The Karakoram Express ground to a halt in Rawalpindi shortly after noon, its brakes shrieking against the rails. The moment we stepped out, the shift in air was unmistakable—colder, sharper, carrying a thinness that hadn’t been present in Lahore. The station was alive with movement: vendors calling out their goods, porters navigating through the crowd with practiced urgency, and the distant hiss of another train preparing to depart. Steel wheels clanged, whistles pierced the air, and everything seemed to move with a restless momentum.
Yet beneath the noise, something felt off.
People hurried more than usual, their glances often drifting toward the northern skyline, as if wary of what lay beyond. Children darted past carrying bowls of hot halwa, but their laughter lacked ease—it sounded strained, uncertain. Even the stray dogs prowling the platform moved with an unusual alertness, their behavior reflecting a tension that couldn’t be easily explained.
We stepped down fully onto the platform, stretching after the long journey. The familiar mix of coal smoke and fried food lingered in the air, but it brought no comfort this time. A thin layer of fog hovered over the tracks, dulling the brightness of the sun into a pale glow that offered little warmth. The sound of our footsteps seemed oddly amplified, lingering longer than they should. I caught myself looking back more than once, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.
While discussing our next move—finding transport to take us toward Chitral—a figure approached us.
He was an elderly man, wrapped tightly in a thick woolen shawl. His face bore the marks of time, deeply lined and weathered, but it was his eyes that stood out—ancient, knowing, and unsettlingly sharp. His movements were slow, yet purposeful, as though every step carried weight.
“You’re heading north,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
We exchanged glances, unsure how to respond. There was something in his tone that discouraged denial. After a moment, Diljeet answered simply, “Yes.”
The man studied each of us carefully, his gaze lingering as if committing our faces to memory. When his eyes met mine, it felt as though he saw far more than I intended to show. “Go back,” he said bluntly. “The roads aren’t safe. Not because of the snow… but because of what roams after dark.”
Amit frowned slightly, trying to keep his composure. “And what exactly roams at night?” he asked, though a trace of unease crept into his voice.
The old man hesitated, casting a quick glance toward the tracks, as though wary of unseen ears. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The dead. They’ve abandoned their graves. Not just in the valley you’re heading to—but along the roads as well. After sunset, they move… searching.”
A sudden gust of wind swept across the platform, stirring loose papers and tugging at clothing. It carried with it a faint, earthy scent—damp and unsettling. The station’s noise seemed to recede, his words settling heavily in our minds. The chatter of vendors and the clang of metal faded into the background, replaced by a quiet, internal dread.
Peter tried to lighten the mood with a faint smile. “We’ve dealt with the dead before. That’s nothing new.”
The man didn’t react. His expression remained fixed, his gaze unwavering. “Not like these,” he replied firmly. “These don’t speak. They don’t listen. And they don’t forgive.”
The weight of his words sank deep. Abdul’s breath fogged in the cold air as he exhaled slowly. “We’re still going, aren’t we?” he asked quietly.
No one answered aloud. But the silence said enough. Fear lingered among us, yet so did determination. It wrapped around us like an invisible force, reminding us that the mountains were closer than we thought—and that whatever lay within them was already stirring.
Without another word, the old man turned and walked away. Despite his age, his steps were quick, almost unnaturally so. Within seconds, he disappeared into the crowd, vanishing between freight carts as though he had never been there at all—leaving behind only his warning.
We lingered for a moment, each of us lost in thought, staring down the tracks stretching toward the horizon. The rails gleamed faintly, winding forward like a path we could no longer avoid. Far in the distance, the mountains rose—dark, jagged, and imposing.
“Did he just… disappear?” Peter muttered under his breath.
“He didn’t,” I replied quietly. “But if what he said is true… we’re heading into something far worse than we expected.”
Amit gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, at least the locals are creative. ‘The dead looking for company’—that’s one way to welcome tourists.”
Peter smirked weakly. “Yeah, maybe they’ll offer us dinner too.”
Abdul shot them a look. “Enough. We need to move. I don’t want to be anywhere near those roads after dark.”
Soon after, we found ourselves climbing into the back of an old jeep. The driver loaded our bags roughly into the rear, and with a sputter and a cough, the engine roared to life. The sound echoed sharply around the station before settling into a steady growl. We gripped our seats as the vehicle lurched forward.
The road ahead twisted upward into the mountains—a path leading into thinner air, deeper shadows, and a reality where the boundary between the living and the dead seemed dangerously fragile. With every mile, we drifted further from the familiar and closer to the place the old man had warned us about.
As the jeep climbed its first incline, I glanced at the others. Peter held tightly to the handle beside him, knuckles pale. Amit murmured quiet prayers, barely audible. Abdul remained silent, eyes fixed ahead. Diljeet drove with steady focus, though tension was evident in the stiffness of his posture.
“The mountains are close,” he said at last, almost to himself. “And… it feels like they’re watching us.”
A cold wind rushed past the jeep, carrying with it a faint metallic tang of frost and earth. The vehicle rattled along the uneven road, and somewhere overhead, a lone crow cried out—a sharp, cutting sound that echoed through the stillness.
Peter forced another grin. “Perfect. Ominous bird, mysterious warning, restless dead… all we need now is a haunted snowman offering tea.”
Amit glared at him. “Stop talking before something decides you’re worth noticing.”
I tried to laugh, but the sound never came. The mountains no longer felt like scenery—they felt alive, ancient, observant. And somewhere within their vast silence, something waited.
With each turn of the wheels, the world we knew seemed to fall away. The valley below receded, the peaks loomed higher, and the fog thickened, closing in like a curtain.
No one said it aloud, but we all understood:
There was no turning back now.
Had we made the right choice—or ignored a warning meant to save us?
Every sign we had brushed aside now felt deliberate, as though something unseen had tried to stop us from reaching this point.
And as we climbed deeper into the mountains, one truth became impossible to ignore—
Some warnings only make sense when it’s already too late.story here...
This 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.
and then Add to home screen.