The lights flickered violently.
Wind roared through the basement.
Meera appeared behind Batra.
He froze.
His eyes widened.
"No… not again…"
Invisible hands dragged him backward.
He screamed.
Apologized.
Begged.
The air tightened around his throat.
Just like hers.
A loud crack echoed.
Silence followed.
Batra collapsed.
Dead.
The Release
The storm outside stopped.
The building felt lighter.
Warmer.
Meera turned toward Aman.
For the first time, she smiled peacefully.
"Thank you."
Her form slowly dissolved into light.
The cracks in the walls faded.
The hallway looked normal again.
Room numbers returned.
307 became just another door.
Before disappearing completely, she whispered:
"I'm not alone anymore."
Then she was gone.
One Month Later
Shiv Residency reopened for tenants.
Renovated.
Fresh paint.
Working lights.
Aman moved out.
He visited Meera's grave every week.
One evening, he placed flowers and sat quietly.
Wind brushed past him gently.
A familiar voice echoed softly.
Not sad.
Not angry.
Free.
He smiled.
For the first time since arriving at Room 307, he felt peace.
Epilogue
Years later, the building gained a strange reputation.
Residents claimed the place felt unusually safe.
Children laughed in hallways.
No accidents occurred.
No disturbances.
But sometimes, late at night, the watchman swore he saw a young woman walking peacefully near the entrance.
Watching over everyone.
Protecting.
Waiting.
Not as a ghost trapped in pain—
But as a guardian who finally found justice.
And on the third floor…
Room 307 stayed occupied.
But never haunted again.
THE END
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