Ayaan sat rigid in his office chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, but his mind was just somewhere else. The usual rhythm of his thoughts had been disrupted, replaced by an unsettling sense of discomfort. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above him seemed to grow louder with each passing second, filling the silence of the room.
His eyes flickered across the words on the screen, but they no longer made sense. They blurred together into an unintelligible jumble, like a foreign language he couldn't quite decipher.
He leaned back in his chair, glancing toward the window where the fading light of day struggled to break through the curtains.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting an orange glow across the sky, but the warmth of the sunlight felt distant, irrelevant to the chill that had settled over him. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and a shiver ran down his spine.
It was just the house. It had to be. He had told himself this many times, tried to rationalize the creeping sense of unease that clung to him since morning. The creaks of the old wooden floor, the faint drafts that slipped through the cracks, the disquieting silence that enveloped him whenever he was alone—it was all part of the house's age. But the chill in the air, the sensation of something—or someone—watching him, that wasn't just the house. Ayaan could feel it deep in his bones.
His thoughts kept returning to the strange occurrence earlier in the day—the sudden appearance of a message on his laptop screen. which he hadn't typed it. He hadn't even touched the keyboard. And yet, the words were there:
"You didn't forget them. But you forgot us."
He just sat frozen, staring at the message for what felt like hours, unable to make sense of it.
Who had written it?
Was it a glitch?
An error in the system?
But even as he tried to convince himself it was something trivial, the message continued to linger in his mind, unanswered.
Ayaan shook his head, pushing the thought aside. He couldn't focus on this right now.
Not when the evening was creeping closer, and the weight of the house's silence was growing heavier. He closed the laptop with a sharp click, the action somehow more final than he intended. The room returned to its oppressive stillness, and Ayaan sat in the silence for a moment longer, eyes closed as he tried to regain some semblance of composure.
He stood up abruptly, the sudden movement almost making him dizzy. His legs were unsteady as he walked toward the hallway, his mind still swirling with questions. There had to be a logical explanation. There had to be.
The shrill sound of his phone ringing broke through his thoughts. Ayaan jumped, his heart leaping into his throat as he reached for the device. His breath caught in his chest as the name on the caller ID flashed up—Mrs. Kazi.
He hesitated for a brief moment before answering, his voice calm but with a hint of weariness.
"Hello, Mrs. Kazi. Is everything alright?"
"Good evening, Ayaan," came her voice, warm but with a note of concern. "I do hope I'm not disturbing you, but I've encountered a small problem. The light in my hallway has gone out, and I find myself unable to reach it to replace the bulb. I was wondering if you might be kind enough to assist me?"
Ayaan's mind was still clouded with the strange message and the growing sense of dread that clung to him, but he knew it would be rude to refuse. Mrs. Kazi had been a good neighbor, and this was hardly an imposition. He exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts.
"Of course, Mrs. Kazi," he replied, his voice now more controlled. "I shall come over immediately to help you with the issue."
"Thank you, Ayaan," she responded, the relief clear in her tone. "I appreciate your assistance. I will be awaiting for your arrival."
After ending the call, Ayaan stood still for a moment, his hand still holding the phone. He could feel the unsettling tension in the air around him, but the need to escape the suffocating atmosphere of his house won out. He quickly grabbed his hoodie, wrapping it around himself as he stepped into the hallway.
As he crossed the threshold into the cool evening air, he welcomed the change in temperature, the crisp breeze brushing against his skin. The quiet of the neighborhood outside seemed to stand in stark contrast to the oppressive silence of his home. His footsteps echoed in the empty streets as he made his way toward Mrs. Kazi's house, the sound of his shoes on the pavement strangely calming.
The neighborhood was peaceful, as it always was at this hour. The dim light from the streetlamps cast long shadows, and the soft murmur of distant conversation could be heard from the occasional passing car. Yet, even as Ayaan walked through the familiar streets, the uneasy feeling that had plagued him all day refused to let go.
Mrs. Kazi's house was just up the street, a modest but well-maintained home. As Ayaan approached, he could see the light in the front window, a small beacon in the growing darkness. He rang the doorbell, and within moments, Mrs. Kazi appeared, her face alight with a polite but tired smile.
"Good evening, Ayaan," she said, stepping aside to allow him to enter. "Thank you for coming so promptly. Please, follow me to the hallway."
Ayaan followed her through the house, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim interior. The house smelled faintly of lavender and something more earthy—perhaps a distant trace of incense. It was peaceful here, almost like stepping into another world, far removed from the chaos of his thoughts.
Mrs. Kazi led him to the small hallway, where the flickering bulb hung above them, casting strange shadows against the walls.
"I'm afraid the bulb must be quite high," she said, her voice light. "I was unsure if I could reach it myself."
"No problem," Ayaan replied, his tone calm as he assessed the situation. He wasn't sure if it was the mundane task of changing a lightbulb or the quiet of Mrs. Kazi's home, but his nerves slowly began to settle.
Ayaan retrieved the step ladder from the closet and set it up beneath the light fixture. As he climbed, his thoughts began to wander again, and he felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to glance over his shoulder. The hallway behind him was empty, but the sensation of being watched returned, sharper now, almost as if someone—or something—was standing just beyond his line of sight.
The sound of Mrs. Kazi's voice snapped him out of his reverie. "I do hope you're not troubled by the dark, beta Ayaan. It's always a bit eerie, isn't it, when the lights go out?"
Ayaan smiled tightly, adjusting the bulb as he did so. "It is indeed, but no need to worry. It's not something that I can't handle."
As the light flickered to life, casting its warm glow once more, the atmosphere in the hallway shifted, and the oppressive sense of dread that had been clinging to Ayaan for hours seemed to lift—just slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
After finishing the task, Ayaan descended the ladder, straightening his jacket as he turned to Mrs. Kazi. "The bulb is replaced. I trust now everything is in order?"
"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Kazi replied, her smile returning in full. "I am most grateful for your help, Ayaan."
"It was my pleasure," Ayaan said, his words formal yet sincere. He gave a polite nod before taking his leave.
As he stepped back into the cool evening air, the sensation of being watched lingered, but it was easier to ignore now. For the first time that day, Ayaan allowed himself a deep breath, the weight in his chest easing just a little. It was as though the pressure, the ever-present heaviness, had been lifted slightly. But even as he felt a small moment of relief, something else gnawed at him—the feeling that he was still standing on the edge of something, something he couldn't quite identify. A crossroads, perhaps, but what lay on either side? He wasn't sure yet.
He paused at the edge of the street, debating whether to head straight home. The thought of returning to his empty house was not comforting. The silence that awaited him always seemed a little too loud, a little too oppressive. Instead, he decided to walk toward the local grocery store. There were a few essentials he needed to pick up—rice, some vegetables, and something for dinner. The small acts of normalcy were grounding, even if they felt somewhat detached from the larger weight he carried around with him.
The air had grown cooler, the stars beginning to peek out from behind thin clouds. The streetlights buzzed gently overhead, painting the road in a pale amber hue. The quiet of the neighborhood, the familiar sights of his old town, had a strange way of wrapping themselves around him, comforting him even when everything inside him felt at odds with the world around him. He hadn't been back here in years, and yet, as he walked the streets, it was almost as if no time had passed at all.
His shoes clicked softly on the pavement, and he couldn't help but think of how many times he had walked this path as a child. The neighborhood had changed, sure—new buildings, new faces—but there was something about it that still felt the same. The same old trees, the same corner store, the same soft hum of the city that felt both distant and familiar.
As he walked past a familiar intersection, he heard a warm, familiar voice call out,
"Ayaan? Is that really you?"
Ayaan turned, a flicker of surprise lighting up his face. He hadn't expected to see anyone here, much less someone he knew so well. Standing outside a small but busy-looking restaurant was a tall man in a dark apron, wiping his hands with a towel. It took him a moment, but then recognition dawned.
"Abdullah?" Ayaan said, walking closer. "I can't believe it. It's been... what, ten years?"
Abdullah's face split into a wide grin as he looked up from his task, and his eyes gleamed with recognition. He laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "Closer to twelve, I think. What are you doing here, back in our dusty old town? I thought that you left and might never come back again."
Ayaan smiled, the warmth of seeing a familiar face melting away some of the lingering cold inside him. "Just... needed a change of pace. Life in the city was getting overwhelming. Thought I'd come back for a while, breathe easier."
Abdullah's grin softened as he nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Well, you came back to the right place," he said with a grin that suggested the familiarity of old times. "Are you goin some where?"
"Yea. To the grocery store for to grab some ingredients for tonight."
"Come on, forget the grocery store. You're having dinner with me tonight."
Ayaan chuckled, a little hesitant. "I don't want to impose—"
"Nonsense," Abdullah cut in, waving his hand dismissively. "You'll be doing me a favor. Business is slow tonight, and I could use the company. Besides, someone else is here you might want to see."
Ayaan raised an eyebrow. "Someone else?"
Abdullah just winked and motioned for Ayaan to follow him inside. "You'll see."
Before Ayaan could ask any more questions, a voice rang out from the kitchen. "Abdullah! Where's the extra—" The speaker paused as he stepped into view. He was shorter than Abdullah, with kind eyes and a wide grin that froze when he saw Ayaan.
"No way," he said, stepping closer. "Ayaan? am I dreaming or is he really here?"
Ayaan's smile widened. "Muhammad. It's really you."
The two embraced, laughing and talking over each other as though no time had passed at all. It was funny, how old friendships had a way of remaining intact, even when years separated the last encounter.
"I thought you moved abroad!" Ayaan exclaimed, still laughing.
"I did, but that was a lifetime ago," Muhammad replied. "I came back two years ago."
"What are you doing these days?" Ayaan asked, leaning back slightly, studying his old friend. Muhammad had always been a bit of a wanderer, and Ayaan wondered if that was still true.
"Teaching," Muhammad said with a shrug, as though it were nothing remarkable. "At the high school, if you can believe it. And you?"
Ayaan smiled faintly, his tone softening. "Still working as an architect," he replied. "Mostly commercial projects, urban spaces, but I've been wanting to shift to more personal work—houses, community buildings. The pace in the city just... got to me."
Muhammad raised an eyebrow. "You? Working with people on houses? I always thought you'd end up building skyscrapers or something."
Ayaan chuckled. "Yeah, well, I guess that's the city life for you. But I want something different. More meaningful, maybe."
Abdullah, who had been listening with interest, leaned in. "Still sketching buildings in the margins of your notebooks?" he teased.
Ayaan laughed, remembering his old habit. "Always. Except now they're blueprints, not doodles."
The three of them settled into a booth near the back of the restaurant, plates of warm food spread out before them. The clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the distant sound of the kitchen became the backdrop to their evening as they shared stories, laughter, and the comfort of familiarity.
It was one of those rare moments when everything seemed to fall into place, when time seemed to stretch and bend, and for a while, Ayaan felt like he was just another man, sitting in a cozy restaurant with his old friends, talking about nothing in particular.
For a while they just spoke about their old days and their families—Abdullah had taken over the restaurant from his father and added a modern touch, a fusion of tradition and contemporary styles. Muhammad had recently gotten engaged to a girl he had known for years, and Ayaan couldn't help but smile at how easy it was for them to settle into their lives. It made him wonder, not for the first time, if he was doing the right thing by trying to carve out his own path, to figure out what truly made him happy.
Ayaan, though not married, spoke about his work travels, the architectural conferences he had attended in different countries, and his last major project: a public library designed with open courtyards and sustainable materials. His voice carried quiet pride as he described how it blended traditional elements with modern needs.
"You always had an eye for space," Abdullah said, shaking his head in admiration. "Even as a kid. Remember that treehouse you tried to design in my backyard?"
Ayaan chuckled. "Don't remind me. It looked like a bird's nest built by someone with vertigo. I swear, if we hadn't taken it down, it might've just collapsed on its own."
The group laughed heartily, the sound of their shared history filling the space between them. It was comforting, in a way, to know that no matter how far they had all gone, they still carried pieces of their past with them. And for Ayaan, those memories felt like a warm light in the darkness, a reminder that perhaps there was more to life than the weight he had been carrying lately.
As the evening wore on, the conversation drifted toward local gossip, old teachers, and how much the town had changed.
"The bakery's still there," Muhammad noted, sipping his tea. "But the old tailor's shop? Gone. And they built a pharmacy over that little park where we used to hang out."
"I noticed that," Ayaan said, shaking his head. "It felt... strange. Like the town had shifted just enough to feel unfamiliar."
Abdullah nodded. "But some things stay the same. The people, mostly. And that old house you lived in—still looks the same. Bit of a mystery to the new kids, actually."
Ayaan raised a brow. "Mystery?"
"Yeah," Abdullah said with a laugh, waving it off. "Some kids say it's haunted. You know how stories spread."
Ayaan's smile tightened at the mention of the house, but he didn't respond. It was just like Abdullah to bring up something like that, to brush off old superstitions with a casual shrug. But Ayaan could feel the weight of the conversation hanging in the air, just for a moment.
"Haunted, huh?" Ayaan said quietly, a small laugh escaping his lips. "I guess some things never change. As much as I remember, when we were kids our neighbors used to say the same things, so I guess it's not a new thing, right?"
Eventually, the night wore on, and the restaurant grew quieter, the last few patrons finishing their meals. The lights dimmed slightly, casting the restaurant in a soft, intimate glow. Abdullah insisted on walking Ayaan partway home, so they both stood outside under the glow of a streetlight, the cool air swirling around them.
"It was good seeing you," Ayaan said genuinely, his voice soft.
"You too," Abdullah replied with a smile. "Don't be a stranger now. Come by whenever. You've got people here who remember you."
With one last wave, Ayaan continued his walk, his footsteps slower now, as if the weight of the evening was finally catching up to him. The night was cooler now, and quieter. The streets were still, the town wrapped in slumber, and for the first time in days, Ayaan felt something close to peace.
Ayaan's smile tightened at the corners, the laughter of moments ago already fading into the cold air that wrapped around him like a damp shroud. With one last wave, he turned away from the glow of his friends' porch light and continued down the empty road. His footsteps were slower now, each step muffled against the cracked, aging pavement, as if the very ground beneath him sought to swallow the sound. The night had deepened, and with it came a chill that nipped at his fingers and neck despite the warmth of his hoodie.
The town was still—eerily so. Not a single car passed, not a whisper of wind stirred the brittle leaves clinging to the roadside. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting thin shadows that twitched and crept just out of view. The usual hum of crickets had quieted, replaced by a weighty silence that pressed in from all sides.
And yet, for the first time in days, Ayaan felt something akin to peace. It nestled in the quiet, in the solitude. He breathed deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs, willing the tension in his shoulders to fade. But it didn't. The further he walked, the more he realized that the quiet wasn't comforting—it was hollow. It was the kind of silence that existed only when something else was holding its breath.
Far behind him, back at the edge of the darkened town, something unseen still watched him, waiting patiently in the dark and quiet spaces he couldn't yet see.
Ayaan didn't know why he felt the sudden compulsion to glance over his shoulder, but when he did. Nothing was there. The road stretched behind him, empty and dim, the shadows from streetlamps growing longer by the second. He shook his head and chuckled nervously. "Stop acting like a child," he muttered, adjusting his backpack strap which he took to Mrs. Kazi's house.
But his feet moved a little faster.
A distant creak echoed through the air—like an old swing moving on rusted chains. He paused even though his mind screamed at him to keep walking and don't look there. But he still did. And when he did take a look, there were no playgrounds nearby. Not anymore. The one he used to visit had been torn down years ago after rumors spread of strange occurrences. Ayaan clenched his jaw and walked faster.
That's when he noticed the light.
Just ahead, past a bend in the road, a faint orange glow shimmered. It wasn't the golden hue of a streetlamp or the bright gleam of a house window. No, this was softer. Flickering. Like fire. Like candlelight.
He turned the corner and his body froze completely.
On the side of the road, just outside a rusted, vine-choked fence, stood an old house he didn't remember ever being there before. Its silhouette was skeletal against the dark sky, the windows black and broken. But the porch held an array of candles—dozens of them—flickering silently. The air around the house was colder than the rest of the street, and a thin mist curled near the ground, winding between the posts like fingers.
Ayaan's heart thudded once—twice—then faster. He backed away a step, but his feet felt rooted to the spot.
There was movement.
In one of the upper windows, behind cracked glass and fraying curtains, a figure shifted.
Too tall. Too thin.
He couldn't make out a face. Just a silhouette—long limbs and a tilted head. Watching.
Ayaan swallowed hard and stepped back onto the road, forcing his gaze elsewhere. He didn't believe in ghost stories—those were for campfires and children's tales. But jinn? He believed in them only because the Holy Quran spoke of their existence. Not the kind that haunted abandoned places or stared through broken windows without blinking… or so he tried to convince himself.
But that belief wavered now. Something primal inside him screamed to run.
The silence around him deepened. It swallowed the sound of his breath. Even the distant hum of the town vanished. It was just him now. Him and the eyes he felt still locked onto his back.
He picked up the pace.
The road home had never felt this long before.
And behind him, the candles on the porch flickered violently as if someone had exhaled over them in one cold, angry breath.
Ayaan kept walking, his arms crossed tightly against the night's sudden chill. The road behind him had disappeared into silence. Even the faraway bark of a stray dog or the rattle of a motorcycle had faded into nothingness, like the whole world had taken a breath and held it. But with every step he took, the weight of something began pressing in—not around him, but inside him. A presence. An invisible thread tugging gently at the corners of his mind, winding tighter and tighter.
He paused.
There, just to his right, hidden behind a row of crumbling boundary walls and thorny hedges that had long devoured the sidewalk, was a narrow lane. It was almost too easy to miss. No streetlight illuminated it. The moonlight didn't touch it. No wind stirred the shadows within it. Yet something about it made his pulse stumble.
It looked like a place no one used anymore—a forgotten lane, swallowed by time. But even as he stared at it, his heart thumped louder, slower, as if syncing with something ancient.
He had seen this before.
Or no—he hadn't seen it. He had felt it.
His feet moved on their own.
Each step down the lane felt oddly... right. Not just familiar, but inevitable. Like this path had been waiting for him. Like he'd taken it a thousand times before and somehow erased the memory each time. His breath caught as he passed under the low arch of tangled ivy, brushing against vines that reached for him like skeletal fingers.
The silence here was different—deeper. As though sound itself was being held hostage by something unseen.
This place.
He knew this place.
But he didn't.
His throat tightened. The scent of old earth and rotting jasmine clung to the air. His eyes darted over the details—chipped bricks, half-hidden carvings like symbols etched in haste, and a rusty metal gate swinging ever so gently on rusted hinges. No wind. No touch. Just movement.
His hand lifted before he could stop it.
He touched the gate.
A jolt of emotion surged through him—sharp, aching, and sad. It was not his own. His heart felt squeezed by invisible fingers. A tremor of longing passed through him, one so intense it left him gasping.
And then it began.
Flashes.
Too fast.
Too broken.
Too distant.
A pale hand in the dark. Eyes that weren't human—luminous and wide, blinking slowly, watching. A child's laughter echoing off stone walls. A broken swing.
Whispers brushing against his cheek like cold breath.
He staggered back.
His body remembered what his mind could not. His knees weakened beneath him, and he leaned against the broken wall, eyes searching for something—someone. Every crack in the wall, every vine, every stone screamed familiarity. Like he had stood here, not once or twice, but many, many times.
He had waited here.
For someone. Or something.
His heart pounded with the ache of recognition, but no names surfaced. No memories. Just emotions. Emotions carved into him like ghosts beneath the skin.
The gate creaked louder.
Ayaan spun.
There was nothing.
But he knew it now.
This was the place he used to visit as a child. He didn't know when. Or why. But he could feel it.
Not with his head—but with his bones.
His hand trembled as he reached out again. This time, the air beyond the gate felt thicker. Colder. Like stepping through a curtain into another world. The moment his fingers brushed the iron again, another memory hit—no, not a memory, a feeling.
Warmth.
Comfort.
Belonging.
Someone was always waiting for him beyond this gate.
His eyes filled with tears, and he didn't even know why.
He stumbled backward.
And that's when he heard it.
A giggle.
Not playful. Not innocent.
It came from somewhere behind the wall. Light and sharp, like glass chimes or a doll's voice. A scraping sound followed—a dragging noise, like nails over wood.
Ayaan's breath hitched.
His name.
Not loud. Not whispered. Sung.
"Ayaaaan..."
He turned around and ran from there.
His feet crashed against the gravel, thorns tearing at his clothes as he pushed past the wall and back onto the main road. His chest heaved. The scent of jasmine still clung to his skin. But he didn't stop running until he could see the faint orange glow of streetlights far ahead.
Even then, he didn't slow down.
Because now, more than fear, something else chased him:
The unbearable knowledge that he had forgotten something deeply important.
Something that remembered him. And it was waiting.
By the time Ayaan reached his home, his legs ached, and his lungs burned. But the fear—the fear had not faded. If anything, it clung to him more tightly now, like a scent embedded into his skin.
His house stood in quiet darkness at the end of the street. A small, two-story structure with old wooden eaves and iron railings that had long lost their shine. Familiar. Comforting, usually. But tonight?
Tonight, it looked wrong.
Not broken. Not dangerous. Just... wrong.
It stood too still. Too expectant. Like something was inside, holding its breath. Waiting for him to step close enough.
The porch light was out, though he was sure he'd left it on. The gate—usually rusted and stiff—hung slightly ajar. A single hinge groaned as the wind nudged it, though there was no breeze.
Ayaan stepped through the gate, his fingers brushing the cold iron as he passed. The metal felt wet, though it hadn't rained.
He climbed the three steps to his door slowly, heart pounding, eyes scanning the shadows pooling near the garden's edge. Nothing moved. No sound but the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes.
Then he saw it.
Lying neatly in the center of the doormat.
A flower.
But not just any flower.
Black. Withered. Unnaturally dry.
Its petals curled inward like they were trying to protect something, or hide something. It looked fossilized—old beyond reason. The kind of black that wasn't just absence of color, but something void-like, like it had been dipped in ash and shadow.
Ayaan stared.
Something in him recoiled.
Something else leaned in.
His hand moved slowly, against his will.
He bent down, eyes never leaving the flower, and reached for it—
The moment his fingers brushed the brittle stem, a crackling noise filled his ears, loud and dry like paper tearing in fire. His vision snapped into something else.
A flash. A fragment.
Not of memory—but of something buried deeper.
Someone was standing in the dark. A child. No—something childlike. Their hands were small, curled protectively around this exact flower. Their face was hidden in shadow, but their eyes glowed. Soft gold, like candlelight behind wet glass. Unblinking. Watching him.
Ayaan couldn't breathe.
He wanted to speak, to ask who they were, but he couldn't move. His voice didn't exist here.
The child held out the flower toward him.
There was something behind them. A room made of stone. Carvings lined the walls—symbols Ayaan couldn't understand, but they trembled in his mind like half-remembered dreams.
Then the child smiled.
And that smile shouldn't have existed on a child's face. Too wide. Too knowing. Too old.
The vision cracked like a mirror shattering, and he was back.
The porch.The dark.The flower in his hand.
Except now, the petals were wet.
He looked down.
His palm was bleeding.
A thin, neat cut across the center. As if a thorn had sliced him, though there were none. A single drop of blood rolled down the side of his hand and landed on the flower's center.
It sizzled.
Ayaan dropped it.
The front door creaked open on its own.
Only an inch. Just enough to let out a draft of cold, heavy air.
He froze.
Inside was nothing but shadow. But the air that drifted out carried something else with it.
A smell.
Old perfume. The kind his grandmother used to wear. Faint and fading—but behind it, something rotting.
Something breathing.
He took a step back.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Once.
He yanked it out.
No signal.
The screen flickered once.
Then went black.
From inside the house, the sound of footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Coming closer.
They stopped just behind the door.
Ayaan's voice came out hoarse. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Then—A low whisper.
Familiar.
Childlike.
Soft.
"Ayaan... why are you late today?"
The door remained slightly ajar. That narrow strip of black between wood and frame yawned like the mouth of something waiting to inhale him.
Ayaan didn't move.
His blood felt like it was vibrating under his skin. The bleeding from his palm had slowed, but the sting remained, pulsing in sync with the beat of something unseen. Something inside.
He bent down slowly, picked up the blackened flower with shaking fingers, and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie— not because he wanted to, but because something told him he had to.
Then he stepped forward.
The door creaked wider with the softest sigh.
His hallway was cloaked in darkness. The lights — the ones that always buzzed to life automatically — stayed dead.
His fingers found the switch on the wall.
Nothing.
The silence inside wasn't the kind that homes usually held at night. It wasn't peaceful or sleepy.
It was thick. Intentional.
The air felt humid, heavy — like stepping into a room sealed too long, untouched by breath or life.
Ayaan crossed the threshold.
The door behind him closed with a soft click.
No wind.
No draft.
Just finality.
He turned around quickly — but the latch was locked. Not stuck. Not jammed.
Locked.
From the inside.
His fingers trembled against the handle.
Then he heard it.
A rustle.
Not from the hallway ahead — but above.
His eyes turned toward the staircase, barely lit by the faint silver of moonlight pouring through a high window. Shadows gathered thickly along the edges of the railings, unmoving... and yet...
Something was there.
He could feel it.
Perched.
Watching.
Waiting.
He didn't dare take a step forward.
The floor creaked—but not beneath him.
From upstairs.
One step.Another.Another.
Slow. Deliberate.
The kind of steps taken by something that didn't need to rush — something that had all the time in the world.
He should run.
He should call for help.
But his voice was buried beneath a silence deeper than fear.
A shadow peeled itself from the top of the stairs.
Too thin. Too tall.
Its head tilted at an unnatural angle — almost curiously — and two faint golden lights blinked into view where its eyes should have been.
The same eyes from his vision.
The child.
But taller now.
Wrong.
Changed.
Still holding something.
Still watching him.
The lights blinked once. Then twice.
Then the shadow receded slowly, like smoke pulled back into the attic.
Gone.
The pressure vanished with it, like a fist unclenching around his lungs.
Ayaan stumbled backward into the hallway wall, chest heaving. His home no longer felt like home. It felt like a memory of it.
Like something else was wearing his house.
And then he noticed something even stranger—
The clocks.
The living room clock.The hallway clock.The one in the kitchen.
All of them had stopped. At the same time.
2:11 AM.
He didn't know why, but the number made his stomach twist.
A cold draft swept through the hall then—but not from the windows. It came from beneath the floorboards. And with it came a whisper so low, so faint, that it didn't pass through his ears. It sank into his bones. Like a song he'd heard once… from inside a dream.
The air thickened, charged with something ancient, something old enough to remember him. Something that had never truly let him go. His body stiffened, and the silence that followed felt heavy, suffocating, as though it had been waiting for him to notice.
And notice he did.
A sudden silence fell over the corridor. Not a peaceful one—no. This silence was suffocating, sentient, watching. It screamed without sound, its presence a shriek that lived beneath Ayaan's skin, louder than any explosion, more paralyzing than any scream. The air grew thick, like he was breathing through water, every inhale tasting like old, wet dust. Something ancient had woken—and it remembered him.
He opened his mouth to speak.
To breathe.
To beg.
But his voice was gone. Swallowed whole. Devoured by something that wore silence like a second skin.
And then— a laughter. Not evil. Not yet.
A laughter of children.
Giggling of children.
Distant but familiar.
"Oooo Ayaan's gonna lose again!"
"Not fair! He cheated last time—he peeked!"
Voices, light as paper, came from nowhere—and everywhere. From memory. From before. From a time Ayaan didn't remember… but somehow knew.
The phrases stabbed into his brain like needles made of memory—shattered, forgotten, and sharp. The laughter circled him—above, behind, beneath his feet. Tiny, echoing steps darted past like ghosts playing tag in the dark.
He turned—fast.
No one.
But something moved. A flicker at the edge of his vision. A streak of shadow. Then another. Then four. They vanished behind walls that shouldn't have had shadows.
He stepped back.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A mimic. The echo of a game—delayed. Like a child playing a rhythm they half-remembered. But the sound was wrong. Hollow. Wet. Like bones tapping in a well.
Tap. Tap. TAP.
Too close.
Ayaan's breath caught. His body screamed to run, to move, to pray—but his legs were statues. His knees quaked like glass on the edge of shattering.
From the ceiling, something lowered.
Not rope.
But shadows.
Twisting and curling.
Like a skipping rope, but alive and breathing.
It hit the floor with a snap that shook the corridor.
"Jump it, Ayaan! You always fall on your face!" a voice sang—sweet and wrong.
He turned.
And there they were.
Not children.
But mockeries.
The silhouettes of four shadows cut from nightmare. Paper-thin bodies with limbs too long, necks tilted in angles bones shouldn't bend. Their heads twitched like broken dolls. Their eyes—if they were eyes—were voids, smooth and shining like black glass. But they smiled.
Oh, they smiled.
Teeth like chalk, too many for one mouth. Some cracked. Some still growing.
The first one jumped the rope.
Then another.
Then the third.
Then the last.
All four laughed.
But their laughter didn't match their mouths. It lingered. It echoed after their lips stopped moving. Their feet never touched the floor. Yet each landing thudded inside Ayaan's chest, rattling his heart like a drumbeat from the past.
"Now it's your turn, Ayaan. Come on. Play."
The rope spun—no hands moved it.
At first slowly but then faster.
Faster.
Faster.
"Jump."
He didn't.
"JUMP."
The rope snapped forward like a whip. It missed his leg by an inch. He stumbled, crashed back against the wall—but it wasn't a wall anymore.
It moved.
It breathed.
He looked down—
Hands. Tiny. Pale. Hundreds.
Shadowy childlike hands bursting from the wallpaper, pressing against him. Reaching. Clawing. Not violently—but longingly. Frozen fingertips brushed his arms, his neck, his ankles. They were soft.
Too soft.
Like hands that had never touched sunlight.
They pulled.
"You stopped playing with us."
"You left us here."
"You PROMISED."
"Every day and night we prayed,"
"Ya Rab sent him back to us,"
"Ya rab give us our Ayaan back,"
"Ya rabby return him to us again"
The voices no longer came from mouths. They came from inside his skull.
One hand reached his ear. Pressed a finger inside.
"You forgot everything… but we didn't."
The corridor twisted. Warped like melting wax.
The floor cracked open. Boards rose, curling like burnt paper. Out slithered shapes—toys, but wrong.
His old red ball, but it bled when it rolled.
His tire swing, spinning by itself, the rope around it fraying—stained.
A kite floated overhead, shredded, dripping something black from its tail. The drops hissed when they hit the floor.
The room filled with childhood games.
But they were cursed.
Then—the worst game.
"Hide and seek."
"Close your eyes, Ayaan. Count to ten."
His own voice.
As a child.
Joyful. Innocent.
"Nine…"
The shadows scattered.
"Eight…"
The corridor dimmed, lights shrinking like dying stars.
"Seven…"
He ran. Or tried. His feet felt stitched to the floor.
"Six…"
The hallway stretched. No end.
"Five…"
The walls breathed.
"Four…"
Something watched.
"Three…"
Breath—on his neck.
"Two…"
Fingers—cold and wet—brushed his spine.
"One…"
"FOUND YOU."
They came.
Not walking.
Not running.
Falling.
From above.
From the walls.
From the floor.
A legion of forgotten playmates.
Twisted children.
Once-jinn who wore familiar faces like masks—but now hollowed out, corrupted.
They crawled.
They screeched, but not like children—like the idea of children, remembered wrong. Bent syllables. Twisted rhymes.
Ayaan collapsed.
His mind cracked. His vision blurred—red at the edges.
A presence entered his mind.
Not memory.
Not dream.
Intrusion.
It pressed down like an iron tombstone. It clawed at the doors of something locked long ago.
He wasn't just remembering.
He was being forced to remember.
The children moved like spiders.
One on the ceiling.
One on the walls.
Another on all fours—back arched upward—grinning, its jaw opening wider—wider—until it cracked.
He screamed.
Raw. Animal. Terrified.
And fell—
Falling—
Falling—
He didn't hit the ground.
A cradle caught him.
A shadow of something that watches him.
The jinn didn't touch him.
They watched.
Their heads tilted.
Their mouths stopped smiling.
Their forms blurred into fog, dissolving into the dark—
And standing among them was—
A boy.
Small. Pale.
His eyes glowed.
Softly. Like fireflies trapped in glass.
And then, from the darkness—
His own voice.
Young. Sweet.
But not comforting.
Warning.
"We never stopped waiting for you, Ayaan."
"we all are happy that you have returned to us once more"
"we hope that you will remember the promise soon"