The rain fell in sheets, drumming against the narrow streets of the city like a relentless warning. Aman tightened his coat, dragging his suitcase over the slick pavement, eyes scanning the building ahead. The sign read Sharma Residency—nothing fancy, nothing alarming, just a two-story structure that looked like it had seen better days. But there was something in the way the lights flickered inside that made him pause.
He had moved through countless cities for his job, rented countless apartments, and met countless landlords. Yet, something about this place felt different—like the air itself was holding its breath.
A sharp knock on the main door startled him. Before he could react, it swung open, revealing Mrs. Kavita Sharma. She was exactly the kind of woman who commanded attention without trying—tall, poised, with a calmness that bordered on stern. Her sari was neatly pinned, hair tied back, eyes sharp and assessing.
"You must be Aman," she said, voice steady, carrying an unspoken authority. "Rules are simple: rent on time, no noise after ten, and respect the house… and its people."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, offering a polite smile.
She handed him the keys, lingering just a moment too long, her gaze flicking past him as if measuring something invisible. "Your room is at the end of the corridor. My daughter will be back this evening—Riya. She's… particular."
Aman nodded, trying not to overthink the word.
The room was small but tidy: a single bed, a wooden desk, and a window that overlooked the shared courtyard. It smelled faintly of jasmine and dust. He placed his suitcase down and let out a quiet sigh. A new city, a new apartment, and perhaps… a new life.
He had barely unpacked when a soft shadow appeared at the door.
Riya.
She was nothing like he expected. Not the sweet, polite girl Mrs. Sharma had painted. She was sharp, alert, with eyes that seemed to pierce through the very walls. She studied him silently, hand resting on the doorframe.
"Yes?" Aman asked cautiously.
"Just making sure you don't get lost upstairs," she said flatly, voice laced with amusement he couldn't read. She stepped back, letting him pass without a word, yet leaving a tension in the air that made his stomach twist.
The first week passed in a blur of awkward encounters and silent observations. Mrs. Sharma was polite but distant, watching him from a distance as if she could sense his every move. Riya, on the other hand, oscillated between icy indifference and small, teasing remarks that left him unnervingly aware of her presence.
One evening, while rain battered the streets again, Aman returned to the apartment to find the power out. He used his phone as a flashlight, stepping cautiously into the hallway when he heard a faint sound from the living room.
Mrs. Sharma sat alone, hands trembling slightly as she held a mug of cold tea.
"Ma'am… is everything alright?" Aman asked, concern tightening his chest.
She looked up, startled. "I'm fine," she said quickly, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—fear, maybe, or regret.
"Do you want me to check on Riya?" he offered.
Her lips pressed together in a thin line. "She's in her room. Just… make sure the lights come back on soon."
Aman nodded, heading upstairs. Riya's door was ajar. He could see her silhouette against the dim light from the window.
"Power's out," he said cautiously.
"I know," she replied without looking at him. "Did your mother send you?"
"No… your mother asked me to check," Aman said. "Just to be safe."
Her head lifted slightly, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then she stepped back and closed the door.
Aman stayed outside for a moment, feeling the weight of the silence that stretched between them. Something about this house was… wrong. Or maybe just alive in a way he didn't understand yet.
Days turned into weeks, and the rhythm of the house revealed itself slowly. Riya moved through the halls like a shadow, quiet but observant. Mrs. Sharma carried an unspoken tension, and even the neighbors seemed to whisper about things that Aman wasn't supposed to know.
It was on one particularly rainy night that everything shifted. Aman had just returned from work when he noticed a light flicker from the neighbor's apartment—a small, unassuming unit next door. Mr. Suresh Verma, the new tenant, leaned casually against his gate, smiling too easily.
"New boy in the building," he called, his voice carrying easily over the rain. "Careful, this place has its stories."
Aman frowned. "Stories?"
Suresh laughed lightly. "Every house does."
Aman thought little of it until he climbed the stairs and saw Mrs. Sharma staring out of the window, eyes fixed on something—or someone—beyond sight. Riya was at her desk, pretending to study, but the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes.
That night, Aman realized the house was not just a place to stay. It was a place where walls held secrets, where silences screamed, and where every glance and gesture carried meaning.
He couldn't yet see what those secrets were, but he knew one thing: he had just stepped inside, and there was no turning back.