Buried Whishpers

Anand was an ordinary man—or so he liked to believe. At 45, his days were a humdrum routine: the morning paper, a cup of tea, a long commute to his office job, and an evening spent watching television alone in his modest apartment. He wasn’t married, didn’t have many friends, and rarely spoke to anyone outside of work. Life was simple, predictable, and exactly how he liked it.

That is, until his new neighbor moved in.

It started on a Friday. Anand heard the unmistakable clatter of furniture being moved through the hallway outside his apartment. Curious, he peered through the peephole and saw a young man carrying a large box into the apartment across from his. The man was tall and lean, his hair a wild mess of black curls. He wore a faded leather jacket, and there was something about him—a nervous energy, maybe—that made Anand uneasy.

Anand opened his door slightly, enough to appear neighborly. “New to the building?” he asked.

The man turned, startled. His face broke into an awkward smile. “Yeah, just moved in. Name’s Varun.”

“Anand,” he replied, nodding. “Welcome.”

The pleasantry exchanged, Anand closed his door and locked it, a habit he always followed. He felt relieved when the sounds of moving furniture died down, and the hallway returned to its usual quiet.

But over the next few days, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Anand’s first concern arose late at night. He was a light sleeper, and it didn’t take much to wake him. At around 1 a.m., he heard muffled sounds coming from Varun’s apartment: the scrape of furniture being moved, the soft thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and—most unsettling of all—the faint hum of a man’s voice, speaking rapidly, as though in an argument.

The next morning, Anand saw Varun in the hallway. “Rough night?” he asked casually.

Varun blinked, his eyes bloodshot. “Huh?”

“You were up late. I could hear noises.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” Varun said, scratching the back of his neck. “Just unpacking and moving things around. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Anand nodded, but Varun’s explanation didn’t sit well with him. What kind of unpacking involved arguing with yourself in the middle of the night?

Over the next week, the noises continued. They were always late at night—furniture scraping, the murmur of voices, and once, the faint sound of something shattering. Anand debated whether to confront Varun, but something held him back. There was an edge to the young man that made Anand wary, an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite name.

One evening, as Anand returned home from work, he noticed a strong, metallic smell in the hallway. He sniffed the air, his stomach churning. The odor seemed to be emanating from Varun’s apartment.

The door opened suddenly, and Varun stepped out, nearly colliding with Anand.

“Oh! Sorry,” Varun said, his face pale.

“No problem,” Anand said, trying to sound casual. “Everything okay? That smell…”

Varun hesitated. “Cooking experiment gone wrong,” he said with a weak chuckle. “Burnt some meat.”

Anand nodded slowly, though the explanation didn’t convince him. The smell wasn’t burnt meat—it was something far worse.

Anand began to keep a closer eye on his neighbor. He noticed small things: how Varun always seemed on edge, how he avoided making eye contact, how he sometimes slipped out late at night carrying a large duffel bag.

One night, curiosity got the better of him. He positioned himself at his peephole, waiting.

At 2 a.m., Varun’s door creaked open. He stepped into the hallway, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He paused, looking left and right, before heading toward the stairwell.

Anand’s heart raced. What was in the bag? Why was Varun sneaking out at such an hour?

He waited until Varun was out of sight, then quickly stepped into the hallway. The smell was back, stronger than ever, and it was definitely coming from Varun’s apartment. Anand’s stomach turned, but his curiosity outweighed his fear.

He approached the door and pressed his ear against it. Silence.

His hand hovered over the doorknob. Should he try it?

Before he could decide, he heard footsteps. He darted back into his apartment, heart pounding, and locked the door. Moments later, Varun passed by, the duffel bag now missing.

The next morning, Anand couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to do something. He decided to call the building’s landlord, Mr. Shetty, and share his concerns.

“Shetty here,” the voice on the other end said gruffly.

“Mr. Shetty, it’s Anand from 4B. I need to talk to you about my neighbor, Varun from 4C. I think something strange is going on.”

“Varun?” Shetty said, confused.

“Yes, the new tenant,” Anand said impatiently.

There was a pause. “Mr. Anand, there’s no one living in 4C.”

Anand froze. “What are you talking about? I’ve seen him. He moved in last week!”

“4C has been empty for months,” Shetty said firmly. “No one’s rented it.”

Anand’s breath caught. “That’s not possible.”

“If someone’s there, you should call the police,” Shetty said. “That’s trespassing.”

The line went dead, and Anand sat frozen, the receiver still in his hand.

That night, the noises were louder than ever. Anand’s fear mounted as he heard heavy footsteps pacing back and forth, followed by a loud crash.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his phone and dialed the police, his voice trembling as he explained the situation.

Two officers arrived within the hour. Anand watched from his peephole as they knocked on Varun’s door. When no one answered, they forced it open.

The smell hit them immediately.

Anand held his breath as the officers entered the apartment. Moments later, one of them emerged, his face pale.

“Mr. Anand,” the officer said, knocking on his door.

Anand opened it hesitantly. “What’s going on?”

The officer hesitated. “The apartment is empty.”

Anand blinked. “Empty? That’s not possible!”

“There’s no furniture, no belongings—nothing. But…” The officer’s voice faltered. “There’s blood on the walls.”

Anand felt the room spin around him.

“Do you know where this ‘Varun’ is?” the officer asked.

Anand shook his head, his throat dry.

“We’ll investigate further,” the officer said grimly.

As they left, Anand closed his door and locked it, his hands trembling.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Every creak, every shadow made his heart race. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Varun was still out there—watching, waiting.

And then, at 3 a.m., there was a knock on his door.

“Anand,” a voice whispered.

It was Varun.

Anand froze. The knock wasn’t loud, but it reverberated in his chest like the toll of a death knell. His breath hitched, and his eyes darted toward the door.

“Anand,” the voice repeated, soft but insistent.

It was unmistakably Varun.

For a long moment, Anand couldn’t move. His mind raced, screaming at him to do something—anything—but his body was paralyzed by fear. The knock came again, louder this time.

“Open the door, Anand. I just want to talk.”

The tone was eerily calm, but there was an undercurrent of menace that sent chills down Anand’s spine. He backed away from the door, his shaky hands clutching his phone. He dialed the police again, whispering into the receiver, “He’s here. Varun is outside my door. Please hurry.”

“Stay calm, sir. We’re sending a unit right away,” the operator assured him.

Anand hung up and pressed himself against the far wall of his living room, his eyes glued to the door. The knocking had stopped, replaced by an unsettling silence.

Then came the sound of something sliding—slow and deliberate.

A piece of paper slipped under the door. Anand’s heart pounded as he stared at it, unable to bring himself closer. He could make out scrawled handwriting, erratic and uneven.

With trembling hands, he reached for a long-handled umbrella from the corner of the room and used it to drag the paper toward him. The message was simple:

“I know what you’ve done.”

Anand’s mind reeled. What could that mean? He hadn’t done anything—had he?

The knocking resumed, harder this time, as though Varun was pounding with his fists. The door shook on its hinges.

“I know you’re in there!” Varun shouted, his voice no longer calm. “You’re not innocent, Anand. None of us are.”

The words echoed in Anand’s head. What was Varun talking about? He wanted to scream back, to demand answers, but his voice caught in his throat.

And then it stopped.

The pounding, the shouting—everything.

The silence was deafening. Anand didn’t dare move. Minutes passed, stretching into what felt like hours, but no sound came from the hallway.

He slowly approached the peephole, his palms sweaty, and peered outside.

The corridor was empty.

The police arrived fifteen minutes later. Anand explained everything—the knocking, the note, the voice—but when the officers searched the hallway, they found no sign of Varun.

“There’s no one here,” one officer said.

“But he was just there!” Anand insisted. “He left a note!”

The officer frowned. “Can we see it?”

Anand retrieved the paper and handed it over. But as the officer unfolded it, his expression shifted to one of confusion.

“There’s nothing on it,” he said, holding up the blank piece of paper.

Anand’s stomach dropped. “What? No, it said—” He snatched the paper back, but the words were gone. The page was spotless.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Mr. Anand?” the officer asked gently.

“I’m not imagining this!” Anand snapped.

“We’ll station a patrol car outside for the night,” the officer said. “If you see or hear anything, call us immediately.”

Anand nodded, though his mind raced with doubt and fear. After the officers left, he double-checked every lock on his door and windows before retreating to his bedroom.

Sleep was impossible. Every creak of the old apartment building felt magnified, every shadow in the corners seemed to stretch and writhe.

Around 4 a.m., just as he began to drift into an uneasy sleep, a sound jolted him awake.

It was faint, but unmistakable—the slow creak of his bedroom door opening.

Anand sat up, his body frozen in terror. He hadn’t heard footsteps, hadn’t heard the locks on the front door being tampered with.

But the bedroom door was opening.

He reached for the lamp on his bedside table, his hands fumbling in the dark. The bulb flickered to life, casting pale light across the room.

The door was ajar, swinging slightly as though moved by a breeze. But there was no draft, no wind.

“Who’s there?” Anand croaked, his voice trembling.

There was no reply.

He grabbed the umbrella from beside his bed and inched toward the door, every nerve in his body screaming at him to run. His breath came in shallow gasps as he flung the door open and stepped into the hallway.

It was empty.

But then he saw it—on the floor, right in front of his apartment door, lay the duffel bag.

Anand’s legs felt like lead as he approached it. The metallic smell from earlier returned, stronger than ever. His stomach churned, and his hands shook as he reached for the zipper.

He hesitated, every instinct telling him not to open it. But he had to know.

Slowly, he pulled the zipper.

Inside was a human head, its lifeless eyes wide with terror.

Anand stumbled back, his body hitting the wall. The face was unmistakable. It was Varun.

The world spun around Anand as his mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He backed away from the bag, his breath ragged.

And then he heard it.

A voice, low and chilling, whispered from behind him.

“I told you, Anand. None of us are innocent.”

He spun around, but the hallway was empty.

The lights flickered, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a shadow move at the end of the corridor.

And then, darkness.

The power cut out, plunging the apartment into suffocating darkness. Anand’s breath came in short, panicked bursts as the silence grew heavier, pressing in on him like a vice. Somewhere outside, the wind howled faintly, but inside the building, there was nothing. Not a creak. Not a footstep.

Only the memory of that voice.

“I told you, Anand. None of us are innocent.”

The words echoed in his mind, twisting into a question he couldn’t answer. What did Varun mean? What guilt could he possibly be referring to?

Anand edged back into his apartment, fumbling for his phone. Its cold glow illuminated the room as he unlocked it to call the police again. But just as he began dialing, he noticed something that made his blood run cold.

A message notification blinked at the top of his screen.

He didn’t remember receiving one.

Hands trembling, he opened the message app. The sender was unknown, and the text simply read:

“Turn around.”

Anand froze. His skin prickled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Against every instinct, he slowly turned his head.

At first, he saw nothing but the dim outline of his living room furniture. But then, from the corner of the room, a faint movement caught his eye.

A figure stood in the shadows.

The pale glow of his phone barely illuminated it, but Anand could make out a face—twisted, familiar. It was Varun, or what used to be Varun. His eyes were clouded and sunken, his skin pallid and stretched too tightly across his face.

“You took it from me,” Varun said, his voice low and guttural.

Anand stumbled backward, nearly dropping his phone. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.

Varun stepped closer, his movements jerky and unnatural. “My life. You took my life.”

“No, I didn’t!” Anand yelled, desperation creeping into his voice. “I don’t even know you!”

Varun’s expression twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. “You don’t remember. But I do.”

Images began flooding Anand’s mind, unbidden and disjointed. A dark road. The sharp screech of tires. A face in the headlights—young, terrified. A body crumpled on the pavement. Blood pooling in the darkness.

“No,” Anand whispered, clutching his head as the memories clawed their way to the surface. He had buried them deep, convinced himself it had never happened. It was a rainy night, years ago. He’d been driving home after a late shift. He hadn’t seen the boy until it was too late. He hadn’t stopped. He’d fled.

Varun tilted his head, his lifeless eyes boring into Anand. “You didn’t even stop to see if I was alive.”

Anand fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I—I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You knew,” Varun hissed, his voice echoing unnaturally. “You just didn’t care.”

The room grew colder, the air thick with an oppressive weight. Anand’s phone flickered and died in his hand, leaving him in total darkness.

“Please,” he begged, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry. I’ve lived with this guilt every day.”

“You’ve lived,” Varun spat. “While I rotted.”

The cold intensified, and Anand felt something brush against his shoulder—something cold and clammy. He screamed, scrambling backward, but there was nowhere to go.

“Confess,” Varun said, his voice echoing as if coming from every corner of the room. “Tell them what you’ve done.”

Anand’s heart hammered in his chest. “I’ll do it,” he cried. “I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them everything. Just… please, leave me alone.”

The darkness seemed to pull back slightly, and for a moment, the oppressive weight in the air lifted.

But then Varun’s voice came again, softer this time, almost amused. “It’s too late for that.”

The next morning, the building’s watchman found Anand’s body sprawled in his living room, his eyes wide open and his face frozen in a mask of terror.

The police arrived soon after, baffled by the scene. There was no sign of forced entry, no injuries on the body, and nothing stolen. The only thing out of place was a note clutched in Anand’s hand.

It read:

“None of us are innocent.”

And just outside his apartment door, lying in the hallway, was a bloodied duffel bag.

The police officers exchanged uneasy glances as they examined the cryptic note and the bloodied duffel bag. Forensics arrived to take photographs and samples, but what disturbed everyone the most was the lack of explanation. Anand’s death didn’t make sense.

As the officers prepared to leave, the lead investigator, Inspector Rathi, crouched near the duffel bag. Something about it tugged at the edge of his memory—a case, years ago, involving a hit-and-run that was never solved. He shook his head, dismissing the thought as coincidence.

The bag was zipped shut, its exterior smeared with dried blood. Rathi hesitated before opening it, but his duty demanded answers. Slowly, he pulled the zipper.

Inside was a human head.

Gasps echoed through the hallway. The face, twisted in death, belonged to none other than Anand.

“What in the—” one of the officers whispered, stepping back in horror.

“That’s impossible,” Rathi muttered. “His body’s right here.”

Panic spread among the team as they tried to make sense of the situation. The body lying in the living room was intact, untouched, with no signs of violence. Yet here was Anand’s head, as real and tangible as the ground beneath their feet.

The case spiraled into chaos. Forensic teams couldn’t explain the discrepancy. The duffel bag itself provided no leads—no fingerprints, no fibers, nothing to trace its origin. The media latched onto the story, dubbing it “The Haunting of Apartment 4B.”

But Inspector Rathi wasn’t ready to accept the supernatural explanation everyone whispered about. He spent sleepless nights poring over records, determined to connect the dots.

His breakthrough came when he unearthed an old police file—a hit-and-run from ten years ago. The victim was a young man named Varun Rao, who had died on the spot after being struck by a speeding car. The case had gone cold; there were no witnesses, no suspects, only a grieving family and an abandoned investigation.

Rathi studied the file until he stumbled upon something chilling: the accident had occurred in the same neighborhood where Anand had lived at the time.

It was too much of a coincidence. Rathi tracked down Varun’s mother, now a frail, gray-haired woman living in a dilapidated house on the city’s outskirts.

“Mrs. Rao,” Rathi began cautiously, “I’m here about your son, Varun. I know it’s been years, but I believe there’s more to his story.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Varun,” she whispered, clutching a framed photo of her son. “I told the police back then—someone killed him. They didn’t even stop to help. My boy died alone on that road.”

Rathi nodded solemnly. “I think we may have found the man responsible.”

Mrs. Rao’s expression darkened. “Justice,” she murmured. “I prayed for justice. I prayed every night for my son’s soul to find peace. And when the gods didn’t answer, I turned to something else.”

“What do you mean?” Rathi asked, leaning closer.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I went to a man. A priest, they called him, though he was no man of God. He promised me vengeance—not in life, but in death.”

Rathi felt a chill run down his spine. “Mrs. Rao, what did you do?”

“I gave him everything I had,” she said, her voice trembling. “He performed a ritual. He said Varun’s spirit would return to claim what was taken. To balance the scales.”

Rathi stared at her, horrified. “You’re saying you summoned your son’s spirit to… kill the man who hit him?”

She nodded slowly. “Anand deserved it, didn’t he? He left my boy to die.”

The explanation made Rathi’s skin crawl, but it also tied everything together. Varun’s restless spirit had been unleashed, fueled by his mother’s grief and rage. Anand’s death wasn’t just a coincidence—it was a reckoning.

But what now?

Rathi thanked Mrs. Rao and returned to his car, his mind racing. The case might be closed in theory, but the implications unsettled him. If this was truly the work of an avenging spirit, how many more “guilty” individuals would suffer the same fate?

As he drove back to the station, the air inside the car grew heavy. A faint metallic smell filled his nostrils, making his stomach churn. He glanced at the rearview mirror.

A figure sat in the backseat.

It was Varun.

Rathi swerved, his heart pounding. But when he looked again, the seat was empty.

The investigator gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He thought of the cold cases he’d buried over the years, the mistakes he’d overlooked, the corners he’d cut.

From the shadows of the car, a voice whispered:

“None of us are innocent.”

And this time, Inspector Rathi couldn’t disagree.

The End.