Chapter 4: The Missing Masala

At that moment, another message came in the group:

402: [Nothing’s wrong over there, we’re overthinking it. Everyone go to sleep.]

The tone was different—short, clipped, not like his usual friendly texts. In a country where even text messages have a rhythm, this one felt off-beat.

I stared at the phone, stunned.

My mind raced: 402 was always the chatty type, his messages peppered with slang and “lol”s. This reply felt cold, almost mechanical. I scrolled up, checking his old messages to be sure.

I didn’t hear 402 return and close his door—definitely not.

I replayed the sounds in my head. That door had only opened once. Did he go inside 404? Was he still there? A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead.

When he left, he closed the door, so how could he come back without opening and closing it?

That small detail gnawed at me. My Amma always said, "It’s the little things that matter, beta." Right now, those little things were screaming for attention.

Could it be he went into 404?

The thought made my hair stand on end.

Chills raced up my spine. I pressed my back to the wall, phone clutched tight, wishing for the safety of my old home, where neighbours gossiped but never disappeared.

On the screen, 601 and 302 both said it was fine, let’s all sleep.

They were quick to dismiss the unease—maybe out of fear, maybe denial. Only 504 seemed to share my worry.

Only 504 said nothing.

In our group, silence was rarely innocent. If someone stopped replying, it usually meant they were thinking—or afraid.

Then I noticed he actually sent me a private message:

[Bro, you’re definitely not asleep, right? Single guys like us always stay up late, I don’t believe you’re sleeping… Did you see all the group messages?]

My phone vibrated in my hand. The familiar tone of a direct message brought a weird comfort. At least someone else was awake, someone else cared.

I was stunned for a second, but it made sense.

504 and I often shared midnight Maggi and gaming marathons. We were the late-night brigade, always up when the city slept.

504’s single too, we sometimes game together, both night owls.

I pictured his messy room, the pile of half-read comics on his desk. For once, his insomnia was useful.

So I didn’t hide it, and replied: [Half asleep, didn’t say anything, but I saw it all. Isn’t it over now?]

My fingers trembled slightly as I typed, trying to sound casual.

I didn’t dare tell him about the weird thing I’d just heard—I was more curious why he messaged me privately.

A part of me felt exposed. If the 404 guy was as strange as we thought, even our private chats might not be safe.

504 was blunt: [Bro, don’t you feel something’s off?]

His directness was oddly comforting. In India, people dance around the truth, but sometimes, when it matters, we come straight to the point.

Of course I did, but I still didn’t want to say it outright, worried I’d make things more complicated.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Sometimes, naming your fear makes it real.

So I replied: [What’s off?]

Playing dumb was the safest option. Let him spell it out.

He replied quickly, clearly tense too: [402—your neighbour—his last message felt off to me. Did you notice he has a little typing quirk?]

My mind whirred, searching for anything odd in 402’s messages. My eyes darted across the chat, looking for patterns I’d missed.

What quirk?

I hunched closer to my screen, scanning old chats for anything unusual, heart pounding.

I hurried back to the group chat and scrolled up, checking 402’s messages.

And there it was, as obvious as the orange marigolds at a wedding: his messages always had that trademark ‘na’ or ‘ya’ at the end. It was his thing, his way of softening every sentence.

Then I realised—this guy, when he types, almost every sentence ends with a cutesy little ‘na’ or ‘ya’ at the end.

It made his messages sound friendly, familiar. It was the sort of thing that made you trust someone, feel like they were always on your side.

But, but—

Tonight’s last message had none of that. Just a flat, impersonal line.

After he went to 404, the message telling everyone to go to sleep didn’t have it.

My stomach dropped. In every message, 402’s ‘na’ was like the masala in chai—without it, something felt off, tasteless, wrong.

A cold wave of fear washed over me. It was as if someone else was using his phone, pretending to be him, but not quite pulling it off.

It sounded much more serious.

I felt a prickle of dread. My father used to say, “People can fake words, but not their own touch.” Tonight, 402’s message had lost his touch.

Does that mean…

My throat went dry. I could barely type.

I didn’t dare think further.

Every scary story I’d heard as a child came rushing back: neighbours who vanished, doors that stayed closed for days, mysterious silences explained only years later.

I just kept replying to 504: [You mean the ‘ya’? You think the last message wasn’t from him?]

My hands shook as I sent the message, eyes glued to the corridor outside. I waited for his reply, for something to break the tension.

Right then, I heard faint noises outside my door:

My breath stopped. The sound of footsteps, soft and careful, the kind you make when you don’t want to be caught. Every instinct screamed for me to hide.

Like someone was deliberately muffling their footsteps, moving quietly.

The only other time I’d heard such footsteps was when Amma snuck into my room to check if I was studying for boards or watching cricket highlights instead. But this was different. This was dangerous.

I couldn’t help but lean in closer to the peephole…

My palms were slick with sweat. I prayed the power wouldn’t cut out at this exact moment, plunging me into darkness.

When I looked, my back went cold—

A face, pale and expressionless, filled the peephole. It was the 404 man—his eyes unblinking, his lips pressed tight. For a second, I thought he could see me, thought he knew I was there, watching him.

Because outside my door, the strange face of the man from 404 was also pressed up against the peephole.