The hush within St. Augustine’s Hostel was thick and secretive. For most students, the pressure of monthly tests and the familiar sound of hostel laughter remained their world. But Shaan, Manish, and a select few felt a different kind of pressure, one that pressed from the walls and weighed on their dreams.

Since the night in Room 409, only a few people shared the whole terrifying truth. They touched base in glances, brief words, or averted eyes, never in open conversation. Manish was the worst; his energy drained, and his wit reduced to anxious silence. Shaan grew concerned but unsure how to reach out.

It was Friday night, the sky dark and roaring. Shaan found Manish alone in the stairwell, knees hugged to his chest atop a creaky old sofa, eyes far away.

“Dude,” Shaan began softly, “You haven’t been yourself. You want to talk about that night?”

Manish just grunted. “Not talking makes it feel less real, maybe.”

Thunder cracked. The building groaned. Shaan’s nerves frayed, but he kept his tone light: “You believe in ghosts now?”

“I believe in something.” Manish’s voice was flat. “Not sure I want to find out what it is.”

The moment stretched in silence until a sudden voice broke it.

“Are you two just going to mope, or is this an exclusive misery club?”

Shaan jolted. It was Dushyant — a short boy, dusky-skinned, mouth forever cocked in a sardonic line. He sidled up with hands in his pockets, his deadpan expression oddly comforting. “Rumour has it you two have seen things. Real things.”

Manish’s jaw clenched. Shaan met Dushyant’s gaze, deciding quickly. “How much do you know?” he asked quietly.

Dushyant shrugged, settling beside them. “Only what the darkness tells me. Look, I’m not daft — I know what unease feels like. I feel it growing. Every night, a little colder. My bed’s by the blocked section. It’s… different now.”

“That’s not all in your head,” Manish muttered. “Sometimes I hear voices, even when there’s no one near.”

“Yeah?” Dushyant replied, dry as ever. “Last night, my curtain moved without a breeze. Unless we’ve got poltergeists with a taste for musty linen, something’s up.”

Manish fumbled, then pulled a crumpled note from his pocket. “Got this under my door.” He handed it to Dushyant, who read quietly, face unchanged.

“Light brings safety. Beware the new moon,” Dushyant read aloud, his tone undercut with a faint smirk. “Classic. I suppose ‘beware’ means none of us are sleeping peacefully.”

Shaan frowned. “We’re not imagining this. Whatever started in 409 isn’t finished.”

Dushyant leaned back, legs dangling off the sofa. “So what’s the plan, ghostbusters? Talk it out? Evict the unholy squatter?” His eyes softened. “Kidding, but… look, secrets terrify me more than any actual ghost. And whatever’s here, it likes secrecy.”

Manish stared at the floor, voice shaking. “We barely escaped that night. Now the hostel feels wrong, like it’s watching us.”

Outside, lightning snaked across the sky. The building’s old windows rattled.

Dushyant’s glance flicked to each of them. “We should meet. Tonight. Just us five. Get the facts straight, air out anything weird. I’ll bring my lucky flashlight — unless someone’s got holy water?”

Despite himself, Shaan snorted. “Only the tap water, mate. But fine. Ankit’s room, midnight.”

Manish managed a weak smile. “If there’s strength in numbers, maybe we’ll get through Monday night intact.”

Dushyant’s voice dropped. “Let’s just hope it’s only darkness growing. Because I’d rather face nightmares than secrets in these corridors.”

The storm finally split open above them, rain hammering the old brick. The three boys, united now by fear and uneasy camaraderie, sat in the wavering electric glow — knowing that after Monday’s new moon, things might never be the same.

The evening outside Father Nicolas’s retirement home was damp and close, the sort of oppressive stillness that settles before a storm. Shaan and Manish sauntered back to St. Augustine’s, neither speaking much, each lost in his own thoughts. The old priest’s words had left them hollowed out, as though they’d glimpsed something vast and terrible, a secret too heavy for boys their age to carry.

Manish broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t just waltz in there, can we? Not after what he told us.”

Shaan shook his head. “No. We’d be fools to go in blind. But we can’t just leave it, either. Not now.”

The hostel loomed ahead, its Gothic arches and ivy-clad stonework suddenly sinister in the fading light. The place had always felt a bit oppressive, but now it seemed to breathe, to watch. Shaan caught himself glancing up at the fourth-floor windows, half expecting to see a face pale and eyeless staring back.

That night, sleep was impossible. Every creak of the old building, every distant footfall in the corridor, set Shaan’s nerves on edge. He lay awake, listening, waiting. The air in the room was thick, almost soupy, and he found himself straining to hear the scrape of a chair, the echo of laughter — anything that might mean the darkness was stirring again.

At breakfast, Father Robert sat at his usual table, stirring his tea absently. He looked older somehow, his face lined with worry. Shaan hesitated, then approached.

“Father,” he began, “we need to talk. About Room 409.”

Father Robert’s eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing. He glanced around the refectory, then motioned for them to follow him to his study. The room was lined with books, the air scented with old leather and candle wax. He shut the door firmly behind them.

“You’ve been digging,” he said, not unkindly. “What have you found?”

Shaan and Manish told him everything — the newspaper clippings, the interviews with Mr. Bhattacharya and poor, haunted Shashi, and finally, their conversation with Father Nicolas. Father Robert listened in silence, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

When they finished, he sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “I had hoped this would stay buried. But the past has a way of resurfacing, doesn’t it?”

He opened a drawer and withdrew a small, leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age. “This is a record of the prayers and rituals performed when the section was sealed. It’s been passed down from warden to warden. I’ve added my own notes — times when the noises returned, when the air turned cold for no reason. I’ve blessed that door more times than I care to remember.”

Shaan took the book, flipping through its pages. The handwriting changed over the decades, but the message was always the same: Something is here. It waits.

“What do we do?” Manish asked, his voice small.

Father Robert leaned forward, his eyes grave. “If you’re determined to face this, you must be prepared. The entity feeds on fear and doubt. It thrives in silence and shadow. You must go in with clear minds and stout hearts.”

He reached into his desk and produced a small vial of holy water and a silver crucifix. “Take these. And whatever you do, don’t go alone. There’s strength in numbers.”

Shaan and Manish exchanged a glance. The decision, unspoken, was made.

That evening, as the hostel settled into its usual uneasy quiet, Shaan, Manish, and three other juniors gathered in Shaan’s room. Father Robert had given them his blessing — and a final, stern warning.

“If anything feels amiss, leave at once. Do not linger. And whatever you do, do not answer if you hear your name called.”

The corridor to the forbidden section was colder than the rest of the building, the air thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic like blood or rust. Their footsteps echoed as they approached the locked door. Shaan’s hands shook as he fitted the key, borrowed from Father Robert, into the lock. It turned with a rusty screech.

The door creaked open, revealing a hallway swallowed by shadow. Their phone lights cut feeble swathes through the darkness. Room 409 was at the far end, its number barely visible beneath decades of grime.

As they moved forward, the temperature dropped. Their breath fogged in the air. The walls seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic thrum like a heartbeat.

Then, the whispers began.

At first, they were scarcely audible, a susurrus of voices just beyond hearing. Then, clearer: laughter, sobbing, a child’s plea. The lights flickered. Shadows darted at the edge of their vision.

“Stay together,” Shaan said, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his throat.

They reached Room 409. The door was slightly ajar. Shaan pushed it open.

The room was empty save for a single chair in the center, its legs scarred with deep grooves — the same marks they’d seen before. The air was thick, oppressive. The whispers grew louder, coalescing into a single voice:

“Shaan…”

It was sweet, beckoning. Shaan’s heart hammered. He gripped the crucifix, feeling its cool metal bite into his palm.

“Don’t answer,” Manish whispered.

The voice called again, more insistent. “Shaan, come closer. I’ve been waiting.”

The room seemed to tilt. The shadows on the walls stretched, twisted, forming shapes — figures with too-long limbs, eyes that glinted in the dark. The chair scraped across the floor, as if moved by unseen hands.

Shaan felt a pull, an almost physical force drawing him toward the chair. His vision blurred. The voices became a chorus, pleading, demanding.

Then, a sharp, clear note cut through the cacophony — Father Robert’s voice, chanting a prayer from the hallway. The shadows recoiled. The pull lessened.

“Now!” Shaan shouted.

Together, they recited the prayer from the leather-bound book, their voices rising in unison. The air crackled. The shadows writhed, then shrank, retreating to the corners of the room.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, from the depths of the room, a final whisper: “You cannot seal us forever.”

The lights stabilized. The cold lifted. The chair was still.

Shaan slumped against the wall, exhausted. Manish clapped him on the back, his face pale but relieved.

Father Robert appeared in the doorway, his face grave. “It’s done. For now.”

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, painting the stone floor in jeweled patterns. The boys who had faced the darkness gathered for a special mass. Father Robert led the service, his voice steady, his eyes clear.

Afterward, Shaan stood on the chapel steps, watching the light play across the quad. The weight of the past still lingered, but it felt lighter, as though a burden had been shared.

Manish joined him. “Do you think it’s really over?”

Shaan shook his head. “I don’t know. But we’ve faced it. And we’re still here. Maybe that’s enough.”

In the weeks that followed, the noises in the hostel ceased. The locked section remained, but the fear that had clung to it like a shroud began to dissipate. Shaan found himself sleeping through the night, the nightmares fading.

Yet sometimes, in the quietest hours, he would wake to the faintest echo of a whisper — a reminder that some doors, once opened, can never be fully closed.

But for now, there was peace. And for Shaan, that would have to be enough.

The dim-lit corridors of St. Augustine’s Hostel had always felt suffocating to Shaan. Still, lately, an unsettling atmosphere had crept into the stones that made up the ancient institution. Whispered rumours of past tragedies hung in the air like cobwebs, and no one was willing to touch the subject or the locked section of the hostel on the fourth floor. It was said to be forbidden, a place where shadows lingered longer than they should, and curiosity was met with stern disapproval.

For three weeks, Shaan had simmered in confusion, fighting the urge to probe deeper into the mystery. He first approached Father Robert, the college warden, a man with kind eyes but an impenetrable demeanour. Each time Shaan posed a question about the locked section, Father Robert would smile gently and say, “Some truths are best left unknown, my boy. You may regret finding out answers you seek.”

But those answers gnawed at Shaan’s insides. It was not merely curiosity; deep down, he felt something sinister loomed, threatening the students residing within the college. With the summer break approaching, he resolved to uncover the dark secrets hidden behind those locked doors. His quest led him to Mr. Bist, the oldest security guard on the premises, a man who had worn the college’s uniform for over three decades.

Mr Bist sat behind the guard station, his hands resting over a worn-out newspaper as he filled the quiet hours with memories only he seemed to recall. When Shaan approached, the guard’s eyes lit up, eagerly shifting gears from nostalgia to conversation. For an hour, Mr. Bist recounted tales of St. Augustine, its past glories, and shadows of the dark incidents that had been swept under its dusty carpets.

Gathering courage, Shaan finally broached the subject of the forbidden section. The moment he uttered the words, Mr. Bist’s expression soured. He leaned forward, his voice lowered. “I warned you not to provoke what you don’t understand. Leave it be, boy,” he cautioned, his face a mask of worry.

But Shaan was unyielding. “Please, I have to know what happened,” he insisted. After a strained silence, Mr. Bist sighed, the weight of years pressing on his weary shoulders.

“Twenty-seven years ago, everything changed. That section should never have been reopened,” he began, his voice trembling slightly. “It was after a tragic incident involving four boys in Room 409. They were rushed to the hospital one night, and — one of them died. The other three vanished from the school, never to return. I… I still wonder about it every day.”

Shaan’s heart raced. “What happened to Room 409?” he asked.

“Some say they were playing with things beyond their understanding. No one could explain the claw marks or the fractures they bore when they were found,” Mr. Bist stated, his eyes clouding with memories. “And the boys mentioned hearing things — strange noises in the nights leading up to the incident.”

Realizing the trail was growing colder, Shaan set forth on another mission: he needed to find the survivors. Hours turned into days as he meticulously scoured the archives, searching through old photographs of the college. Finally, he found it — a 27-year-old yearbook from 1982. With bated breath, he examined the faces in the photograph, and there they were: Pankaj, Suraj, Ravi, and Shashi, the four boys from Room 409. Taking detailed notes on their names, he felt a surge of triumph.

Returning to his cramped dorm room, he found his friend, Manish, waiting for him with an appraising look. “I know what you’re doing, Shaan,” he said carefully. Shaan’s resolve crumbled, and he recounted his findings. He could no longer deny that he needed help.

Manish’s eyes widened. “Why not check the old newspaper reports? They might have covered the event.”

Intrigued, they dug into local archives and managed to locate Mr Bhattacharya, an aged journalist who had reported on the incident. Their meeting was held in a small café, where time seemed to stand still as Mr Bhattacharya recalled the harrowing details. “The boys didn’t just have injuries; they bore marks as if something had clawed at them. No one could explain it. Other students reported feeling an ominous presence in the section, and soon they left, leaving only those four remaining. They were alone when it happened.”

“What happened to others? I heard they left the city after the incident.” Shaan inquired eagerly.

“Shashi returned, but he never set foot in the hostel again,” Bhattacharya murmured. “Last I heard, he never left this city. He lives on the outskirts now.”

With Mr Bhattacharya’s words heavy in his mind, Shaan and Manish embarked on a new quest to find Shashi. Days later, they stood at the doorstep of a modest house, the sight of which made Shaan’s heart thrum with nervous anticipation. When they explained their purpose to Shashi, the man’s face paled.

“Please, I wish to forget,” he pleaded, his voice thick with distress. “It’s not something to relive.”

Manish’s persistence broke through the man’s defences. “But what if someone else is in danger? You owe it to them, and to yourself!”

Finally, Shashi relented, and the three men sat around the dining table, silence hanging between them like a noose.

“I wasn’t brave, not like Pankaj,” Shashi began, tears glistening in his eyes. “We were terrified, hearing the noises for nights. Something was off. We wanted to leave, but Pankaj insisted we stay. ‘Let’s just see,’ he said. That night, everything turned dark… a presence swept through our room. We were attacked.” His voice wavered as memories washed over him. “We ran out, but Pankaj… he stayed back. He was my friend, but I ran. I left him. I was supposed to protect him.”

As Shashi cried, the weight of survivor’s guilt turned the air thick with sorrow. Shaan felt his heartbeat quicken as he realised the depth of Shashi’s experience.

The truth was far more sinister than mere curiosity — the remnants of that fateful night cast long shadows over the present, demanding to be acknowledged. Shaan took a deep breath, knowing he would have to confront the horrors of Room 409, not just for himself or his knowledge, but for the lost souls still trapped within its walls, longing for the peace they were denied. The search for closure had only begun.

Shaan and Manish were determined to uncover the truth behind the locked section of St. Augustine’s Hostel. Coming back from Shashi’s house, as they walked back toward the hostel, the weight of their investigation hung heavily in the air.

“Mr Shashi is too afraid to step back in the hostel,” Manish remarked, breaking the silence.

“Given what he endured, I don’t blame him,” Shaan replied, his brow furrowing. “I don’t want to push him. He’s still grappling with survivor’s guilt.”

Manish nodded, his expression thoughtful. “But still, we don’t know when exactly the section was locked for the first time. We have that date stone near the staircase that tells us the floor was completed in the 1940s, but how will we know when things turned like this?”

Shaan felt a knot tighten in his stomach as Manish raised a valid point. He paused for a moment, searching for words.“I don’t know for sure,” he finally admitted, “but I think I know where we can start again. The hostel archives contain pictures of every year with boys who stayed in their respective rooms. We can look through those photos and find the year when there were no pictures of any boys from that forbidden section. The first year will likely be when it happened.”

“Great idea!” Manish exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with renewed enthusiasm. “Let’s head there tomorrow.”

The next day the two friends quickened their pace after their classes, their minds racing with possibilities as they entered the archives. The room was dimly lit, filled with shelves crammed with dusty boxes and old ledgers. The air was thick with the musty smell of forgotten history.

“Where do we even start?” Manish asked, glancing around.

“Let’s look for yearbooks first,” Shaan suggested, moving toward a shelf labelled Student Records. He pulled out a heavy volume and began flipping through its pages.

“Here’s one from 1982,” he said, scanning it quickly. Manish joined him, peering over his shoulder. “Look at all these faces! But we need to find something older.”

After several minutes of searching, they came across a series of yearbooks from the 1950s. Shaan flipped through them eagerly until he found one from 1954.

“Here it is!” he announced triumphantly, pointing to a page filled with smiling faces of students proudly displaying their pride of being at St. Augustine’s.

“Wait,” Manish said suddenly, his finger hovering over a blank space on one page. “Look at this! There are no pictures for Rooms from the forbidden section including room 409.”

Shaan’s heart raced as he examined the page closely. “You’re right! It’s completely empty.” He flipped back to check previous years and found that those Rooms been filled with photos until that year.

“What does this mean?” Manish asked, a mix of excitement and apprehension in his voice.

“It means that whatever happened in that year led to its isolation,” Shaan replied, feeling a chill run down his spine. “But we need more information — something concrete.”

“Let’s look for the ledger that contains room allotments,” Shaan suggested as he moved toward a shelf labeled Room Records. He pulled out a heavy volume and began flipping through its pages.

After several minutes of turning pages, they came across a ledger detailing room allocations from 1950 onwards.

“Here it is!” Shaan announced triumphantly, pointing to an entry from 1954. He began scanning through the pages carefully. “Look at this — there are no students listed for from tho after 1954.”

Manish leaned closer to examine the entries. “That’s strange. It means that something must have happened around that time that led to it being sealed off.”

Shaan nodded slowly, feeling a chill run down his spine. “We need more information about what occurred in 1954 — something significant enough to warrant such drastic action.”

“What should we do next?” Manish asked, concern creeping into his voice. “I think we should speak to Mr. Bhattacharya again,” Shaan suggested. “He covered stories during that time and might have access to more unusual news related to the college or hostel.”

“Good idea! Let’s go find him,” Manish agreed.

They made their way across town to a small café where Mr. Bhattacharya often worked on his articles and reminisced about his days as a journalist. As they entered, they spotted him sitting at a corner table, surrounded by stacks of papers and old photographs.

“Mr. Bhattacharya!” Shaan called out as they approached.

The journalist looked up, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window. A smile broke across his face as he recognized them. “Ah! The curious young men from St. Augustine’s! What brings you here today?”

“We’re investigating some events from 1954 related to the hostel,” Manish explained eagerly as they took seats across from him.

“We found that the section stopped being allotted to students that year and wanted to know if you had any additional information about unusual occurrences or news from that time.”

Mr. Bhattacharya leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “It was before I became a journalist, so I never covered the news, but I do remember hearning a thing or tow about it as a child” His eyes twinkled with nostalgia mixed with concern.

“What kind of things you heard?” Manish pressed.

“Some people described them as whispers or cries and something unfortunate happened under mysterious circumstances” Mr. Bhattacharya replied slowly, his voice lowering conspiratorially as if afraid someone might overhear them discussing such matters. “Others claimed they saw figures moving in and out of shadows — figures that shouldn’t have been there.”

Manish leaned forward intently. “Did anyone ever investigate these claims? Did it lead to any official reports?”

“There were investigations initiated by both college authorities and local law enforcement,” Mr. Bhattacharya said gravely.

“But I was just a kid back then so I don’t remember, our best bet is to check the newspaper archives and pray it has something”

Shaan asked, “Mind if we join you while checking those archives?”

Mr. Bhattacharya chuckled, his eyes dancing with excitement. “Not at all! I could use some eager minds to sift through those dusty pages. Let’s make our way over.”

The three of them left the café, the air crackling with anticipation. As they walked, Shaan and Manish exchanged glances, the weight of the past pressing closer with every step. Their hearts raced, knowing that the answers they sought might finally be within their grasp.

Upon arriving at the newspaper office, they were greeted by the familiar musty scent of old paper. Rows of shelves lined the walls, piled high with newspapers dating back decades. Mr Bhattacharya led them to a quaint research area with a microfilm reader at the back where they could spread out the papers they hoped to find.”

We’ll start with 1954,” he instructed, pulling out news on the microfilm reader. “You two can help me search through these.”Shaan and Manish nodded, diving into the task with fervour. They meticulously flipped through the articles, scanning headlines for anything that seemed pertinent to the hostel or unexplainable events.

Shaan’s eyes flicked over the ink, and suddenly he shouted, “Wait! Here’s something!”Manish peered over his shoulder at the yellowed newspaper. The headline read Mystery of the Attacks on Students: St. Augustine’s Hostel in Turmoil. Beneath the headline, an article recounted a strange series of events that had unfolded earlier that year. Accounts described students hastily leaving the hostel due to whispers that resonated through the hallways at night. Reports of sightings — shadowy figures lurking in the corridors — crushed the spirits of those who resided there.”It mentions something about a gathering they held, a séance perhaps?”

Manish read aloud, a mixture of intrigue and dread contorting his features. “They thought that someone was into black magic and occult from items they found in a vacant room, but things escalated when mysterious attacks on students started during nights. The attacks initially thought to be mass hysteria were very much real as there were deep wounds that looked like claw marks on the bodies of the students attacked.”

Shaan felt an electric pulse of urgency. “This must be it! This explains why that section was locked away! They couldn’t risk that happening again. Even the claw marks are consistent with what was later reported when Shashi and his friends were attacked.”

Mr. Bhattacharya peered closely at the article and nodded gravely. “It seems college authorities tried to handle it discreetly. There were rumours, but nothing concrete surfaced in the immediate aftermath. Not surprisingly, the next year, college authorities sealed and locked the entire section.”

Shaan’s mind raced with questions. “But what exactly happened? What was the cause of those attacks? And why did it resurface years later in Room 409?”

Mr Bhattacharya shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid the article doesn’t go into those details. It only mentions the attacks and their aftermath.”

He paused, his brow furrowing. “But it does say that several students were hospitalized with severe injuries from those attacks.”

Manish’s eyes widened in horror. “You don’t think…the same thing happened to Shashi and his friends, do you?”

Shaan felt a chill run down his spine. “It seems too similar to be a coincidence. Whatever darkness was unleashed back then never left; it just waited for the right moment to resurface.”

The three of them fell silent, the weight of their discovery pressing down on them like a heavy fog. Shaan knew they were closer than ever to unravelling this mystery, but its implications filled him with dread — whatever they were up against was ancient, powerful, and relentless in its pursuit of victims.

As they prepared to leave, Shaan turned to Mr. Bhattacharya, his voice low and serious. “Thank you for your help. We need to find out more about what happened in 1954 — the details that the article left out. Do you have any other leads we could follow?”

Mr Bhattacharya stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there is one person who might know more — the former warden who was in charge back then. He’s retired now but still lives in a house for retired Catholic priests near your college. His name is Father Nicolas.”

The weight of the revelation hung thick in the air as Shaan, Manish, and Mr. Bhattacharya processed their new destination. The old newspapers had opened a door to a grim history, and an unquenchable thirst for the truth propelled them forward.

As they stepped out into the streets, the sun was setting, drenching the town in hues of deep orange and purple. Shadows lengthened, creeping along the cobblestones as the three of them made their way toward the retirement home for priests. It was nestled in a serene place near college, flanked by gnarled trees and a worn iron gate that groaned with age. Shaan felt an inexplicable sense of dread as they approached the building.

“Father Nicolas,” Manish whispered, glancing at Shaan. “Do you think he’ll be willing to talk about it?”

“I hope so,” Shaan replied, his heart thudding in his chest. “He’s our best chance at understanding what happened in 1954.”

Upon reaching the heavy wooden door, Mr. Bhattacharya paused, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Just remember, boys, this is a sensitive matter for him. Approach with caution.” He knocked gently, and the door swung open after a moment.

An elderly priest stood before them, his white hair a halo around his weathered face. His eyes were deep and wise, yet they sparkled with the remnants of youth. “Good evening, gentlemen. What brings you here?”

“Father Nicolas, we hope you can spare us a moment,” Mr. Bhattacharya began, his tone respectful. “We’re investigating some unsettling events that took place at St. Augustine’s Hostel in 1954.”

The mention of the hostel caused Father Nicolas’ expression to shift; a shadow flickered behind his warm demeanor. “Ah, the hostel… Yes, I remember,” he said slowly, “though, I rarely speak of those days.” He stepped aside, letting them in.

The interior of the retirement home was cozy, with soft lighting and simple furniture that reflected the serenity of its inhabitants. They followed Father Nicolas into a small sitting room, where he settled heavily into an armchair, gesturing for them to sit around him.

“What would you like to know?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Shaan jumped in, “We found an article that mentioned strange occurrences, including the attacks on students — claw marks and all. Were you the warden back then?”

“Yes, I was,” Father Nicolas sighed, rubbing his temples. “Those were troubling times. Students whispered about dark spirits. They claimed to hear voices, crying out in the night.” His eyes closed momentarily, as if bracing himself against a wave of unpleasant memories.

“What do you think caused those attacks?” Manish pressed, the urgency growing with each passing moment.

Father Nicolas opened his eyes, heavy with sorrow and burden. “There were whispers of forbidden rituals — a séance gone wrong. Some students were curious and perhaps meddled too deeply into things they didn’t understand. Some believed that the hostel was haunted, but trust me whatever is there at that place I have felt it and it is something much darker and powerful than a ghost, it was something diabolical. We did everything we could to maintain peace, but I fear we failed them.”

Shaan exchanged glances with Manish, whose brow furrowed in concern. “Did anyone get hurt during the séance?”

“More than one,” Nicolas admitted somberly. “Though the college attempted to keep things quiet, I remember distinctly that six students were severely injured. The wounds… they looked unnatural, as if something malicious had marked them. Another strange thing was the students were always attacked at night after midnight between 12 to 2.” He shivered at the recollection.

The dim light flickered, causing the shadows to dance around the room. “You mentioned keeping it quiet. Why not inform the authorities? Protect the students?”

“It’s too easy for others to conflate fear with superstition. We did not want to create panic,” he replied, and for an instant, his facade cracked. “But sometimes, silence can protect us from darker forces.”

“What happened in Room 409 after the circumstances of 1954?” Shaan asked, his voice steady but firm.

“Room 409… Yes, the aura of that place is troubling, given the fact that attacks started in that room and every attack was in a room adjacent to room 409” Father Nicolas said, his gaze shifting to the window. “When the hostel’s section was sealed, it was believed that whatever malevolence lingered there was contained as it was blessed and sealed with prayers from the then Bishop. But I can’t help but feel that it found a way to seep back into the world.”

The pieces clicked into place for Shaan. “The last attack on Shashi and his friends… do you think it’s the same thing?”

Nicolas met Shaan’s gaze, his expression grave. “It may very well be the same darkness making its presence known. It seeks unrest — fear — and it finds the vulnerable easy prey.”

A heavy silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the ticking of a clock on the wall. Shaan felt a sense of urgency rise within him. They were deeply entangled with forces that had quietly slumbered for decades, lurking just beneath the surface.

“We need to confront this,” Shaan said, resolute. “What do we do next?”

“There is wisdom in gathering more knowledge, but remember, facing the darkness requires not just courage but understanding. If you truly wish to uncover the truth, you must be prepared to confront what lies within that room,” Father Nicolas warned, his tone fierce and grave.

With newfound determination, Shaan and Manish exchanged glances. The path ahead was fraught with shadows, and they needed to be ready to uncover what had been hidden for so long.

“Thank you, Father Nicolas,” Shaan said gratefully. “We’ll tread carefully.”

As they left the retirement home, the air felt different — charged with an imminent sense of confrontation. Shaan looked to Manish, their hearts pounding with the knowledge of their task ahead. The darkness awaited them, but they would not face it unprepared. The history of the past and the whispers of the present converged, leading them closer to the truth, one haunting revelation at a time.

The organisation’s head, Father Jacob, was a warm man and his eyes comforted Samual. “We are glad you finally came to help us, Samual,” he greeted him in a soul-soothing tone. He was then whisked through a series of meetings and planning.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber light upon this quaint campus. It didn’t take long, though, for that warmth to dissipate as shadows stretched and darkened into an ominous sky. The usually cheerful staff then began to leave in a hurried procession. Curious, Samual asked Father Jacob about the strange behaviour.

“Nights can be treacherous around here, especially for those who stray far from the light,” Father Jacob warned; the tone in his voice now changed. “Though we have a guesthouse you could stay in, most prefer to close the office at night. I can recommend you a room here in the building.

“I appreciate it, Father, but I think I would much rather stay in the guesthouse,” Samual said. The priest raised an eyebrow at his response, but he knew better than to press the matter.

It was at this time, having reached his room in the guesthouse, that Samual felt an unusual wave of tranquility wash over him. As night began to fall, coldness seeped into the walls like a creeping fog. Noticing how the atmosphere switched, he merely brushed it off. Trying to ignore the prickling which had nestled on the nape of his neck, he wrapped the blanket tightly around him.

But just as he was going into a deep sleep, he felt it-something tugging at the edge of his blanket. Samual sprang awake, peering through the encroaching darkness, heart pounding against his ribs. Must be my imagination, he thought, snuffing out the disturbing feeling.

The next morning, in the rays of sunlight peeking from his window, Samual sprang into wakefulness, the blanket thrown carelessly to one corner of the room. The air in that room felt heavy and thick with an unsettling and sinister energy. Then, having shaken off the weird events of that night, he hurried through a busy day of meetings, although a nagging drag at the back of his mind persisted the unease of some unseen force tugging at him.

As the second day neared its end and night started to fall once more, fear seemed to set in his stomach like a cold stone. With the many logical explanations bobbing inside his mind, he knew he could no longer elude the fact of what happened the previous night. Besides, he was growing increasingly eager to unshroud the mystery covering the guesthouse and its chilling aura.

He told them about his night at dinner, but his coworkers changed the subject quickly enough, not looking at him. Samual’s heart fell as if some sort of bad omen clung thick in the air. The silence was eventually broken by the older night guard. His face was a map of wrinkles, still impassive, but a flicker of knowing danced in his eyes. “Maybe it best you spend your night in the office, sir. The guesthouse holds pieces of stories not meant for inquisitive ears.”

Curious, and perhaps emboldened, Samual decided to face his fears and venture into the guesthouse once again. He pulled out his Bible that evening and turned to Psalms 23. The words flowed from his lips as armour against the close of night, an anchor in the vortex of fear stirring in his stomach. The room was oppressive, but a fragile calm washed over him as he laid his head down.

But the sleep was elusive. Just as he started drifting into a night’s rest, another wave of fidgety anxiousness swamped him; the blanket tugged with fierce intensity, jerking him awake. Panic surged through him, and looking at the clock, he found it precisely 3 AM. The darkness pulsed, stifling him, until suddenly the blanket was whisked away with some unnatural strength.

Instead, clutching his Bible tightly, he started quoting Psalms 91, as if the words were some sort of lifeline. The air around him seemed to crackle with energy. It was in the middle of that frantic prayer that a soft whisper wrapped itself around his ear, telling him, “Run.” It was compelling; the voice was full of urgency, the cold-blooded type.

It was as if the air was alive around him. Fueled by his fear, Samual slipped his way through the guesthouse, tripping over each of the many uneven floorboards, until he reached the threshold of the entrance. He fell, but before he could crash into the ground, he felt a firm grip on his arm that hoisted him upright.

It was the old guard, “I heard your screams for help”, he said, furrows of worry etched across the weathered lines on his face. Taking no more time than he had to do so, he guided Samual into the safety of the office building down a path lighted with flickering lights.

Panting, still shaking, Samual told his tale in a quivering voice. The guard listened to it all, his eyes darkening with knowledge unspoken. Finally, at the end of the tale, the guard broke into a gentle smile and laid a small wooden cross in Samual’s palm. “The unseen forces cannot be challenged with mere courage alone. Trust in faith, my son. It has power against that which you cannot see.

The trembling fingers of Samuel clutched the cross as he realized the gravity of forces that were lingering in that haunted guesthouse. As the night brought terror, it showed him that sometimes some battles required not just strength, but belief in light piercing through darkness.

As morning broke over the village, Samual stood in the doorway of the office building; the sun warmed the carved wooden cross above him. His heart steady to start the new day, together with the mystery that was in the dark.

Danish needed a minute to clear his head. He’d been hustling all day, setting up meals for the needy, ensuring they would receive the treatment they deserved. After a few deep breaths, he stepped out of the mosque’s entrance and decided to light a cigarette. He strode toward a small teashop some distance away with a lithe stride. The air was heavy with the aroma of spices, which mingled with the smell of wet earth — a typical night in the Old City.

He bought a pack of cigarettes — just a vice he was finding hard to quit — and turned back toward the mosque, reflecting on what all the good work from his family in charity really meant. Their motives were good if something in him chafed at the endless burdens of money and power. He dragged on his cigarette, trying to rinse down his thoughts, drown them in the banality around him. But the night was anything but banal.

As he wandered back, he glanced at something hiding near the entrance of the graveyard lying on his way back. In front of the gate, an eight- or nine-year-old stood with his blackened silhouette against the bright moonlight. Danish stopped. Indecision tugged at him. “What is this child doing out here at this hour?” he mumbled to himself. The boy stood stock-still, lost in some sort of dream. Despite his every instinct to run there, he hesitated, thinking the boy likely lived around here somewhere.

He continued his path, at times still relying on the thought of his family and all their good charity work to assuage his now ever-present guilt. Yet sometime later, late in the night, when the young day felt pregnant with specific tension, he rounded another corner and sure enough. Taller, this time and Danish felt his heart once again pounding. The gap had now reduced dangerously, and the boy appeared stiff as if in his form would be impossible.

A primal horror took over him, and he hurried his stride, trying not even to brush past that strange figure. But as rapidly as Danish was moving, he turned yet another corner -again found the boy right in front of him, as if waiting for him, only this time rising above his head, looking more like an adult. A storm of fear rushed through Danish, and he nearly ran, quickening his pulse. He dashed toward the mosque as if the night was closing in. He fumbled with the door to fling it open, rushing in and banging it shut behind him, leaning against it as if to protect himself from whatever it was that he had encountered.

He panted and looked around the dim room: there, in the corner, was the Imam, wearing an expression divided between distress and understanding calm. Quickly, he related to the Imam the surreal experience and the figure of the child in front of the graveyard. All ears, the Imam paid him attention, sometimes glancing towards the door as though something unspeakable was lying on the other side. For a few moments, a suffocating silence hung in the air. “You are very fortunate,” the Imam said gently at last. “That cigarette you were smoking — that was fire. What you met, it was not of this world, and you were saved by its fear of the fire.

Not the first time have I heard stories of such. There is an entity near the graveyard — some say an old spirit or a demon whose true intentions are unknown.” He paused, his voice low and steady. “But those who venture near it at night rarely return unchanged.” Danish’s heart thudded unnervingly in his chest. “What do you mean?” he asked, the grind embracing the edges of fear. He bent forward now, his voice reduced to a whisper as he continued, “It has not gone unnoticed in the community. Whispers of a boy — a boy who lures the unsuspecting, who tempts the unwary. They say he seeks to lead astray those who leave the light. You’re safer here tonight, Danish. Stay until the morning prayers; do not venture out until dawn. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach.

Danish nodded as his thoughts surged through a storm of remembrances of the boy’s unnatural appearance, a visage that seemed all too familiar and yet so diabolically wrong. He took his place at the corner of the mosque and tried to breathe. He tried to push back the rising panic. The Imam stood close at hand, eyes half-narrowed upon the horizon as if waiting for some portent that might signal the boy’s return. The hours flicked by tediously, each one a seeming eternity. Shadows kicked around the walls from the waxen light of the lanterns as the atmosphere grew thick.

Danish continued angling for a peek of the door, paranoia digging into his brain deeply, as he clutched the pack of cigarettes tightly in some futile hope that they would bring comfort with their familiarity. Near 2 AM, something at the entrance of the mosque began breaking the dead silence. A soundless, but a very plaintive voice was floating in the ambience, floating wistfully, getting started only to be curtailed a moment later by darkness in pais. It was causing a chill up the spine for Danish, rendering him stiff with fear. The Imam had closed his eyes, resting, but Danish’s worry escalated until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hear that,” Danish said insistently in a whisper. The Imam stirred, opened his eyes. “Don’t listen to it, my boy. It messes with your head, brings you one step closer to its trap. It’s getting you to come outside.” But Danish couldn’t help himself. “I need to find out,” he muttered, his blood running free. “What does it want?” “Sorry, I don’t know,” said the Imam grimly. “But where the wailings aim for no aim, they just would mean to rob you of the will, take you into the dark. You have to fight it.” Taking a deep breather, Danish moved towards the door, each step trembling with fear but literally egged on with grotesque curiosity. He held the door knob, and the cold metal shrieked at his palm, and with it, he pulled open the door just a little bit to peek out. What met his eyes rooted him to the spot.

The boy was there, no longer a child but a thing of darkness, his features contorted and eyes blazing with otherworldly illumination. The clamor of the whisper resumed, only this time it was accompanied by laughter — derisive, spectral. Danish tripped back in a horror, and the door clanged back. “It’s not a boy!” he panted. “It’s something else!” The imam got to his feet, driven by palpable impatience. “Hold it nigh the fire, Danish!” He took up a lantern and lit it. The flames shot to life as he threw it toward the door just as the whispers crescendoed to a sound that filled the small room with chaos — an eerie symphony of temptation and despair. They snaked their shadows through the cracks around the door, clawing at their sanctuary. The Imam raised his voice to the sky in a prayer to the protecting forces against the malevolent power. Danish joined him, his voice glued to the familiar tunes of the lines, reverberating through the night with faith and lightness.

With the growing dawn, the murmur began to fade and the darkness to cower back into the corners from which it had slipped out. The form of the boy evaporated into thin air, and around them, only the musty silence hammered just so often by their breaths remained. With the first rays of sun coming in through the windows of the mosque, Danish fell on the ground — weak but alive. His mind was hardly accepting what he just went through.

Was it real? Or was his imagination whirled in perversity by fear and exhaustion? “What was that?” Danish asked the Imam. The elder sighed, leaning on the wall, tired but with relief. “Maybe just a test — something living on the fears and weaknesses one harbors. Just never underestimate the darkness running in harmony with the light, a paradox existence. Danish nodded, the weight of the night still upon his heart, a deep chill enveloping him. For he knew the entity would not have let the flames of his light die; he would have joined the entity in the eternal dark, where fire would be just a memory fading in the void.

Right in the middle of an Indian metropolis, Shaan had left behind the cosiness of his small town to step into the big chapter of college life. At his very doorstep stood the best college in the city, nestled deep inside a cloistered Jesuit institution. He felt a thrum of excitement mixed with a sense of fear as his parents settled him in his room on the fourth floor of the hostel on campus. It is here that the thrill of learning would mix with an unseen darkness.

The first couple of nights went by without any incident — laughs and fun with his roommates. An unnerving sense of inquisitiveness was beginning to reside in Shaan’s mind, as the whole section on the fourth floor remained locked — a forbidding barrier that conjured fleeting whispers among the boys.

That night, just as Shaan was about to drift off to sleep, some strange sound jerked him awake. First, it was the soft scrape of furniture dragging on the floor; then, the faintest echo of voices. He felt confused and cold. All he could do was look around at his wide-eyed roommates.

“Did you hear that?” his roommate Raghav asked in barely an audible tone.

Finally, Shaan nodded; he wasn’t the only one feeling frightened. All of them exchanged worried glances at each other and set out to explore into the dimly lit corridor to find out what was going on. With a few other boys from their corridor, they inched toward the locked section — the eerie sounds drawing them closer.

“What is it?” one of the boys murmured; his breath hitched with every creak of the wooden floor.

The noise just stopped at the door separating known from unknown. A thick silence, impossible to voice fear, wrapped them all together. The boys shifted in closer, wanting to get away and wanting to get closer. From behind, a call came from the senior boys.

The seniors laughed off their fears until Shaan broke the news about where the sound was coming from — that very forbidden locked section. Then laughter rapidly faded, replaced by nervous glances, as they felt it was more than just another of those strange happenings.

This, the strict warden, Father Robert, was a man of very long robes and a stern face with beaded eyes. He overheard some of this patter, bundling the authority and concern together — a bit like one bundles up against the cold — as he herded the boys together. “None of you goes into that section without permission. But if ever you hear sounds again, come to see me. But it’s best not to dwell on things better left alone.”

Curiosity, however, proved to be the unrelenting beast. It was later that night, egged by hushed incitements, when some of the bravest juniors joined the seniors, who rallied with Shaan, to creak open the old lock to the forbidden section.

They slid open door after door to darker rooms lit with the light from their phone. Most of the rooms were undisturbed, but the third was a really chilling sight: it had a layer of dust on the floor, marked with clear unmistakable impressions — many chair leg imprints, as if they had been recently dragged by unseen hands.

“Someone’s been here,” one senior muttered, as the boy’s actions suddenly went strange; each seemed to rush the door to get out by all means, hitting on it behind them in an endeavor to outrun breathless, fear, and apprehension. They rushed with their revelations to Father Robert, who instead of disregarding their fear got deeply worried.

Morning broke to find chapel stairs-stained glass arches now a sanctum of prayer. An invocation ceremony was held by Father Robert to purify the flooring from any darkness lurking in hidden places, protecting the boys. “Fear itself can be as contagious as any malevolence. The darkness feeds on it,” he intoned solemnly.

Yet, even after the prayers and the blessings, that feeling would not leave the pit of Shaan’s stomach. Often, he would see Father Robert go out slyly to bless that locked section once more in the middle of the night; his desperate, old eyes gleaming.

Days turned into weeks, and with no signs of this episode ending, whispers sustained as the unsettled soundtrack for their lives in the hostel. The sense of fear was hard to shake off when Shaan and his friends tried to — noise hanging in there, echoing at odd hours, as if to taunt the prayers that hung in the air.

It was on one such sleepless night that he lay when that unmistakable sound returned — a chair scraping, laughter echoing down the hall. Shaan turned toward his roommates in a race; all of them lay paralyzed with fear and as still as possible.

The noise grew louder, echoing all around him, smothering him in his own fear. Shaan felt some inexplicable attraction toward the door; some unseen force seemed to urge him on. Taking a deep breath to gather his nerves, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the corridor, where the shadows danced upon the walls like living things and swirled and whispered at each other.

He now stood before the locked door. The air was thick with unsaid words, as he breathed in deeply, reaching out for the handle. The whispers became loud by now, begging, laughter, and the electric shock higher.

Then he felt it — new — his name, softly, sweetly called, beckoning him closer.

Shaan hesitated as reality twisted; warmth trickled through his fingers — safety. It was only now that he realized that some mysteries were never meant to be solved.

He turned back with a convulsive breath; in his walk back to the safety of his room hung, if ever so slightly, the weight of an ancient horror. Though that locked section still remained untouched, he felt those spirits would wait, ever ready, for the next inquisitive person to take a step too close to the precipice. That noise would never truly stop, a reminder of what lay behind the door. The darkness was alive, patient, forever hungry for more.