In the hallway of Block Six, where the landing always smells faintly of damp umbrellas and fresh concrete, spring feels oddly sharp. The air is cool, but the evenings stay bright for a while, as if the days in no hurry to leave.
The Smith family was trudging home: dad John, mum Emma, and their teenage son Oliver. Each had a bag of veg and a loaf of bread tucked under their arms, with long green leek stalks peeking out. A little puddle lingered by the front door someone had just come in without shaking off their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and the letterboxes were fresh flyers plain white sheets printed on a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Urgent watermeter replacement! Must be done by the end of the week! Fines apply! Call the number below. The paper was already curling a bit in the damp, the ink bleeding at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy was standing by the lift, trying to dial a number while clutching a bag of potatoes in her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont change them, she mentioned, a little worried as the Smiths passed. I called earlier and a young bloke said its a special offer just for our block. Maybe its time.
John shrugged. Sounds a bit too urgent. Nobody warned us beforehand. The building management has been silent no letters, no calls. And an offer? That sounds like a sales pitch to me.
At dinner the chat kept going. Oliver pulled out another flyer from his school bag the same one, folded in half and slipped into the door crack. Emma turned it over, looking at the date of the last meter check on the bill.
Our last inspection was only a year ago. Why the rush? she asked. And why does nobody here know this company?
John thought for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same thing. And find out what this service actually is, why theyre handing out flyers everywhere.
The next morning the hallway buzzed. Voices rose from the stairwell someone arguing on the phone, a group by the rubbish chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat three were fretting.
If we dont switch them, theyll cut off our water! one complained, clearly upset. Ive got little kids!
Just then a knock sounded at the door. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, roamed the hallway. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! Were here for the urgent watermeter replacement as instructed! Anyone whose check is overdue will face a fine from the management! the taller man announced, his voice loud and a bit overthetop. His partner tapped the door of the flat opposite, pounding as if racing against time.
The Smiths exchanged glances. John peeked through the peephole unfamiliar faces, no badges. Emma whispered, Dont open yet. Let them go to the others first.
Oliver slipped to the window and saw a car parked in the courtyard with no markings. The driver was smoking, eyes glued to his phone. Streetlights reflected off the wet bonnet, the pavement still glistening from last nights rain.
A few minutes later the two men moved on, leaving wet footprints on the carpet outside Aunt Lucys door. A thin line of water traced along the mat.
By evening the whole building was buzzing like a beehive. Some had already signed up for the replacement, others were phoning the management for answers and getting vague replies. In the residents WhatsApp group people debated: should we let these guys in? Why the rush? A neighbour from flat seventeen chimed in, Their ID looked odd just a laminated card with no official stamp. I asked for a licence and they bolted.
The Smiths grew more wary. John suggested, Tomorrow well try to catch them again and ask for proper documents. Ill also ring the management directly. Emma agreed, and Oliver promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The next morning the trio of service men returned, same jackets, same folders. They swept through the floors, pounding on doors, urging everyone to sign up on the spot.
John opened his door only a crack, keeping the chain tight. Show me your paperwork. I want to see your licence and the reference number from the building management, if this is a scheduled job. He said calmly.
One of the men fumbled, digging through papers, and handed over a flimsy sheet with an unknown logo. The other stared at his tablet, scrolling.
Were contracted to service this block Heres the contract the first muttered.
What contract? With our management? Give me the name of the responsible person, the job reference, and a dispatchers phone number, John pressed.
The men exchanged glances, babbled about urgency and fines. John then pulled out his phone and dialed the management on the spot.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent out service guys today for meter replacements? We have strangers roaming the flats he asked.
The voice on the other end was clear: no planned works, no crew sent out, and any legitimate contractor would be notified in writing and signed off by residents.
The men tried to excuse themselves mistake, wrong building but John had already hit record on Olivers phone.
Dusk fell fast, the hallway slipping into halfdark. A cold draft sneaked through an open window, rattling the frames. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a damp trail of soles leading to the rubbish chute. Through the doors, neighbours voices rose, rehashing what had just happened.
The climax was almost mundane: the Smiths finally saw the scam for what it was a fraud masquerading as a mandatory meter swap. The solution came naturally: warn everyone and act together.
It was already getting dark, but the Smiths didnt waste time. John called Aunt Lucy, the lady from flat seventeen, and a couple from the top floor. A few more mums with kids joined, and the smell of damp coats mixed with fresh bakery wafts someone had just dropped off a loaf. Oliver turned on the recorder so anyone who missed the meeting could hear the call later.
Listen up, John began, holding up his phone screen. The management says theres no work scheduled. Those guys are impostors no proper licence, no job reference. Theyre scammers.
Ive already signed up! cried a neighbour from the third floor, blushing. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone, her mother added. We got a call too, but if it were legit the management would have warned us in writing.
People started asking about fines, others worried about the personal details theyd already handed over. John calmed everyone down: Dont let anyone in tomorrow, and dont pay anything on the spot. If they show up again, demand documents and call the management right there. Better yet, keep the door closed.
Oliver showed a sheet outlining what a real inspection looks like: check dates on bills, the companys name can be verified with the management, and any fine without a court order is just a scare tactic.
Emma suggested, Lets draft a collective letter to the management so theyre aware of these visits and can warn the rest of us. And well put up a notice on the ground floor. The neighbours nodded, someone fetched a pen and an old folder. As they scribbled the letter, a real sense of solidarity grew nobody wanted to be duped alone.
Through the hallway window you could see a few latenight walkers hurrying home in the drizzle; the courtyard glittered with puddles under the streetlights.
The notice was simple: Attention! Fraudsters posing as service technicians have been spotted in the building. The management confirms no meter replacements are scheduled. Do not open the door to strangers! They slipped the paper into a waterproof sleeve and taped it to the letterbox wall.
Almost everyone signed the joint statement; the neighbour from the third floor offered to deliver it to the management the next morning. The rest promised to spread the word to anyone on holiday or staying with relatives.
When folks drifted back to their flats, the mood had shifted from nervous caution to upbeat determination, with a few jokes tossed around. Now nobodys going to pull a fast one on us! We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad! someone laughed.
John smiled, At least we know each others faces now. Next time well meet for a reason other than a scare.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas sat on the radiator and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the door. The landing was quiet; muffled voices drifted through other doors, sharing plans and catching up with family.
The next morning the bogus flyers vanished from every door and mailbox as quickly as theyd appeared. No service men turned up again. The caretaker even found a crumpled red flyer under a shrub, stuck with a strip of tape.
Residents gathered by the lift, smiling and exchanging thanks. Aunt Lucy brought the Smiths a batch of homemade scones for saving us from a foolish mistake, and the lady from the top floor left a note that read Thanks! on their door.
The courtyard was still damp from the nights rain, but the last drops evaporated under the morning sun. On the landing, neighbours chatted about the new genuine meter one flat had just had installed a year ago, joked about the fake technicians, and simply enjoyed the renewed sense of trust.
The Smiths realised theyd paid a price an evening of explanations, paperwork, a little embarrassment, and a bit of lost faith in doortodoor notices. Still, the whole block was now sharper about strangers and a little tighter as a community.
