The Uninvited Guest in Room 4B

My name is Arjun, and I had just moved into a small apartment in the outskirts of Pune, a city that was still new to me after years in Mumbai. The apartment was on the fourth floor of an old building, with a creaky elevator and a landlady who spoke in riddles. I hadn’t fully unpacked; boxes were stacked in corners, and the only furniture was a mattress on the floor and a rickety table. The place had a musty smell, like old wood and damp cloth, but it was cheap and close to my new job.

One Tuesday, after a grueling day at the software firm, I dragged myself home around midnight. The city was still humming, but my building was silent, the corridor lit by a single flickering tube light. I unlocked my door, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the mattress, not even bothering to change. I must have fallen asleep instantly, because the next thing I knew, I was awake, my throat parched, the digital clock on my phone showing 3:03 AM.

The room was pitch black except for the faint glow of streetlight filtering through the curtains. I needed water, so I padded to the kitchen, my feet slapping on the cold tiles. I opened the fridge, and the sudden light blinded me for a second. I grabbed a bottle of water, drank half of it, and then closed the fridge.

As the fridge light died, my eyes adjusted to the dimness. And then I saw it—a silhouette. It stood near the balcony door, slightly taller than a man, but with an unnatural stillness. I could only make out its outline against the pale curtain: a hunched shape, arms hanging too long, head tilted at an odd angle. My heart hammered. I was alone in the apartment; I had made sure of that. The only key was in my pocket.

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. The figure didn’t move. It just stood there, as if waiting. My mind raced—maybe it was a burglary, a vagrant? But the door was locked. I took a step back, and the figure shifted, a slight tilt of its head as if acknowledging my movement. That was when I noticed its hands: they had too many fingers, or maybe they were just elongated, reaching almost to its knees.

Terror gripped me. I wanted to run, but my legs were frozen. I forced myself to whisper, ‘Who are you?’ The silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the fridge. Then, the figure pointed—a long, thin arm stretched out, finger directing my gaze to the corner of the room where I had piled my unpacked boxes. On top of one, I could just make out a photograph. I hadn’t placed it there. It was an old photo of a family, a man, a woman, and a child, all with hollow eyes. I had never seen that photo before.

A cold dread washed over me. The figure then began to fade, like smoke dissolving into the darkness, but as it vanished, I heard a faint sound—a children’s laughter, but warped, metallic, coming from inside the walls. The laughter grew, then stopped abruptly, replaced by a deep sigh.

I didn’t sleep that night. I turned on every light and sat in the corner, my back against the wall, staring at the spot where the figure had been. When dawn finally broke, I searched the apartment, but found nothing out of place except for that photograph. It was of a family I didn’t know, and on the back, written in faded ink, was an address in this building: ‘Room 4B.’ But my apartment was 4B. I had moved into 4B. The landlady had told me that the previous tenant left in a hurry, owing two months’ rent.

I later learned from a neighbor that a family had lived here before—a man, his wife, and their little girl. The girl had drowned in the bathroom, and the parents died in a car accident a year later. The neighbor said that sometimes, at night, you could hear the girl humming in the bathroom. I hadn’t heard humming, but I had seen her father, or what was left of him, pointing me to the photo.

Now, every night at 3:03 AM, I wake up with an unquenchable thirst, and I find myself drawn to the fridge. And every time I close the door, I see him—the father, standing there, his hand extended, silently pointing to the corner where the photo now hangs on the wall, watching me. I’ve tried to move, but I can’t bring myself to leave. Maybe because, deep down, I know that the father is not pointing at the photo. He is pointing at me, telling me to join them, to become part of the family he lost, to fill the empty space in the frame.

I haven’t told anyone, because who would believe me? And besides, what would I say? That the ghost of a father who lost his family is trying to adopt me? That the walls of this apartment are seeping with a grief so thick it forms shadows? No. I’ll stay, because the water bottle I took from the fridge—I found it empty this morning, but it was full when I drank from it. And on the floor, just below the spot where the figure stood, there was a wet footprint, small, as if from a child’s foot, leading to the bathroom, where I now hear faint humming every night, growing louder.