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Aaron had always been particular about his smartphone. As a freelance UI tester for security apps, he kept clean installs, ran checks daily, and monitored app permissions religiously. On a dusky Thursday evening, while sipping instant coffee in his rented apartment near Laxmi Nagar, Delhi, he noticed a new folder icon on his home screen. It was titled simply: ‘Directory’.
Thinking it a rogue app or a phishing attack, he dove into his system logs. Nothing. No app install logs, no packet traces. The folder existed virtually—uncatalogued by the OS, yet fixed between a bank app and YouTube. Curious and slightly unnerved, he tapped it.
Inside was a single file: ‘People Who Watch You’. The name unsettled him. It couldn’t have spoofed itself out of nowhere. He opened it reluctantly.
The screen displayed a list of names that updated live, line by line:
– Jatin Mehra – Sitting at Shiv Temple steps
– Unknown – Looking from Metro Pillar 94
– Neeta Sharma – Window, 4th Floor, Pearl Residency
He frowned. Pearl Residency was his building. Was this some augmented reality game? Creepy, but not unheard of. He scrolled further. The entries updated every few seconds.
– Uber Driver (masked) – Pausing app outside your gate
– Man with limp – Next to Sabziwala stall, peering frequently
Aaron had passed that stall two minutes ago.
His phone vibrated. A call from “PRIVATE”. He answered.
Silence. Then a low whisper, almost synthetic: “They know you see them.”
He threw his phone on the bed. It buzzed again. The directory folder was still open. Now a new category had appeared within:
– Observers: Not Aware
– Observers: Aware
The second list had just one name: Aaron Anthony
He turned off the phone. Counted to ten. Restarted.
No folder.
He sighed with relief. Must be a hallucination born of stress. He hadn’t stepped out for more than groceries in days. Probably low sleep, high caffeine. Paranoia wasn’t unheard of among testers.
Friday afternoon, he ran into his neighbor Mrs. Dsouza in the lift. She greeted him normally, then paused.
“You know, some man keeps standing outside that paan shop, always looking at your window. Every day at sunset. Bit odd.”
He smiled and brushed it off. But later, curiosity won. He turned his phone back on. The folder reappeared instantly.
The list was now longer, grouped by timestamps:
[09:34] Child in torn uniform – Opposite chai tapri
[12:12] Blind man (not blind) – Passed by your scooter twice
[14:44] App delivery man – Didn’t knock
[17:19] YOU – Looking behind curtain at 3:32 AM
He stared. 3:32 AM? The entry implied he had been watching someone. But he had no memory of waking up at that hour. He checked his building’s CCTV from the society app. Nothing out of place.
That night, Aaron left his phone on video recording mode facing the bed. The next morning, he watched the footage. At 3:32 AM, his body sat up upright—eyes open, staring at the curtain. No sound. No movement. He sat for ten minutes, then slowly lay back.
At exactly 3:42, audio distortion began: static mixed with distant murmurs. Every word just out of intelligibility. He paused playback. His hands trembled. His own device was documenting him doing things he didn’t remember.
He opened the folder one last time.
A new menu had replaced the old ones:
– View List
– Upload Your Slot
Beneath ‘Upload Your Slot’ was text:
“You’ve observed too much. Contribute to balance.”
Against his better instincts, he tapped the button.
The phone asked for one name, one location. Any person of his choosing. He entered no one. Closed the app. Deleted everything. Factory reset the phone.
Three days passed. The folder did not return.
But people did.
Men loitered outside his gate. Tuk-tuk drivers lingered without cause. Faces in the metro lingered eye-contact. Strangers smiled at nothing.
Then, one night, his phone buzzed—though he hadn’t yet bought a new SIM. It was now blank—only showing one message:
“Your Slot Has Been Used. Thank You, Observer Aaron.”
He opened it. A photo loaded.
It was of him. Asleep. Taken from the ceiling.
He sprinted out of his flat, barefoot, breath ragged. Drenched in moonlight, the street outside was empty.
Except one figure, back facing him, who whispered: “Others are uploading you now.”
Aaron never returned to his apartment. He deleted his online presence, disconnected entirely.
But sometimes, on borrowed phones, he notices a faint folder he didn’t install.
It always reappears.
And the list has grown.
