Chapter 2: Night Owls and Doubts

I was about to put my phone down and go back to sleep, but then another group chat notification popped up.

The phone buzzed in my palm, a new notification banner lighting up the screen. My eyes widened—this was the other group, the one less formal, where people shared jokes, complained about the builder, and arranged chai meet-ups in the parking lot.

I opened it—it was the group we used when we all moved in and bought furniture together.

This one was quieter, more selective. Only the folks who coordinated on those initial bulk-buy discounts for beds and wardrobes. Back then, we bonded over haggling with the shopkeeper, waiting for deliveries, laughing at assembly disasters.

404 wasn’t in this group.

He’d never joined, even after several invites. 504 once joked, "Maybe his sofa is from another planet." Nobody pushed it—some people just aren’t ‘group people.’

The first to speak was 504:

[Did you guys notice? Something’s off with 404.]

His words hung there, heavier than they should have. This was the group for small complaints and fun, not suspicion.

402 replied immediately: [What’s off?]

A quick reply, probably typed with one thumb, as if trying to keep things light.

504 sent a few messages in a row:

[The baby cried for half an hour, and the mum didn’t feed him?]

[And babies aren’t like adults—their crying always fades gradually, even after feeding they’ll sob a bit, it wouldn’t just stop all of a sudden.]

[I just feel something’s wrong.]

His logic made sense to anyone who’s grown up in a big Indian family, surrounded by cousins and siblings—everybody knows babies can’t just stop on a dime. There’s always a little hiccuping, a few whimpers. In India, aunties are practically born experts at deciphering a child’s wail.

There are only eight households in this furniture group.

We’d all moved in around the same time. The building was still new; the paint smelt fresh, the staircase echoed with the clatter of new slippers, and the lift often broke down. Our group was tight-knit, sharing numbers for plumbers and arguing about who would clean the staircase next week.

Because this is a newly-relocated walk-up building, not many people have moved in yet.

Many flats still stood empty, dusty, waiting for their new owners. Sometimes, at night, you’d hear the wind rattling loose window panes, giving the building a half-haunted feel. Most residents were still bachelors or young couples, trying to make the best of their first homes.

The whole building has six floors, four flats per floor, but only ten households live here, mostly single men.

Our building wasn’t like the old housing societies where everyone knew everyone’s grandfather. Here, it was mostly professionals, techies, some students, people like me—trying to make a life in the city. Each floor had its own character, but the fourth floor always felt… different.

On the fourth floor, there are three households: me in 401, the mysterious family in 404, and the regular single guy in 402.

I’d shared tea and samosas with 402 a few times—he was friendly, easygoing, always ready to help with a heavy bag or share Netflix passwords. 404 kept to himself, always the outlier.

After 504 raised the question, 402 replied quickly:

[Don’t overthink it, would he really strangle his own son?]

The words, meant to lighten the mood, only deepened the unease. No one wants to think such things happen in their building, but the possibility lingered like an uninvited guest.

At this point, 601 joined in:

[Can’t say for sure… A few days ago, I saw the guy from 404 kill a cat.]

A shocked silence fell. In India, even if someone doesn’t like cats, hurting one is seen as a bad omen—Amma would say, "Paap lagega, beta." The idea unsettled everyone.

402 sounded shocked: [Don’t freak me out, yaar!]

His words had a nervous edge, as if he was half-laughing, half-worried. In the dead of night, fear and humour often get tangled together.

But 302 retorted immediately: [So what if he killed a cat? That doesn’t mean he’d kill a person. And anyway, that’s his own son.]

The rational voice, trying to dismiss the creeping dread. But even he sounded less certain now. In Indian society, the line between ‘outsider’ and ‘us’ is thin, but powerful.

601 quickly clarified with several messages:

[First, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean he’s got violent tendencies.]

[Second, his relationship with his wife doesn’t seem good, right? I’ve never seen them go out together.]

[And finally, since we’re talking about this, has anyone actually seen his wife?]

That last question hung in the air. In Indian buildings, wives are often visible, out with the kids, chatting in stairwells, passing plates of sweets at festivals. Here, not a single person could recall her face.

That question stumped all of us who were still awake.

I sat back, trying to summon any memory, any hint. But all I could see in my mind was that closed door, that too-quiet flat.

I thought hard, and even as his next-door neighbour, I’d never actually seen his wife.

No glimpses of her through the half-open door, no sound of bangles clinking, no gentle humming of lullabies, nothing. It was as if she existed only as a mention in 404’s awkward small talk.

504, 402, and 302—all still up—said they hadn’t seen her either. We all agreed it was pretty strange.

The group chat filled with “Same here,” “Never seen her,” and a few “Odd, na?” replies. In a country where privacy is rare and neighbours are nosy by default, this absence felt unnatural.

Finally, 302 said: [Why don’t we call the police station?]

The suggestion came half-jokingly, half-seriously. Everyone knew police visits meant trouble—questions, paperwork, gossip for weeks. But sometimes, that’s the only option.

But at this point, 504 asked: [Wouldn’t calling the police without any evidence be wasting their time?]

Nobody wanted the hassle of being ‘that’ person—the one who called the cops for a false alarm and brought badla (revenge) from the accused neighbour.

I’d thought he was the one who wanted to get to the bottom of this the most.

Maybe he was just scared. Or maybe, like most Indians, he wanted someone else to take the blame if it all went wrong.

While everyone hesitated, 402 spoke up again: [What’s so complicated? They live right next to me. I’ll just go knock and ask, okay?]

His casual tone belied the tension in the chat. In India, direct confrontation is rare, but sometimes a neighbourly check-in is all that’s needed to calm nerves—or spark more worry.

504 replied immediately: [Sure, just be careful and see what’s up.]

A couple of thumbs-up and ‘Good luck!’ messages followed. The unspoken rule was clear: Check, but don’t get dragged into drama.

601 and 302 both told him to be polite—just show concern, don’t accuse anyone.

“Bas, pyaar se pooch lena,” someone wrote. That’s how we do things—always with a smile, always pretending everything is normal, even when it’s not.

Reading this, I became even more alert.

My eyes refused to close, mind running wild. I put on my chappals, stood quietly near my own door, listening for the slightest sound from the corridor.