Karachi doesn’t really know how to be quiet.
Even in the middle of the night—three in the morning, say—the city keeps breathing. Cars rumble somewhere out on the road, stray dogs bark like they’re keeping some strange beat, and if you listen, you’ll catch someone arguing on a balcony. Silence hardly stands a chance here. Maybe that’s why nobody noticed when Apartment 706 went silent.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He picked his targets—people he thought nobody cared about. The homeless. The poor. The invisible ones.
Because he understood something chilling:
Nobody would bother to look.
Sana saw something even worse.
He was right.
The missing boy’s family searched on their own.
The rickshaw driver’s wife begged in the streets.
The homeless man? Nobody even noticed he was gone.
Adeel didn’t hide in the shadows.
He hid in the cracks of everyone else’s indifference.
7. The Choice
The man tied to the chair stared at Sana, desperate.
Adeel offered her the knife.
“Take it,” he said.
She hesitated. “What?”
“Prove me wrong.”
He pressed the knife into her trembling hand.
“Go outside. Scream. Knock on doors. Ask for help.”
He stepped away.
“If even one person comes in tonight, I’ll give myself up.”
Sana bolted into the hallway.
“Help!” she shouted. “There’s a man dying!”
Some doors opened a crack.
Eyes peeked out.
A voice whispered, “Not our problem.”
Another muttered, “Call the police.”
Nobody moved. Nobody crossed the line.
Seconds dragged by, stretching into forever.
One by one, doors closed again.
Silence settled.
Sana stood there, alone.
Adeel’s voice drifted out.
“You see?”
8. The Ending
But Adeel missed one thing.
Guilt.
Sana couldn’t go back inside. Not yet. She yanked a fire extinguisher from the wall and smashed it into the emergency alarm.
Suddenly, the building wailed with sirens.
Lights snapped on. Backup power buzzed.
People panicked, spilling into the hallway, thinking there was a fire.
Now, they couldn’t look away.
Sana pointed at apartment 706.
“There’s a man dying in there!”
With everyone watching, hesitation faded. Two men rushed inside.
They saw the plastic sheets. The blood. The bound man.
And Adeel, standing in the middle, almost bored.
The mask was gone.
Police stormed in minutes later.
When they hauled Adeel away, he didn’t struggle.
He looked back at Sana, smiling.
“Don’t forget,” he said quietly, “I only existed because they let me.”
Karachi exploded with the story.
News anchors blamed criminals.
Politicians blamed the police.
Religious leaders blamed lost morals.
Sana saw the real nightmare.
Evil doesn’t just hide in the dark.
It grows when everyone stays silent.
Apartment 706 stayed empty for months.
Some people claimed to hear scratching at night.
Others just blamed the wind.
But the real ghost wasn’t in the walls.
It haunted the neighbors—those who heard screams and chose to do nothing.
The scariest monster isn’t the one inside the room.
It’s the neighbors outside, pretending they can’t hear a thing.
In a city as loud as Karachi, the real darkness isn’t crime.
It’s indifference.
And indifference kills, quietly, every
The Apartment in Gulshan-e-Iqbal Karachi Pakistan--Horror Profile
The Arrival of Imran
At the edge of the village was an old well that had been abandoned, overgrown with wild shrubs and stones. It was rumored that the well had been dry for decades, but sometimes, late at night, the villagers swore they heard splashing sounds coming from within the well.
Some attributed it to the wind.
Others attributed it to something else.
Old Haji Kareem, the oldest man in the village, would often warn the children:
“This well is not empty. It is waiting.”
No one understood what he meant. But no one dared to ask.
The Arrival of Imran
In December 1980, a young schoolteacher named Imran arrived in Basti Noorpur. He had been appointed by the government to teach in the small village school. Imran was well-educated, progressive, and did not believe in superstitions.
When he first heard of the “haunted well,” he laughed.
“Just a way to frighten children,” he said confidently.
But the villagers did not laugh with him.
Imran rented a small room in a clay house near the fields. Every evening, he would mark papers under the faint light of a lantern. And every night, just after midnight, he heard something peculiar.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It
Whispers in the Night
One chilly evening, a boy named Sameer disappeared.
Sameer had told his mother that he was going to fetch his kite from around the banyan tree before sunset. He never came back.
The villagers searched the entire night with lanterns. They searched the fields, the banks of the river, and the empty huts.
Then someone proposed searching the well.
Fear flashed through their faces.
No one wanted to peer into the well.
Finally, Imran decided to take the initiative.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I will go and check.”
He walked towards the well, holding a lantern in his hand. The night was strangely quiet. Even the crickets were holding their breath.
He leaned over the edge of the well and held out the lantern.
The well was not empty.
There was water.
Black, thick, and stagnant water.
And for a fleeting moment, he saw something floating in it.
Two white eyes.
Staring up at him.
The lantern shook furiously in his hand and went out.
Imran stumbled backward in shock, his heart racing.
When the villagers lit the lantern again and peered into the well, it looked as if the well was bone-dry.
Cracked stone.
Dust.
Nothing else.
Sameer was never seen again.
Imran could no longer deny what he had witnessed.
He went back to his room and searched for old records of the village in the school storage. He discovered something shocking.
Zainab was not a witch.
She was a widow who owned land that many villagers wanted.
It was false accusations that caused her death.
Imran felt anger and shock.
The village had killed an innocent woman.
And now, something was taking revenge.
The Night of Reckoning
Imran was determined to break the curse. He gathered the villagers.
“We have to admit what happened,” he said. “We have to ask for forgiveness.”
The villagers, afraid but desperate, agreed.That night, under the light of
the pale moon, they gathered around the well. Haji Kareem came forward with shaking hands.
“We were wrong,” he said. “Zainab, forgive us.”
But then, the wind howled furiously.
The earth shook.
The well started overflowing with black water, spilling over its edges.
From the well, a figure slowly emerged.
A woman.
Her clothes soaked.
Her hair covering her face.
Her skin as white as death.
Her eyes empty, dripping with black water.
The villagers screamed and fell to their knees.
Imran was paralyzed.
The woman’s
Imran was determined to break the curse. He gathered the villagers.
“We have to admit what happened,” he said. “We have to ask for forgiveness.”
The villagers were afraid but had no choice.
That night, under the light of the pale moon, they gathered around the well. Haji Kareem led the way, his hands shaking.
“We were wrong,” he said. “Zainab, forgive us.”
Just then, the wind began to howl furiously.
The earth shook.
verdana;">The well started to fill up with black water, overflowing its edges.
A figure slowly emerged from the well.
A woman.
Her clothes soaked through.
Her hair masking her face.
Her skin deathly pale.
Her eyes empty, with dark water dripping from them.
The villagers screamed and knelt on the ground.
Imran was paralyzed with fear.
The woman’s voice rang in their minds, not loudly but clearly.
“You watched.”
The villagers wept.
“You listened to lies.”
Haji Kareem crawled forward on his knees.
“We were afraid.”
The woman cocked her head.
“And so were my children.”
Then two small figures appeared beside her.
The two missing children.
Their eyes were empty.
verdana;">Their skin was cold.
The villagers cried uncontrollably.
Imran found his voice.
“What do you want?” he shouted.
The woman slowly pointed to the mosque.
“Truth.”
The next morning, the whole village assembled in the mosque courtyard. For the first time, they openly talked about what had happened forty years ago.
They confessed their cruelty.
They confessed their greed.
They confessed their silence.
};
The story of Zainab was written and filed inside the mosque records. Her land was donated to build a school in her name.And then
The splashing stopped.
The well dried up forever.
No more whispers.
No more wet footprints.
No more disappearances.
Imran lived in Basti Noorpur for many years. The school flourished, and children not only learned reading and writing but also learned about justice and courage.
style="font-family: verdana;">The old well was closed with stones.
But the villagers say that on very quiet winter nights, if you stand close enough, you can hear something faint.
Not screams.
Not splashing.
But a soft whisper:
“Remember.”
