The Messages Begin

By Me

When the lights went out, I froze.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just me, my breath, and the silence pressing against my ears like cotton. I stood still, afraid to even move.

Then, somewhere deep below, I heard the elevator again — rumbling quietly.

Was someone coming up? Or… going down?

I didn’t wait to find out.

I reached for the door, found the knob, and yanked it open. Outside was a dimly lit hallway I’d never seen before. The paint was old, the lights flickering above. This wasn’t my floor. This wasn’t 9.

There were no room numbers on the doors.

I ran.

Half panicked, I hit the elevator button, praying it would work. To my surprise, the door slid open instantly, like it had been waiting for me. I stepped in, pressed 9 again, and didn’t look back.

This time, the ride was fast. Too fast.

The elevator jolted, and I nearly fell as the doors opened to a hallway that did look familiar. My floor. Room 907. My apartment. Exactly as I’d left it.

I stepped inside, still shaking.

Everything was normal again. The boxes, the couch, even my phone — it was back on the charger, blinking with power. Like nothing had happened.

Had I dreamed it?

But I knew I hadn’t. Because on my forearm, smeared like chalk, was a faint red mark. Like someone had grabbed me.

And when I checked the photos on my phone, there was one I hadn’t taken.

A picture of the wall. With the words: DON’T TRUST HIM.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, I tried to act normal. I made some tea, called my mother — lied to her about how great everything was — and told myself I was just tired. Stressed. Seeing things.

But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.

That evening, curiosity got the better of me. I went down to the reception desk to ask about the missing 8th floor. The same man was there.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there no 8th floor in this building?”

He didn’t look up. “There’s no such floor.”

“Then what’s between 7 and 9?” I asked.

He paused. His hands, which had been still, suddenly twitched. He looked at me for the first time — and I swear, for a second, something cold passed through his eyes.

“You must be tired,” he said. “Maybe keep your mind on your own floor.”

I didn’t like how he said that.

I left quickly.

That night, I stayed up as long as I could. But at some point, sleep took over again.

When I opened my eyes, I was there.

The 8th floor.

I knew it. Same stained walls. Same flickering lights. Same heavy silence.

But this time, something was different.

On the wall, a new message had appeared, written just below the first.

“30 YEARS. NO JUSTICE.”

And under it, a name: Aarav.

I turned around.

One of the apartment doors across the hall was open.

Just a crack.

And I thought… I heard breathing.

End of Part 2