Wrong Address : Best Horror Story of 2025
Delivering a parcel can be that disturbing he didn't knew
LATEST STORIES
Avveeram K Vashishtha
12/14/20249 min read
Prashant was an ordinary young man driven to desperation. When his father passed away, he was left with a mentally unstable mother and a young sister. As the eldest, the heavy burden of responsibility fell entirely on his shoulders. He dropped out of college and took up odd jobs, but the money was never enough. His family barely managed two meals a day.
One evening on his way home, Prashant ran into an old school friend who was also going through tough times. His friend revealed he was making a decent living as a delivery agent and offered to help Prashant get hired at the same agency. Grateful for the lifeline, Prashant accepted and started the very next day.
Because he was entirely new to the logistics system, his friend and colleagues offered to guide him. However, driven by overconfidence and a desperate need to prove himself, Prashant brushed off their advice. He grabbed his massive stack of assigned parcels and rushed out into the city.
Hours later, he returned to the hub, sweating but proud. He had successfully delivered every single parcel. He walked into the office wondering if he would be praised for being the fastest driver. Instead, his supervisor looked up in surprise and told him that all his colleagues were already out on their third round of deliveries.
Prashant’s face fell. Sensing his disappointment, his friend walked over to comfort him. "Don't worry, man, it's only your first day. How did you route your deliveries?"
Prashant explained that he had simply picked up the parcels one by one, top to bottom, and driven across town to drop them off. His friend groaned. "Did you not sort them by zip code or neighborhood? You’ve been running back and forth across the city all day!" He then taught Prashant how to logistically map his route. "Do it this way next time. You’ll move faster, deliver more, and earn the massive performance incentives."
Determined to make up for his slow start, Prashant took a massive second batch. He meticulously sorted the packages and told his friend, "Watch me. I'm going to set a record this time."
By late evening, Prashant was flying through his route. He had only one package left when his phone rang. It was his friend checking in.
"I'm on my way to the very last address!" Prashant said cheerfully.
"Check the location, Prashant," his friend warned, his voice tight with worry. "It's getting pitch black outside. If it's too far out, bring it back to the hub. It's not worth it."
"No way," Prashant argued, thinking of the extra incentive money. "I'm finishing this." He hung up.
The final address took him deep into the bleak, isolated outskirts of the city. He pulled up to a massive, derelict concrete apartment building. It looked completely abandoned, with cracked walls and shattered windows. However, looking up, Prashant noticed a faint, flickering yellow light peeping out from a window on the first floor.
He checked the label. First Floor, Apartment 104.
Prashant climbed the dark, creaking concrete stairs. He found the door and knocked firmly. No answer. He knocked a second time, much sharper. This time, he heard a strange, shuffling noise from within. Just as he raised his hand to knock a third time, the heavy wooden door slowly swung open on its own.
He stepped inside. The apartment was filthy, covered in a thick layer of ash-like gray dust. The walls were scorched black, looking as though a horrific fire had gutted the place years ago. In the center of the living room sat a wooden chair. An elderly man sat perfectly still upon it, staring blankly ahead.
"Hello, sir," Prashant said, his voice echoing in the dead silence. "My name is Prashant. I'm here to deliver your parcel."
The old man didn’t move or blink. Prashant repeated himself, louder this time. Slowly, the old man raised a pale, trembling finger and pointed toward a dusty table across the room.
The moment Prashant took a step forward, the heavy front door slammed shut behind him with a deafening thud.
Startled, Prashant placed the parcel on the table and turned back to the old man. But the chair was completely empty. The old man was gone.
"Hello?" Prashant called out, panic rising in his chest. "Is anyone else here? I just need a signature to confirm the delivery."
The only response was a faint, agonizing weeping sound lurking from a dark bedroom down the hall. Hesitant but desperate to finish his job and leave, Prashant gathered his courage and walked toward the bedroom door.
Inside, a woman sat on the edge of a mattress. Her arms were tightly folded, her head bowed, and her face completely hidden behind a curtain of matted, dark hair.
"Ma'am? Are you alright?" Prashant whispered.
She did not move. The air grew freezing cold. Sensing the profound wrongness of the situation, Prashant spun around to exit—only to see the old man standing on the balcony of the adjacent room. Before Prashant could speak, the old man climbed the railing and threw himself off into the darkness.
"No!" Prashant screamed, sprinting to the balcony. He peered over the edge, expecting to see a body on the pavement below. There was nothing. Just empty, black ground.
Terrified, Prashant realized he was dealing with something paranormal. He ran back to the main entrance and grabbed the door handle, but his hands slipped. There was no doorknob. The inside of the door was completely flat. He began furiously banging his fists against the wood. "Help! Somebody let me out!"
He turned around in despair, and his breath hitched. Standing in the corner of the room was a man in his late thirties. His face and torso were horrific, half-melted by severe burns.
"Sir! Please!" Prashant begged, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm just the delivery boy! I want to leave but the door won't open. Please help me!"
The burned man stared right through him, completely deaf to his cries.
Looking desperately at the door again, Prashant noticed a tiny, old-fashioned keyhole. He needed a key. He scanned the room wildly. Suddenly, the old man was sitting back in the central wooden chair, staring at him.
"Where are the keys?" Prashant cried out, running to him. The old man remained a silent statue.
Then, a sickening sound came from the hallway. A small child was crawling out of the dark bedroom toward Prashant. To his horror, the child possessed the wrinkled, fully-grown face of an adult but the tiny, deformed body of an infant. Unlike the others, the creature looked directly into Prashant's eyes. It raised a tiny, twisted hand and pointed toward a dusty wall rack.
Prashant bolted to the rack. His hands scrambled through the dust until his fingers wrapped around a heavy, tarnished brass key ring holding dozens of keys. Panting with relief, he sprinted back to the door.
He shoved the first key into the hole. It didn't turn. He tried a second. A third. A fourth. None of them fit.
Wiping sweat from his eyes, he turned around to ask the creature for help, but the living room was empty again. The child and the old man had vanished.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic tinkling sound echoed from the bedroom—the exact sound of keys jingling. Prashant slowly walked back to the room where the weeping woman sat. The moment he crossed the threshold, the bedroom door slammed shut behind him.
The darkness was absolute. Fear paralyzed him. He forgot about the keys entirely and began wildly throwing his body against the bedroom door. "Let me out! I don't want to be here!"
An icy breath brushed against the back of his neck. A chilling, collective whisper echoed directly into his ear: "There is no going back."
The bedroom door violently flew open. Prashant screamed, sprinting out into the living room. He ran straight to the main exit, hammering on the wood with raw, bloody knuckles.
Suddenly, he froze. He could hear heavy breathing on the exact opposite side of the door. Someone was standing right outside.
Prashant pressed his eye against the keyhole and gasped. Through the keyhole, he didn't see the concrete hallway of the building. He saw an identical ash-covered living room. Standing on the other side of the keyhole was an exact copy of himself, weeping and screaming for help.
Prashant backed away, losing his mind. He was trapped in a temporal nightmare.
Then, a thought struck him. The balcony. It was only the first floor—a short drop to the ground. It was dangerous, but it was his only escape.
He ran out to the balcony. As he reached the railing, the apparition of the old man appeared beside him and jumped into the abyss once more. Taking a deep breath, Prashant closed his eyes and leaped over the railing, bracing for the impact of the cold pavement.
Instead, Prashant crashed hard onto a floor.
He opened his eyes and gasped for air. He wasn't outside on the ground. He was lying flat on his back in the middle of the ash-covered living room, staring up at the scorched ceiling.
Refusing to accept it, he scrambled to his feet, ran to the balcony, and jumped again.
Thud.
He landed right back in front of the empty wooden chair. He tried a third time. A fourth time. Each leap into the darkness simply dropped him back into the center of the haunted apartment.
Prashant collapsed onto the ash-covered floor, his knees pulled to his chest. The faint weeping in the bedroom started up again, accompanied by the slow, dragging footsteps of the burned man coming down the hall.
The realization hit him with crushing, agonizing weight. His greed, his pride, and his desperate refusal to turn back had led him into a hell with no exit. He was entirely cut off from the mother and sister who depended on him. He was a permanent resident of Apartment 104, doomed to repeat the loop for eternity.
Prashant collapsed onto the ash-covered floor, his knees pulled to his chest. The faint weeping in the bedroom started up again, accompanied by the slow, dragging footsteps of the burned man coming down the hall. Tears blurred his vision as he thought of his mother and sister. If he vanished forever, they would starve. His desperate desire to save them had trapped him here, but that same love suddenly sparked a fierce, stubborn refusal to give up.
He forced himself to stand. "Think, Prashant, think," he muttered. "This place runs on a loop. It distorts space and mimics my choices."
He looked at the front door. Through the keyhole, his duplicate was still staring back at him, trapped in the exact same cycle of panic. Then it hit him: The loop only continues because I keep trying to escape the same way. Every time he panicked, ran, or jumped out of greed or fear, the apartment reset. To break a supernatural cycle, he had to do something entirely against the rules of the house.
Instead of running away from the ghosts, Prashant turned and walked directly toward them.
He stepped into the hallway. The burned man stood there, eyes hollow. Prashant didn't yell or beg. Instead, he took the delivery parcel off the table, held it out, and said softly, "I am sorry for your loss. I am just a messenger, but I respect your home. Please, accept this."
He gently placed the parcel at the burned man's feet and bowed his head in a gesture of pure respect and peace.
The dragging footsteps stopped. The weeping in the bedroom ceased entirely. The heavy, freezing air in the apartment suddenly began to warm up. The burned man looked down at the package, and for the first time, his eyes focused on Prashant. A faint, tragic smile crossed the spirit's melted face. He raised a hand, pointing not to the rack of keys, but to the old, central wooden chair.
Prashant walked back to the living room. Sitting on the chair was no longer the terrifying old man, but a small, ordinary brass key—the single true key to the front door, which had been hidden in plain sight all along.
Prashant picked it up, walked to the flat front door, and inserted it into the tiny keyhole. It turned with a satisfying, heavy click.
He pushed the door open. Instead of an ash-covered nightmare or a mirror image of himself, he saw the damp, concrete stairs of the apartment building, illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the stairwell window.
Prashant didn't look back. He sprinted down the stairs, burst through the front exit of the building, and collapsed onto the real, solid earth outside. He gasped for air, sobbing with pure relief as he looked up at the stars. He was free. He threw his delivery bag into his vehicle and drove away from the outskirts, never looking back.
The next morning, Prashant returned to the hub. He handed in his badge and told his friend everything. His friend, deeply shaken, helped him secure a safe, daytime inventory job at the warehouse instead. It paid a steady, honest salary without the dangerous incentives of late-night deliveries.
Months later, Prashant sat at his modest dining table, watching his mother calmly sipping tea and his younger sister happily sketching in a new notebook. They finally had enough food on the table every single day. He had lost his overconfidence and learned the hard way never to let desperation blind his judgment. As he smiled at his family, Prashant knew he had survived the darkest night of his life, and he was finally home.