The Game of Horror!

A Helping Hand

That day, the rain came down in torrents, like the sky was trying to set a mood for the evening. The kind of rain that makes you feel cosy and a little bit rebellious, like you're defying the weather just by staying indoors. We gathered at my uncle's place, huddled up and ready for our game.

We were about to kick off our 'Pass-the-story' game, a tradition that had turned into a bit of an art form for us. It was Wasim's turn to start the evening's story. Now, Wasim is one of those people who, when he says he has a story, you sit up and pay attention. He's got this knack for making even the most mundane things sound like they're dripping with intrigue. It's like he's part magician, part drama professor.

The room was lit by a few dim lamps, as, well you know, to create the perfect "I'm not scared, you're scared" vibe. Everyone's eyes were on Wasim, waiting for him to spin his tale. He cleared his throat dramatically.

"Alright, folks," Wasim began, his voice taking on that deep, serious tone he reserved for special occasions. "Get ready for a story that's going to make you question everything you thought you knew about... well, about everything."

We all leaned in, the kind of lean that says, "We're ready for some serious storytelling." Wasim had this talent for setting the scene so well that you could almost hear the sound effects in the background-creaky doors, hustling winds, you name it. As he began, it was clear that he wasn't just telling a story; he was crafting an experience. Even though we all knew the 'Pass-the-story' game was supposed to be about out-spooking each other, Wasim had this way of making it feel like we were all part of a grand, suspense-filled adventure.

His eyes glinted with that mischievous sparkle that always made you wonder if he was pulling your leg or genuinely setting you up for a scare. Either way, we were all in for the ride, huddled together, bracing ourselves for whatever scary tale Wasim was about to tell....

One evening, Manohar decided to go for a walk. At 50 years old, he was in such remarkable shape that he often looked and felt like a man in his 30s. He had a habit of exploring new roads, which sometimes led him into trouble.

On this particular day, he took a turn down an unfamiliar path and soon realised he was lost. He tried retracing his steps but only found himself more confused. Frustration set in, and just as he began to lose hope, he noticed a group of men eyeing him with suspicion. They seemed to have bad intentions. Manohar's heart raced.

He instinctively reached into his chest pocket, his fingers brushing against the spare cash and his gold watch. With a quick, panicked motion, he clutched the items tightly. He tried to move away, but his fear made him freeze in place, rooted to the spot as the men's gazes grew more intense.

Just then, a tall, handsome Sikh policeman appeared. The ID above his chest pocket read "Inspector Paramjit Singh." The men quickly fled at the sight of him. The officer approached Manohar, concern etched on his face.

"Are you alright, sir?" Paramjit Singh asked.

Manohar, breathing heavily, managed to reply, "I'm lost. I took a wrong turn and now I don't know how to get back. And those men-they were looking at me with such creepiness that I lost my composure."

Paramjit nodded understandingly. "Don't worry. I'll give you a ride home. It's not safe here at night."

As they drove, Manohar tried to make small talk. "Thank you so much, Officer. I don't know what I would've done without you."

Paramjit smiled gently. "It's my job to help. You're lucky I was nearby. Tonight this area is under my patrol."

Manohar glanced at him curiously. "Do you live around here?"