Chapter 10: The Final Night
Anay returned to the PG the following evening, his heart heavy with apprehension yet buoyed by the sliver of hope that tomorrow’s puja might banish the darkness that haunted the house. The late monsoon air clung damp and restless as he trudged up the familiar stairs, the echo of every step a reminder of the night before.
Inside, the scene was one of uneasy camaraderie. All his friends clustered in the hall, voices hushed, faces drawn taut with shared anxiety. The overhead light flickered uncertainly, casting their shadows in restless shapes across the chipped walls. The rain drummed steadily against the windows, as if trying to wash away the tension that had settled in every corner of the flat.
Anay paused at the doorway, gaze sweeping over Shivam, Nitin, Saurav, Rahul, and the others. There was something different in their eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, a tacit admission that the supernatural, for once, might be more than just idle tales whispered after midnight.
He slipped quietly onto the edge of the tattered couch, drawing his knees up and clutching his backpack like a talisman. For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the relentless patter of rain and the hum of nervous energy binding them together—alone, yet not alone, each waiting for dawn or exorcism or something in between.
Shivam, attempting to lighten the mood, nudged Anay with a wry grin. “Well, Anay,” he teased, “you got what you wished for—paranormal activity, live and exclusive. And now, you’ve run off to your friend’s place at the first sign of ghosts!”
Anay tried to muster a smile, but his face betrayed lingering dread. “That’s the last time I ever wish for something like this,” he admitted quietly, his voice trembling just enough for the others to hear. Their laughter fizzled, giving way to a tense hush; despite their best efforts, no one seemed eager to break apart or even suggest going to their rooms.
So, they remained there together, the minutes ticking on, as if their collective presence could keep the unknown at bay for just a little longer.
At last, the clock inched toward 4 AM. Nerves frayed and eyes heavy, the group resolved to retreat to their own rooms—until a sound halted them at the threshold. Footsteps, measured and deliberate, echoed overhead on the roof. Instinctively, they froze, dread pooling in their stomachs. No one spoke or moved; the hall became a sanctuary where fear thrived in silence.
The footsteps drew closer, now descending the stairway with slow, deliberate rhythm. Still, no figure appeared in the dim corridor, only the persistent sound trailed by a suffocating hush. Rahul and Niranjan exchanged anxious glances, mustered their courage, and crept towards the staircase. The others followed, not wanting to be left alone, forming a hesitant procession.
At the foot of the stairs they found nothing—no shadow, no intruder, just the pounding of their own hearts. The footsteps stopped abruptly, swallowed by an eerie stillness. Then, without warning, a deafening slam reverberated through the building—the door to the roof had crashed shut. Moments later, frantic footsteps raced across the rooftop, as though something unseen fled from their pursuit. They retreated, shaken, and gathered once more in the hall. To banish the tremors of fear, someone queued up a lighthearted comedy on the television. Laughter, however faint and forced, proved to be their only shield against the unknown haunting the roof above.
Ink of Dread 
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