When we returned from that cursed place, our hearts were still racing, pounding like distant war drums. The silence that followed us back felt unnatural—thick, suffocating—clinging to us like an unseen mist.
We warned the hotel manager that the area was crawling with robbers, making it clear that sending anyone out after sunset—even for minor tasks—was far too dangerous. His face lost color, but he chose not to question us.
Dinner that night passed in uneasy quiet. None of us spoke much. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts, replaying what we had witnessed. Even the corners of the dining hall seemed darker, as if shadows had deepened.
We didn’t waste time.
We decided to leave—far earlier than planned.
At the same time, Abdul approached the manager. His expression was serious, his voice low and slightly unsteady as he handed over his resignation.
“I have to go,” he said firmly. “My mother’s condition has worsened. I need to return to my village near Lahore immediately.”
The manager looked at him, confused but sympathetic, and silently accepted it.
By 9:30 p.m., everything was settled. Keys returned. Bills cleared.
We stepped outside.
Under the cold beam of the headlights, we carefully inspected every part of the jeep. Now free from his duties, Abdul offered to take the first driving shift. We had agreed to divide the ten-hour journey equally, driving straight through the night.
Our destination: Lahore.
Expected arrival: 8:00 a.m.
But as we prepared to leave, it was clear—this wouldn’t just be a long journey.
It would be something far more unsettling.
As we reached the Indus Highway, a guard named Bashir stepped forward and saluted Diljeet.
“How are you, sir?” he asked respectfully.
“I’m well,” Diljeet replied with a slight smile.
“And your family?”
“They’re all fine, thank you.”
We were about to move on when Bashir casually added something that froze us in place:
“By the way… your cat is very cute.”
The words hung in the air.
Silence filled the jeep.
Diljeet didn’t react. He simply smiled faintly.
“Yes… she is.”
We were waved through.
As we drove forward, the silence became heavier. I finally turned and whispered,
“What cat was he talking about?”
No one answered.
Slowly, almost instinctively, we all glanced toward the back seat—half expecting to see something there.
Nothing.
No movement.
No cat.
Confusion set in.
Had something slipped into the jeep unnoticed? That seemed impossible. I had checked it thoroughly before we left. It was sealed from all sides.
And even if something had gotten in—how could it leave? The doors had been locked. Three of us had been sitting inside.
A cold unease crept through me.
Something was wrong.
Trying to steady the situation, I spoke firmly, “Stay calm. Focus on driving. Whatever this is… we stay alert.”
But deep inside, one thought refused to leave me:
Who—or what—had Bashir seen?
At that moment, a chilling realization settled over us.
This was no ordinary animal.
It was her.
The same presence we had encountered before—now taking another form, following us.
The journey continued in tense silence.
Then, as we crossed into Lahore around 5:00 a.m., something shifted.
The heaviness lifted.
The suffocating presence disappeared.
In its place came calm—almost unreal.
Green fields stretched endlessly. Rivers shimmered under the soft morning light. The water flowed gently, clear and peaceful.
The surroundings felt alive again.
Streetlights glowed faintly. Hotels and roadside restaurants appeared. Well-built houses stood in quiet order.
For the first time in hours, we breathed normally.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., we arrived at our hotel—the one we had booked in advance.
Exhausted but relieved, we stepped out as Abdul began unloading our bags.
That’s when an old man approached us.
He looked frail, yet there was something dignified about him. His calm eyes carried a strange intensity—like he saw more than he should.
“Excuse me,” he said softly.
“Do you have any food?”
I instinctively reached for money, assuming he was asking for charity. But before I could offer it, he raised his hand.
“I am not a beggar,” he said quietly. “I only need some food.”
Caught off guard, I handed him what we had—bread, fruit, water.
He accepted it gracefully.
Then his expression changed.
“I sense something here,” he murmured.
“Something… not from this world.”
We went still.
From a small cloth bag, he took out five handwoven amulets—each tied with black thread, each holding a small metallic charm.
“Take these,” he said, handing one to each of us.
“Keep them close. Evil does not always leave. Sometimes… it stays hidden.”
Before we could respond, he turned and walked away—disappearing into a narrow alley as if he had never been there.
We stood in silence, gripping the amulets.
Our hearts beat faster again.
A quiet understanding passed between us.
This wasn’t over.
Then, a faint breeze passed through the air.
Yet the trees remained completely still.
Not a single leaf moved.
Not a branch shifted.
It was as if nature itself had paused.
And then—
A sound.
Soft.
Distant.
The slow scrape of metal against stone.
Deliberate.
Dragging.
It didn’t echo.
It lingered.
It felt as though it traveled through the ground itself, vibrating beneath our feet rather than through the air.
None of us spoke.
But we all heard it.
I could see it in their faces—the tension, the unease, the unspoken fear.
Even the birds were silent.
Was this a warning?
A sign to turn back?
Or were we already too far in to stop?
Only one thing was certain—
Whatever awaited us next… would not be simple.
And whether we chose to move forward or retreat—
Something was already moving with us.
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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