The clock chimed two—soft, hollow echoes swallowed by the silence of the night. The room was dark, peaceful, the world still in its slumber. A young man lay fast asleep, his breathing even, until something jolted him awake. He shot up in bed, his hair a tousled mess, thoughts scattered like the sheets around him. It felt as if an unseen hand had shaken him awake. His shoulder tingled faintly, though the room remained empty, the air unnervingly still.
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet hit the floor, a shock of ice stabbing up through his soles. He shivered, pulling his thin t-shirt tighter around himself. With a muttered curse, he trudged toward the bathroom. The cold pressed harder against his skin with each step, pushing him to hurry back to the warmth of his bed. But as he reached the bathroom door, the shadows seemed to stretch and shift, as though something unseen moved with him, just out of sight.
He froze, his hand lingering in the air. His eyes darted through the darkness, searching for any hint of what might be lurking. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to retreat, to bolt back to the safety of his bed, but nature pressed on. With a low groan, he reached out and pushed the door open.
Faint moonlight spilled through the ventilation shades, painting the room in silvery light. There, seated in perfect stillness, was a young boy. Draped in a traditional white dhoti, his figure was unnervingly serene, his hands clasping a chanting mala as his lips moved in a low, rhythmic mantra. He seemed almost divine—until he didn’t.
The young man stood rooted to the spot, his breath hitching in his chest. A wild thought flashed through his mind—this can’t be real. But madness, or perhaps something braver, drove him to speak.
“Who…who are you?”
The boy’s head turned slowly, and hollow eyes met his. They were vast, black voids that pulled at something deep in his gut, draining all thought. Before he could take in anything else, the boy moved.
One moment he sat, serene and still; the next, he was on his feet, rushing toward him with a speed that made no sense, his hand raised as though to strike.
Instinct roared to life. The young man yanked at the bathroom door, his hands fumbling against the wood. He threw all his weight into slamming it shut, the edge of the boy’s outstretched hand grazing his face before disappearing behind the door. The crash reverberated through the silent house as he stumbled backward, heart hammering in his chest.
With a jolt, the young man woke up in his bed, drenched in sweat. His sheets were a tangled mess, the mattress beneath him damp as though he’d been tossing and turning for hours. He blinked at the darkness, his breathing ragged as relief slowly trickled in.
It had been a dream.
He almost laughed, a hollow chuckle escaping his lips, when a chilling realization froze him in place. Someone was holding his wrist.
"What the—" he began, but his voice faltered.
He turned, the laughter dying in his throat, as his eyes met a woman’s face, shrouded in shadow. She sat beside him, clad in a saree, her grip unnervingly strong for someone so frail. Her lips moved rapidly, chanting words in a foreign tongue that sent shivers racing down his spine.
"Let me go!" He shouted, yanking his arm in a futile attempt to free himself. Her grip tightened, her nails digging into his skin as the chanting grew louder.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took in her appearance. Her face was a landscape of horror—pockmarked skin, sunken eyes glinting with a strange fervor, broken teeth exposed in a grotesque grimace. She looked like a specter of decay, her reverence as she chanted making her all the more unnerving.
The young man’s heart pounded violently in his chest, panic overtaking his senses. Who was she? What did she want? The words she muttered seemed deliberate, almost ritualistic, but he couldn’t focus on their meaning. His mind screamed for escape.
“Get away from me!” he bellowed, twisting and thrashing with all his might. Summoning every ounce of strength, he yanked his wrist free, the sudden force sending him tumbling off the bed.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
The young man gasped for air, his vision spinning as he realized he was lying back in his bed. The sheets were undisturbed, the room eerily still. Everything looked normal, almost too normal, as if the nightmare had been swept away in an instant. He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat slow as he struggled to convince himself it was over.
But was it?
His fingers fumbled for the light switch, clicking it repeatedly in frustration. Nothing. Darkness pressed around him like a suffocating shroud, the air heavy with an unnatural stillness. His hand drifted to the bedside table, grasping for his wallet—a small talisman of comfort, its picture of Lord Hanuman a shield against unseen horrors. Clutching it tightly, he slid out of bed, his movements slow and deliberate, each step accompanied by the dread of something grabbing him from the shadows.
Nothing did. Not yet.
Summoning his courage, he moved towards the hallway, the cool floor beneath his feet a reminder of his reality. His breath hitched as something sharp scraped against his calf. He winced, glancing down but seeing only darkness. The new furniture, he reassured himself, though his trembling hands betrayed his fear. He limped forward, unwilling to stop and examine the wound. The sense of being watched gnawed at him, and with every step, the foreboding in the air thickened.
Then he saw it.
A shadow loomed near the door, its form too dark and still to be natural. It stood like a sentry, barring his escape, its presence pulsating with malice. His heart pounded violently, fear mocking his earlier bravery. He froze, every nerve in his body screaming to turn and run, but his legs refused to obey.
The figure moved.
It launched itself toward him with impossible speed. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he stumbled backward, his arms flailing in the dark. His back hit the floor hard, pain shooting through him, but the shadow didn’t stop—it bore down on him like a storm. This was it. He was going to die.
And then—
He woke up.
The room was still. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen filtered through the silence, grounding him in the ordinary. His chest heaved, and his hands shook as he reached for the light switch again, expecting failure. This time, the room flooded with light. He blinked rapidly, his eyes scanning every corner for shadows, monsters, or something worse. Nothing. Just his bedroom, the same as it had always been.
"Hello?"
His voice cracked in the quiet. No answer came, only the steady hum of the house around him. Slowly, he got to his feet, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and made his way to the hallway. The lights came on without hesitation, illuminating the corridor in its innocent banality. No dark figures. No ominous presence. Just the stillness of the early hours.
Relief washed over him in hesitant waves. It had been a dream—a vivid, surreal nightmare brought on by fatigue or a restless mind. He let out a shaky laugh, the sound strange in the empty house, and shuffled back to bed, eager for the comfort of sleep.
But as he pulled the covers over himself, something nagged at the edges of his mind. He pushed it aside—until he saw it.
A streak of dried blood on his calf. His fingers brushed against the scab, the faint sting grounding him in reality. His breath hitched again, his heart thundering in his chest. Slowly, almost fearfully, he reached into his pocket.
His wallet. The one that had been on his bedside table. The one he had grabbed in his dream—or what he thought was a dream. He stared at it, his blood running cold as the weight of it pressed against his palm.
What had been real?
