Chapter 8: The Uninvited Guest
Zunaid arrived the following day, his suitcase thumping against the steps as he climbed up to Anay and Shivam’s room. He was welcomed quietly—no fanfare, but an unspoken relief that the three of them were no longer alone. The arrangement was informal; Anay never bothered to inform the owner about his friend’s extended stay. It hardly seemed important now, given all that had happened.
The days settled into a peculiar rhythm. All three, classmates by coincidence and now companions by circumstance, spent long hours hunched over books, the air punctuated by whispered explanations and the scratch of pens. For Zunaid, who was accustomed to the predictable comforts of his parents’ home, there was something exhilarating about this borrowed freedom. The shadows in the corners still lingered, but laughter and late-night tea runs kept fear at bay.
One week turned into two. Zunaid found himself reluctant to leave, caught in the strange camaraderie that only those who share secrets with the night can know. And so, with a smile, he extended his stay, weaving himself deeper into the fragile tapestry of their haunted days.
Saturday afternoon settled over the PG like a lazy cat, sunlight dappling the windows and casting warmth across the empty rooms. Ishaan, Harshit, Rahul, and Niranjan had ventured out to catch the latest movie, their laughter echoing down the stairwell until the door clicked shut. At the same time, Shivam, Nitin, and Saurav slipped away to a nearby restaurant, braving the midday crowds to fetch lunch and food parcels for the two left behind.
That left only Anay and Zunaid, the flat unusually silent in their company. The others rarely left anyone alone in the flat—stories lingered in the corridors like dust motes, old warnings not so easily swept away. But it was bright outside, and the afternoon seemed harmless. They convinced themselves it would be fine.
They didn’t know how wrong they were.
The storm had grown wild outside, wind lashing the windows with a force that rattled the glass in its frame. Inside, Anay and Zunaid sprawled lazily across the bed, their laughter mingling with the distant rumble of thunder as they shared games on the battered old laptop. As the gusts outside picked up, something shifted in Anay’s demeanor. Without a word, he slid from the bed and drifted to the door, drawn to the tempest as though some invisible thread pulled him forward. He stood at the threshold, letting the electric air brush against his face, a strange sense of anticipation flickering in his eyes.
Zunaid, confused by his friend’s sudden fascination with the weather, watched him for a moment before returning his gaze to the flickering laptop screen. The curtains in the hallway whipped and danced, thrown into wild shapes by the wind’s invisible hands. For a heartbeat, Zunaid thought he saw something—someone—hidden in the shadows between the swirling fabric and the dim light. A woman. Watching.
His blood chilled. Suddenly, the game was forgotten. He scrambled off the bed, rushing to Anay’s side, his voice trembling as he hissed, “Anay! There’s someone in the hall.”
Anay pressed his back to the cool wall, shadows flickering with every pulse of lightning that sliced through the windows. He watched Zunaid approach—eyes wide, face pale, breath coming fast. Without taking his gaze from the trembling hall, Anay leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “I’ve seen it too,” he confessed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a grim, knowing smile. “That’s why I’m standing here, by this door. If anything comes in from the hall, we don’t wait. We run. We bolt straight out, no looking back.”
The two of them hovered near the door, the Hanuman Chalisa crackling from Anay’s phone, its sacred words a thin shield against the storm’s fury. Rain battered the veranda in wild sheets, the world outside dissolving into a gray chaos. Anay glanced at Zunaid, his lips stretched in a nervous grin, eyes wide and haunted. “Zunaid,” he whispered, voice trembling, “do you believe in ghosts now?”
Zunaid straightened, jaw set, bravado clinging to him like a second skin. “I’m not scared of anything. I’m going to close the other door.” Before Anay could protest, Zunaid strode toward the hall, where shadows danced in the flickering light. “Don’t,” Anay pleaded, voice small and urgent. “Let it be. Don’t disturb anything.”
But Zunaid didn’t listen. He grabbed the old wooden door and swung it shut, the metal latch scraping into place with a harsh finality. The silence that followed was suffocating, electric. Zunaid took a single step back—and with a deafening BAM, the door burst open, slamming into the wall so hard the whole flat seemed to shudder.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The door, now hanging askew on its hinges, gaped like a mouth. Zunaid’s bravado cracked; his face drained of color, and a cold, primal terror swept through him. He realized, with a sick twist in his gut, that if he’d lingered a second longer, the door would have smashed straight into him. The apartment, once their refuge, now felt like the lair of something ancient and watching, something that didn’t want them there at all.
The tension in the air was thick enough to touch. Zunaid, heart pounding, edged even closer to the second door. Then, with a nervous laugh that barely masked his unease, he glanced at Anay. “You know, it’s been ages since we’ve just run out and let the rain drench us,” he said, his voice wavering between bravado and fear.
Anay didn’t hesitate. The words felt like a lifeline—an escape, however temporary, from the oppressive gloom that filled every corner of the house. Together, they stepped out into the cascading rain, the cold drops soaking through their clothes in moments. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, standing there in the storm, pretending to talk about mundane things, each boy acutely aware of the fear twisting in his chest. Every word was an effort to chase away the shadows that followed them, to pretend—if just for a moment—that the nightmare within those walls could not touch them beneath the open, rain-washed sky.
Zunaid spun around, his voice cutting through the whistling wind. “I do not believe in you, and I am not scared of you! If you’re real, show me your presence!” he shouted, defiant against the growing storm. For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Then, without warning, it got answered—with a sudden, furious hailstorm. Stones of ice battered the ground, drumming on the rooftop and pelting the windows. Hail in Greater Noida, in the heart of June. Anay and Zunaid stared at each other, realization dawning in their wide eyes. The impossible was happening, and there was no denying it now.
The hail struck like a thousand tiny hammers, echoing through the near-empty corridors. Zunaid, caught between disbelief and fear, glanced up at the swirling sky, then back toward the flat’s roof. There—framed against the storm—stood the lady. She smiled at him, a spectral grin that sent a chill through his bones.
Anay and Zunaid hesitated, trapped between the violence of the hail outside and the invisible menace lurking within the PG. The storm felt local—almost personal. They bolted, shoes slapping against wet concrete, breath ragged in the charged air, searching for sanctuary beyond the building’s shadow.
As they crossed the threshold of the property, something uncanny happened. The hail ceased abruptly, replaced by a gentle, ordinary rain. Confused, Zunaid urged Anay to retrace their steps. Hesitantly, they edged backward: the hail resumed, battering the PG, punishing only that space. Glancing up once more, they found the rooftop now empty—no sign of the lady, no trace of the haunting smile that lingered in Zunaid’s memory.
Anay and Zunaid darted from the haunted flat, adrenaline pushing them forward. They stumbled toward the restaurant, feet splashing through rain-soaked streets, hearts thudding louder than the storm overhead.
Under the meager shelter of an awning, Shivam, Nitin, and Saurav huddled, watching the tempest with worried eyes. The moment Anay and Zunaid appeared, soaked and wild-eyed, their friends stepped forward, concern etched on their faces.
Breathless and trembling, Zunaid blurted out the tale—every strange sound, every flash of dread they’d felt in the flat, the hail that seemed to fall only on their roof, the apparition that had smiled from the shadows. The words tumbled one over the other, frantic and desperate, as rain hammered the world around them, sealing the five boys together under a single shivering secret.
The rain finally relented, leaving the world hushed in a damp, breathless calm. Together, they gathered their courage and made their way back to the PG. The others slipped inside first, eyes darting around for any sign of lingering shadows, while Anay and Zunaid lingered at the threshold, hearts pounding. A brief, tense silence hung in the air as they waited for word from within. Finally, a signal came—everything, it seemed, was once again still. The storm had passed, at least for now.
Zunaid’s hands shook as he hurriedly stuffed his belongings into his bag, the echo of the slamming door still bouncing inside his skull. His voice, tight with urgency, cut through the thick tension in the air. “I’m leaving. I think you all should go too—now.” He glanced at Anay, desperation and dread mingling in his eyes. “This place… it isn’t right.”
Anay looked at him with a weary half-smile, eyes shadowed from sleeplessness. “It’s just three more days until the puja. We’ve paid the rent already, Zunaid. I don’t want to pay twice—especially when it’s almost over.”
The others nodded in reluctant agreement, their faces pale but resolute. For a moment, Zunaid stood in the doorway, the storm still howling outside, torn between loyalty and self-preservation. Then, with one last look at his friends—huddled together in fear, yet stubborn in their practicality—he stepped out, the weight of the night pressing heavily on his shoulders.
Ink of Dread 
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