Chapter 2: The Night It All Started
Night had settled thick and silent over Gulmohar Riveria, the air still as if holding its breath. In the dim glow of the bedroom, Ishaan slept soundly, while Harshit tossed and turned, half-awake. Beside him, Niranjan’s slow breathing mingled with the hush that filled the house.
Suddenly, the sharp clink of a glass falling from the study table sliced through the silence. Harshit stirred groggily, barely opening his eyes. In a sleep-heavy voice, he muttered, “Niranjan, keep the glass up,” before rolling over and drifting back toward his dreams.
The quiet returned, but only for a moment. Once more, the unmistakable clatter of glass striking wood jolted Harshit from his slumber. His patience frayed, he didn’t bother to lift his head. “Keep the glass on the study table, and this time, put it straight,” he grumbled, his words thick with annoyance.
Yet again, just as he began to surrender to sleep, the sound echoed through the room—a third time, the glass fell. Now, an uneasy edge crept into the night, as if the shadows themselves were conspiring to keep Harshit from his rest.
Harshit awoke, frustration boiling within him. “Don’t you know how to keep the glass up?” he shouted, his voice echoing in the silent room. With a sudden flick, he switched on the lights, prepared to glare at Niranjan—or so he thought. The empty beds stared back at him. He was alone. The glass sat motionless on the table, as if it had never moved at all.
A shiver raced down Harshit’s spine. His mind spun with questions: Who had been lying beside him just moments ago? From where had the incessant sound of falling glass arisen? He could feel his skin prickle with unease, sweat beading at his brow as if a fever had taken hold.
Without thinking, Harshit bolted from the room, his footsteps pounding down the corridor. The hallway glowed with laughter and chatter—everyone else was gathered, oblivious to the terror that had seized him. For a heartbeat, Harshit stood at the threshold, caught between the normalcy of the living room and the inexplicable chill clinging to his bones.
Harshit burst into the hallway, breathless, heart hammering as if he’d sprinted a marathon instead of simply fleeing his own room. The others were sprawled comfortably on the worn sofa, laughter echoing softly through the pale yellow glow of the common room’s tube light. Anay was the first to notice the wild-eyed look on Harshit’s face. He cocked his head, a grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. “What happened, sir? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” he joked, raising an eyebrow in mock concern.
Harshit ignored the playful jab and turned to Niranjan and Ishaan. “When did you both come out? Weren’t you in the room just now?”
Niranjan blinked at him, confusion written plain on his face. “We’ve been out here for almost an hour, man. What’s up?”
A tremor ran through Harshit’s voice as he tried to steady himself. “It must have been a dream—just a bad dream,” he muttered, though the chill crawling up his spine told him otherwise. The story tumbled from his lips as the others listened, the details of the falling glass and the phantom presence in the room spilling into the open air.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Ishaan let out a sharp laugh, quickly joined by the rest. Their skepticism was complete, their voices rising in teasing banter meant to chase away lingering fear. Assurances circled the room—“Just a nightmare, bro, nothing else”—until even Harshit’s nerves began to settle.
They lingered together for another hour, conversation meandering from ghost stories to college gossip, the shadows of unease gradually dissolving into the comfort of shared laughter. Eventually, sleep called them back to their rooms. Harshit hesitated before returning to his own, but nothing seemed amiss. In the days that followed, the memory of that night faded, replaced by the ordinary rhythm of hostel life.
Yet, underneath it all, a quiet unease remained—unspoken but steadily growing. No one realized that what happened to Harshit was only the beginning, and that stranger things were waiting just beyond the edge of their understanding.
Anay slipped onto the rooftop nearly every evening, his phone pressed close to his ear as he recounted the day’s tangled moments to his family or Priya. The city’s hush after sunset became his backdrop, an intimate space above the hustle where ordinary stories turned quietly luminous. Dinner would come and go, but sometimes the conversations lingered, softening the edges of his day as he leaned against the cold parapet. He and Priya often shared laughs about college, small frustrations, and dreams that felt just a little closer under the wide expanse of the night sky.
Ink of Dread 
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