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The Locked Window

The first time Sameer noticed the apartment across from his, something felt off. Apartment 3B had always been empty—or so he thought—but tonight, a faint light flickered behind the drawn curtains. He rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was just the reflection from a streetlamp.

He shouldn’t have been watching, but curiosity has a way of taking root in quiet minds.

The next evening, the light returned, steady this time, revealing the silhouette of a man pacing. Sameer tried to rationalize it—maybe a new tenant, restless or nervous. But when he squinted, he saw the figure stop abruptly, as if listening, then reach toward the window. And then—nothing.

The window remained closed.

Over the next week, Sameer became obsessed. Every night, the light appeared. The figure moved in strange, jerky motions, sometimes standing perfectly still, staring directly out of the window. Sometimes it vanished entirely.

He told himself he was imagining it, that the stress of work and sleepless nights was playing tricks. But the unease wouldn’t leave. Something about the way the figure moved… it wasn’t human. Or at least, it wasn’t ordinary.

One rainy evening, Sameer returned home later than usual. The city glistened under neon signs reflecting off wet streets. As he climbed the stairs, he noticed a small envelope slid under his door. No name. No stamp. Just a single line written in jagged handwriting:

“Don’t look away tonight.”

His heart thumped. Who would send this? Was it a prank? Or something darker?

That night, he set up his camera by the window, determined to capture proof of whatever haunted Apartment 3B. The rain pattered against the glass, blurring the city. Midnight approached.

Then, as if on cue, the light appeared. The figure was there, pacing. Sameer’s camera clicked, the shutter echoing too loudly in the quiet room.

And then the impossible happened. The window in 3B opened slowly—without a sound. The figure stepped out… and vanished into the rain.

Sameer froze. How could anyone walk through open air?

The next morning, he showed the photos to a friend, but even the prints didn’t reveal the figure clearly—just a blurred, shadowy form. Sameer’s friends laughed it off. “Maybe it’s a reflection,” they said. But Sameer knew what he had seen.

Sleep became impossible. He would wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, imagining shadows crawling across his walls. And always, always, he felt the sense of being watched.

Three nights later, the light didn’t appear. Panic rose in his chest. What had happened to the figure? Had it finally noticed him?

Around midnight, he heard a soft knock at his door. Trembling, he approached. No one was there. But a whisper floated through the hallway:

“You watched. Now watch carefully.”

Frozen, Sameer felt the air grow colder. The lights flickered, then went out completely. In the darkness, the whisper came again, closer:

“Behind you.”

He spun around, heart pounding, and for a moment, saw nothing. Then, in the mirror on the wall, a reflection that wasn’t his own—tall, shadowy, faceless—stared back. Its hand raised slowly, beckoning him forward.

The next morning, Sameer’s apartment was empty. Friends reported him missing. No note, no sign of struggle—nothing but the camera, still recording, lying on the floor.

When the police reviewed the footage, the final frames sent chills down their spines: the figure from 3B was standing behind Sameer as he slept, its form stretching and warping unnaturally, until it stepped forward—through him. The last image was the shadow alone in the room, light flickering around it like a pulse.

Apartment 3B was empty again that night. Sameer was gone.

And from across the street, someone new moved in, unaware that the light would return.

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