One by one, the villagers slipped away into the night. Their expressions were tight with unease, their footsteps quick and hushed as they disappeared into the narrow passages between the houses. Soon, only the old man remained near the dying fire. Its dim orange glow flickered across the deep lines of his face, but the calm wisdom he had carried earlier was gone—replaced by something heavier, something haunted. He whispered a prayer under his breath, too soft to catch, then stared toward the dark horizon where the three men with lanterns had vanished. There was no light there anymore. The night had swallowed it whole.
The boy still sat near the fading embers, trembling despite the thick wool shawl wrapped around him. His small shoulders shook uncontrollably, and every few seconds, his eyes darted toward the edge of the square—as if expecting that thing, that walking skeleton, to return. I wanted to reassure him, to tell him he was safe… but the words never came. I wasn’t convinced myself.
The wind shifted.
Now it came from the mountains—colder, sharper, carrying with it a hollow tone. Beneath it was another sound, faint but unmistakable. A dry, scraping rattle, like brittle wood dragging across stone. My skin prickled instantly. Every instinct urged me to move, to leave the open space behind, yet none of us spoke. Around us, the remaining villagers had gone still as well, listening. The fire had dwindled to a faint glow, offering little warmth. It felt as though the entire village had paused, holding its breath.
Then, just as suddenly, the sound vanished. Only the wind remained.
The old man rose slowly, leaning on his cane. “It’s not wise to stay out now,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the darkness. “When the moon hides, they walk. Go inside. Pray if you must.” His gaze settled on me briefly, and in that instant, I saw not fear—but pity.
We didn’t argue.
The walk back to our hut felt longer than before. The cold had deepened, cutting through layers of clothing, settling into our bones. The village had fallen silent. Only the occasional creak of wood echoed as the wind pressed against old structures. Faint lamplight seeped through cracks in shuttered windows, each glow isolated in the darkness. There were no barking dogs, no distant voices—just silence. Even the mountains seemed to loom closer, watching, their peaks hidden behind low clouds.
At the hut, the teahouse owner stood waiting, holding a lantern that cast a wavering circle of light. His face was tense. “Stay inside,” he said in a low voice. “Lock the door. Whatever you hear tonight—don’t open it.”
Diljeet tried to question him, but the man only shook his head and left, his footsteps fading quickly into the dark.
We hurried inside and secured the door. The air within felt colder than before, and the small lantern barely pushed back the shadows clinging to the corners. A damp, earthy smell lingered, mixed with something faintly metallic—like rust. For a while, no one spoke. The warmth and noise of the courtyard felt distant, unreal.
Amit broke the silence first. “You saw them… how scared they were. What do you think that was?”
“Stories,” Diljeet said, though his voice lacked certainty. “People here live with isolation. They imagine things.”
Peter gave a hollow laugh. “Right. Just imagination… walking around in the dark.”
I stayed quiet, listening. The wind scraped along the roof, slipping through gaps with a thin, whistling sound. I tried to follow its rhythm, to convince myself it was nothing more—but every so often, it changed. Subtly. Almost… intentionally. Once, I was certain I heard something dragging across the ground outside.
My pulse quickened. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.
No one answered. Amit turned the lantern wick higher, and the light flared briefly, throwing long, trembling shadows across the walls.
We stayed like that for what felt like hours—five grown men sitting close together, each pretending not to notice the sounds beyond the door. At times, the wind would fall completely still, and in that silence, the night felt stretched thin… as though something pressed against it from outside.
Peter stood abruptly and began pacing. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “We’re acting like—like we’re afraid of nothing.”
But his eyes betrayed him. They kept drifting toward the small window—just a narrow opening covered by a piece of cloth that shifted gently with the wind. For a brief moment, the cloth lifted, letting in a sliver of moonlight.
Something moved outside.
Just a flicker. Pale. Gone before I could focus.
“Sit down,” I said quietly.
Peter froze. His face had drained of color. Slowly, he lowered himself back beside me.
The wind returned, long and low, whispering through the cracks. I shut my eyes, trying to steady myself—but even then, I could feel it. Something outside. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to sense.
Time blurred. The lantern dimmed, its flame shrinking, casting thicker shadows. Then, from somewhere far off, a dog began to howl—a thin, mournful cry. Another joined, then another, until the entire valley seemed to echo with it. The sound swelled, vibrating through the air itself.
And then… silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Slow.
Once… twice.
We froze completely. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Amit looked at me, eyes wide. Peter swallowed hard. No one moved.
The knock came again—three times now, quieter… almost hesitant.
“Maybe it’s them,” Diljeet whispered. “The men who went out.”
“No,” I said under my breath. “They’d call out.”
We waited.
Nothing.
But then… something else.
Faint. Just beyond the door.
Breathing.
Not ours.
No one dared move. Minutes stretched endlessly. Finally, Diljeet adjusted the lantern, shielding its glow. “Whatever it is,” he whispered, “it’ll leave.”
But the night didn’t ease.
The wind scraped against the walls again, and once more that dry, rattling sound drifted through the cracks—like bone against stone. It came and went, near and far, never fully gone.
Eventually, exhaustion took over. We didn’t truly sleep—just drifted in shallow, restless half-dreams. Every sound pulled us back, hearts racing, eyes straining in the dark.
At dawn, I finally opened the door.
The world outside was gray with mist. The fire pit lay cold, its ashes scattered. Villagers moved quietly, their faces pale, their eyes hollow from a sleepless night.
The three men who had gone out… were nowhere to be seen.
The old man stood at the edge of the square, staring into the fog. When he turned toward me, I understood without a word.
Something had come with us to Mastuj.
And it wasn’t finished.
The boy had survived—by chance or fate.
But as for us…
Would we stand our ground against the dead—
or run?
Read on.
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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