Greetings. I am Ahmed, and this is a story woven with fear, loyalty, and a suspense that refuses to fade even after everything is over.
The last stop of our holiday was never supposed to become something spoken of in hushed tones.
But that’s exactly what it turned into.
At the center of it were four friends, connected not by similarity, but by something far deeper.
As evening settled and the sky darkened into indigo, my friends arrived one after another. Their laughter filled the air, yet beneath it lingered a strange uneasiness—as though the night itself was paying attention.
There was Peter from Sialkot—sharp-minded, a businessman who understood markets effortlessly. Amit from Hyderabad—calm, grounded, deeply connected to his ancestral lands. Diljeet from Nankana Sahib—a disciplined police officer, always balancing on the edge of law and duty.
And then there was me—Ahmed from Karachi, a private detective, always chasing truths others would rather keep hidden.
Different religions. Different cities. Different paths in life.
Yet one unbreakable bond.
We were sons of Pakistan. Every December, no matter where life had taken us, we reunited. We spent eleven months working hard, just waiting for that one month—to travel, stay in hotels, explore, eat, and celebrate together. And with Christmas approaching, the excitement only grew stronger.
That year, I hosted the first gathering.
The moment the door opened, time collapsed. We hugged like we were boys again, as if the years between us had never existed.
Tea was ready. So were stories.
We laughed about childhood memories, career failures, and small triumphs. Hours slipped by unnoticed until we moved to dinner, where my cook, Mohsin, had prepared a rich and flavorful meal.
Later, under a sky filled with stars, we wandered through quiet streets, revisiting old memories and forgotten dreams.
That’s when the idea came.
“What if we hitchhike through the Himalayan range… deep into Pakistani Kashmir?” I suggested.
Silence followed.
Then curiosity.
Peter’s eyes brightened. Amit nodded thoughtfully.
Diljeet hesitated—but only for a moment.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
That should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Because of the bag.
Small. Tactical. Strange.
When we asked about it, Diljeet simply smiled.
“Don’t ask. You’ll understand when the time comes.”
We didn’t push further.
Maybe we trusted him too much.
Or maybe we trusted ourselves too much.
We had always believed in logic over superstition.
Once, we had even debunked the famous ghost story of Karsaz Road—spending nights investigating, questioning people, exposing exaggerations. When we proved it false, we distributed pamphlets to discourage fear.
We believed everything unknown could be explained.
We were wrong.
That night, I had arranged something special in the garden. Soft lights glowed along the walls, and four beds were placed under the open sky, close enough for us to keep talking.
The moment they saw it, their tiredness disappeared.
We lay beneath the stars, talking endlessly.
Midnight passed without notice.
With my family away, the house had felt empty for days.
But not that night.
That night, it felt alive again.
We returned to our childhood selves—the days in the officers’ colony where we grew up as sons of army men, raised with discipline and adventure.
Then came food—kebabs, fries, burgers, fish, almonds.
We ate freely. Laughed openly.
And when sleep finally came, it came softly.
Morning arrived just as gently.
At 9:00 a.m., we woke almost together—discipline still ingrained in us.
Breakfast was ready—halwa puri, samosas, strong tea.
We gathered again, not just to eat, but to reconnect.
Memories. Loyalty. Belonging.
In that moment, I realized something clearly—this was what truly mattered.
Not the journey ahead.
But this.
Four friends. One bond.
Unbreakable.
Or so we thought.
Soon after breakfast, we left.
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
Bags packed. Supplies checked.
And then—Rosy.
Our rose-red 2015 jeep waited in the driveway, carrying years of memories. Every mark on it told a story.
I placed my hand on the hood before starting the engine.
First stop: Mehran Highway.
Fuel—full.
Engine—ready.
Tires—checked.
Tools—packed.
Four spare tires. Food. Water.
Being prepared wasn’t paranoia.
It was survival.
We locked the house and set off.
I drove first. Peter sat beside me with the map. Amit and Diljeet took the back seats.
Hyderabad came quickly.
At the checkpoint, we slowed. IDs were checked. The vehicle inspected.
Then we continued.
The scenery opened into canals, rivers, and lush fields. Peaceful. Beautiful.
Amit leaned forward, sharing stories of Nawabshah—roadside vendors, odd encounters, local tales.
Then he added casually, “We should reach before sunset… unless you want to run into dacoits.”
We laughed.
But not completely.
Each of us carried licensed firearms.
Not for drama.
For necessity.
When my turn ended, Diljeet took over the wheel.
Calm. Controlled.
The road led us deeper into quieter areas.
Then Amit spoke again, more softly.
“There are stories here… not entirely human.”
Peter frowned. “What kind?”
“Shape-shifters,” Amit said. “Ichchha Dhari Naags.”
He told us about serpent beings that could take human form—about a family who once sheltered them and was rewarded with a powerful jewel.
“And when they sold it,” he added, “they became incredibly wealthy.”
Silence filled the jeep.
Outside, everything felt unnaturally still.
Peter finally asked, “Do you believe that?”
Amit shrugged. “Stories don’t survive without a reason.”
Soon, Amit took the wheel.
The milestone for Nawabshah approached.
The mood shifted.
The jokes faded.
The sun began to set.
Golden light stretched across the land, turning everything into shadows.
Dusk felt different.
Uncertain.
As if the world itself was transitioning into something else.
Then Diljeet asked to drive the final stretch.
“I’ll take us in.”
There was something in his voice.
Not excitement.
Not fear.
Something steady.
Something unreadable.
The sky turned shades of violet and amber.
And then—we saw it.
A milestone.
Standing alone on the roadside.
We leaned forward.
We had arrived.
At least, that’s what we believed.
Because something about that moment felt off.
Too quiet.
Too still.
As if the land itself was watching us.
Waiting.
Were we moving closer to the truth—
Or stepping straight into a trap?
The answer had already started to unfold.
Whether we were ready…
Or not.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNA0Eh0KxBp
10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIR23oU8SvL
ns216.73.216.98da2This work is my own concept and I have done enormous amount of hardwork on it. However the grammar is corrected with AI because it is not my native language.
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