Writing is my passion but as a profession it is hard. It is interesting to call myself an author. I have three publications, about four anthologies, no awards, and very minimal readers’ base. I don’t stick to a specific genre. I have written fiction, non-fiction, and self-help. As the trend changes so does my writing. I write like my life depends on it or at least my livelihood.
I haven’t had a partner in many years, I mean a struggling writer isn’t exactly a catch. I live by myself, recently moved into a 1-bedroom apartment in an old building in the quiet part of town. The building has been maintained fairly well. A quiet place for a hard-working author.
I hope one day I make it big, the awards I deserve come to me, the cash flows in, and the fame that comes with it will be a bonus. I will become a big name in the literary world.
The new genre I was venturing into was Horror. This generation seems to be attracted to dark, deep, and sad stories. I had no personal experiences and my only familiarity with that world was the books I read and movies I watched.
I already had an outline in my head; I just needed to colour it in. The story was going to be a twist of romance with thrill and horror.
Betrayed lover’s spirit comes to take revenge on lover only to find out it wasn’t her partner who betrayed her but someone with an even deeper connection.
Excited to write, I open my laptop and start typing. The first chapter is always crucial, the right words tempt the right readers. So, I kept the first chapter eerie, suspicious knocks, lights turning on and off, creepy sounds of howling and crying.
I get through to chapter three when I look at the time, it is 2 A.M.!
I suddenly feel my eyelids get heavier and my bed calls to me. I don’t hesitate, I close my laptop and fall asleep once my head hits the pillow.

I woke up startled with a loud banging. What was that?! I look at the time, it’s 4:30 A.M.
BANG! There it is again, like someone was banging my kitchen window. I hesitate but eventually I give in. I couldn’t afford fixing a broken window right now. I get up and walk towards the kitchen. It is absolutely silent; all I hear are my feet brushing against the floor. I switch on the kitchen light and nothing. Everything was the way I left. The window seemed fine. Feeling relaxed I go back to my room.
I freeze once I enter the room. My table light is on, and my laptop is open. I distinctly remembered switching it off and I did not leave the table light on. Okay this is too much, is it a sign I shouldn’t be writing a horror story? Without pondering over it I shut my laptop, switch off the light, and rush to bed.
I wake up at about 9 AM. Everything seemed normal, I make my usual coffee and toast. Maybe it was all just a dream, the story probably got to me.
I open my laptop and my god! My story had 2 new chapters with an edited 3rd chapter taking my story in a different direction. I touch the words on the screen wondering if I was still stuck in a dream.
My eyes follow the words, as I read I get engrossed. It starts with a woman sitting on the stairs of an apartment weeping softly. A man comes back home from work, he looks tired, his eyes seem dead, his tie askew and hair untidy. He passes her without a glance and walks into the apartment. She stops weeping, gets up abruptly, her shoulder gets tense, her long hair hides her face as she begins following him.
This sudden change in the protagonist’s attitude creeps me out a little. I shut my laptop and let out a breath. I think I'll go for a run, it will help me clear my mind.
I quickly change into a loose t-shirt and put on my tracks, my shoes and leave. I run down three flights of stairs, push open the apartment door, jump over the steps, and shoot out. I run until I’m out of breath. The adrenaline rush makes me feel better. I take deep breaths, stretch a little, jump a few times, and then go for a jog, half hour later I slowly jog back to my apartment.
As I near the apartment I notice a woman on the front steps, her head down, and she seems to be crying. Oh no. What is happening? Is this a simple coincidence? I stay rooted to my spot in shock. I need to get home, and I have to go past her. As I’m pulling up the bits and pieces of my courage, a man walks past me, his shoulders are slumped, briefcase in hand, he walks towards my apartment building and goes past her. And without missing a beat she stops crying, stands straight up and walks behind him. Suddenly I’m walking too, following her following him. My legs have a mind of their own as they move behind her.
The elevator isn’t working so he walks up the stairs, she walks behind, her dark hair flowing down to her waist and her long grey gown brushes against each step and I follow in my track pants, crazy scared. He stops at the 2nd floor and to apartment 206 which I realise is right below mine!
She follows, and I do too. Weirdly he doesn’t realise there are 2 people in his room, he throws his suitcase on a nearby chair and pulls out his tie. He walks up to a big photo hung on the wall and stares at it sadly. She floats up to him, her shoulders relax, and she puts out her hand trying to touch his face. But she stops mid-air and suddenly turns to me. Her eyes, its empty, there was nothing there. The scream gets stuck in my throat, and I turn to run out, I stumble on the doorknob and run out as soon as the door nudges.
I keep running until I reach my flat, shut and bolt the door, and run into my bedroom. I sat on my bed unable to comprehend what was happening. My laptop shoots open, not knowing what else to do, I slowly walk to it and look. The cursor was blinking at the last line which read,
‘and then she stood behind the talented author…..’ I turn slowly and a hand holds my throat, I struggle and shout.
When suddenly I realise there is nothing, I’m sitting in front of my laptop, still in my night clothes and that line isn’t there but the new story is. I wipe the sweat off my face, confused. Did I fall asleep and dream all of it?
I walk to the mirror and look to see finger marks on my neck. Oh my god, what was happening!? I run my fingers through my hair and slump down to the floor in despair. I need to end this and every story has its end, lucky for me the story was already written.
I continue reading it. It is similar till the point the man looks into the photo. It’s a wedding photo of a beautiful woman; she is fair with black hair in a half bun and her veil flying behind her. Her husband holds her waist wearing a dashing black tuxedo, his brown neatly combed hair is slicked back, and his eyes are full of love. They look like a couple from a movie, is that why they seem familiar?
No of course not. It dawns on me, the man in the photo was the tired, zombie of a man I had seen, and the woman was our protagonist, this is her story.
From her story, I understand that she believes he killed her, and this is her revenge story. But it doesn’t align, my story creating brain tried to connect the dots. He didn’t look like a man who killed his wife. He is still in love with her, he misses her, he is depressed, lacks care of himself and his surroundings, maybe there was a little bit of regret in there as well, but he couldn’t have killed her. It just doesn’t make sense.
I don’t know how else to contact her, I type into my laptop about my perspective of her story and wait. Nothing happens. I look away and turn back to see a new para. This can’t be happening, but I read.
She says she is confused; she died so suddenly, and she was the only one at home, she can’t think of anyone else who could have done this to her except her husband but after her death, his actions didn’t make sense, she can’t make sense of time anymore but all she does is wait for him everyday.
I suddenly feel bad for her, I don’t know why now and why she chose to communicate through me, but I feel the need to help her. So, I decide to knock on the door of 206, maybe start a conversation casually as I am new to the building.
I do and an old woman opens the door. ‘Hello dear, how can I help you?’
‘Oh. I’m sorry I think I got the wrong flat, this is 206?’ I say as I take another look at her door.
‘Yes, it is. I have been staying here for the past 15 years. Are you the new neighbour who moved upstairs? Nobody has moved into that apartment in so long’ she continues talking.
I don’t take in the words she says, I’m dazed, I don’t understand I saw him, he walked in to this flat. I peek behind her to see if the photo hung on the wall but no, just pink floral wallpaper.
‘I’m sorry for taking your time,’ I apologise and walk to my apartment confused.
15 years?!
I open a search engine and put in my address with the word murder and the first link blows my mind.
I talk to apparently no one but say ‘Are you seeing this?’ hoping she is.
It was a newspaper article from about 18 years ago, sharing details about the gruesome murder of a 24-year-old newly married woman, she was kidnapped from her home, kept captive for two days before she was killed brutally, details of which I won’t share. Unfortunately her husband passed away a few months later as he withered away in depression and died.
Beads of sweat erupt on my forehead as I sense a big looming presence behind me. The murderer was their own neighbour, and her body was found in the apartment right above theirs, apartment number 306.