I was nineteen when I found the contract page, and I want to be clear about something before I start: I never tried to hire anyone.
I was looking for scam sites.
That sounds stupid now, but at the time I was studying computer networking and had become obsessed with fake dark web markets. I liked figuring out what gave them away—copied layouts, recycled Bitcoin addresses, broken PGP keys, stock photographs pretending to be sellers.
One night I found a site that claimed to arrange “private services.”
Most of it looked fake.
Then I clicked a section called OPEN CONTRACTS.
The Contract Page Countdown
There were twelve entries. Each showed a blurred photograph, a country, a price, and a countdown timer.
I assumed the whole thing was theatre until I opened the fourth listing.
The woman in the photograph looked familiar.
She had dark hair tied back and wore a green coat. The photo had been taken outside a supermarket at night. Behind her was a bus shelter with a torn advertisement.
I knew that bus shelter.
It was across the street from my building.
I zoomed in.
The woman was named Mara Venn on the listing, but that wasn’t her real name. I had seen her in the lift dozens of times. She lived somewhere below me and had a little white dog that barked whenever the doors opened.
The page showed a countdown: 02 DAYS 11 HOURS.
Under it was a note:
Client requests completion before Friday.
I took screenshots.
That was my first mistake.
A red banner appeared at the top of the page.
SCREEN CAPTURE DETECTED.
I laughed nervously because websites cannot normally detect ordinary screenshots reliably. I figured it was scripted to scare visitors.
Then a chat bubble opened.
You’re very close to this one.
I did not answer.
The next message said:
Seven floors close.
I lived on the seventh floor.
I unplugged the router.
Seven Floors Close
The next morning I waited in the lobby until I saw the woman with the white dog.
I stopped her and told her something embarrassing instead of the truth. I said I thought I had seen a man following her the previous evening. She looked frightened, then irritated, then frightened again.
She asked what he looked like.
I said I hadn’t seen his face.
She thanked me and left.
That afternoon, someone slid a printed photograph under my door.
It showed me talking to her in the lobby.
My face had been circled with black marker.
On the back:
Observers become participants.
I called the police and told them everything.
I expected them to laugh. They didn’t.
Two officers came to my flat, photographed the note, and took copies of my screenshots. They told me not to contact the woman again and not to revisit the site.
That night, at 2:13 a.m., the fire alarm sounded.
Everyone came into the hallway half dressed and confused. There was no smoke. No fire.
While we waited for building security, I saw the woman from downstairs standing near the stairwell with her dog in her arms.
Then I noticed a man behind her.
He wasn’t a resident.
I knew almost everyone on our floor by sight, and I had never seen him before. He wore a navy baseball cap and kept one hand in the pocket of his jacket.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at me.
The moment our eyes met, he turned and walked calmly down the stairs.
I shouted after him. Security searched the building and found nothing.
The next morning, the contract page was gone.
So was the woman.
Her mailbox still had her surname on it, but the apartment had been emptied. I later learned she had left during the night with relatives after police contacted her.
For six months, I heard nothing.
Then a new account followed me on Instagram.
No profile picture. No posts.
The username was a string of letters and numbers.
The bio contained a single line:
CONTRACT CLOSED: WITNESS RETAINED.
I blocked it.
Another account appeared the next day.
And the next.
I’ve changed usernames, phones, email addresses, even cities.
They still find me every few months.
The last account didn’t send a threat.
It sent a photograph of the entrance to my new building.
Taken from across the street.
Under it were two words:
Still observing.
