When Priya moves into a cheap Mumbai flat, she uncovers its horrifying secret. And sadly, there is nothing she can do about it... The cursed Mumbai flat...
The too-good-to-be-true deal
Mumbai’s real estate was a nightmare, and Priya was desperate. After months of searching, she finally found an affordable flat in an old chawl — spacious, surprisingly clean, and unbelievably cheap.
The broker, Mr Joshi, wiped sweat from his brow as he handed her the keys.
“The last tenant left... suddenly,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
Priya ignored the unease creeping up her spine. She was too exhausted to care.
But as she stepped inside, the air turned thick — a sickly mix of incense and something far worse. Rotting meat? She shuddered.
The first night | The scratching begins
The single bulb in the hallway flickered as Priya unpacked. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the peeling walls.
THUD.
A sound from the kitchen.
Priya froze. “Hello?”
Silence. Then — SCRATCH. SCRATCH. SCRATCH.
Like long, gnarled nails dragging across the floor.
Her breath hitched. She tiptoed toward the kitchen, her heart pounding. Nothing.
Just an old, rusted tap dripping into the sink.
“Get a grip,” she told herself.
But as she turned to leave — there was a whisper from the darkness behind her.
The neighbour’s chilling warning
The next morning, Priya met Mrs Iyer, the elderly woman downstairs. The moment she mentioned Flat 13, the old woman’s face paled.
“You’re staying there?” Mrs Iyer clutched her saree like a lifeline. “The last girl, Deepa... she vanished. They found her slippers near the building’s well.”
Priya’s blood ran cold. “What happened?”
Mrs Iyer leaned in, her voice barely audible. “She complained about... scratching too.”
The hidden names under the floorboard
That night, Priya noticed a loose floorboard near her bed. Her fingers trembled as she pried it open.
Beneath it — names. Deepa. Anjali. Kavita.
Scrawled in something dark and flaky. Blood?
At the bottom, fresh scratches in Hindi: saying “SAVE ME.”
Her breath came in short gasps. She wasn’t the first.
The face in the mirror
Priya splashed water on her face, trying to calm her nerves. The bathroom mirror fogged up. She wiped it — A bloody handprint hit against the glass.
Behind her reflection, a woman in a torn white saree stood — head tilted at an impossible angle.
Priya spun around. Nothing.
Then, a whisper in Marathi, so close it brushed her ear:
“YOU ARE NEXT”
The violent end
Priya bolted for the door. Locked.
The scratching became POUNDING. Something was crawling out of the walls.
A skeletal hand shot from under the bed — cold, rotting flesh peeling off bone. It dug into her ankle, dragging her towards the dark corner.
She screamed, clawing at the floor.
The last thing she saw?
Mr Joshi standing in the doorway. His mouth stretched too wide. His eyes — pitch black.
The twist – The cycle continues
One week later, Mr Joshi put up a new advertisement: “Cheap flat in Mumbai. Perfect for single women.”
A new girl, Neha, moved in.
As she unpacked, the bulb flickered.
THUD.
From the kitchen.
Then—SCRATCH. SCRATCH. SCRATCH.
Because the thing in the flat didn’t want Priya.
It always wanted a fresh victim.
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