I don’t know how long the thing stood there. The shape in the corner kept shifting. Not moving closer, not moving away. Just there. Like it was waiting for something.
My chest hurt from breathing too fast.
I remember thinking I should scream. Or run. Or do something.
I didn’t.
My legs felt like they didn’t belong to me anymore. Then the room felt empty. Not suddenly. Not with any sound. Just empty.
The corner looked normal again. My chair was there. My bag was there. Nothing else.
I stayed on my bed with the light on until the sun came up. I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like it was still in the room.
School felt wrong that day. Not scary. Just heavy.
The bell sounded louder. People talked too much. Even the chalk screeching on the board felt sharper than usual.
I kept checking dark spots without thinking. Under desks. Behind doors. Corners. That’s when I noticed Arun’s desk.
He had left another drawing there. Just lying in the open. It was Sir Mahesh, our class teacher.
In the picture, he was standing near the board like always, holding chalk. But his eyes were wide. Like he had seen something he didn’t understand.
Behind him, that tall shape was there.
No face. One hand on his shoulder.
Some kids laughed.
“Why does sir look so scared,” one of them said.
Arun didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look up.
That afternoon, Sir Mahesh didn’t come to class. Another teacher came in and said he wasn’t feeling well. The next morning, we heard he was dead.
Collapsed in the staff room. People whispered about stress and heart problems. I just kept seeing the drawing in my head.
That night, I dreamed about the classroom.
No lights.
The board writing by itself.
Something standing behind the teacher.
When I woke up, my pillow was damp. I don’t remember wiping my face, but my hands felt wet.
After that, people started avoiding Arun more. Parents complained. Said his drawings were disturbing.
Some woman came to school. She talked to Arun in a soft voice, like she was afraid of breaking him.
He didn’t say much. Just nodded sometimes.
Later, I saw him near the stairs.
“They’re getting louder,” he said.
“Who,” I asked.
“The ones who show me the pictures.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“They don’t like it when people talk about them,” he added.
Then he walked away like that was the whole conversation.
That night, the power went out for a few seconds. The fan stopped. The room went quiet. When the lights came back, my heart was still beating too fast.
Around midnight, I heard tapping on my window.
Not loud. Just slow.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I didn’t move.
The sound stopped.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
I pulled the curtain a little. Nobody was outside. Just the empty road and a flickering light. But there was a handprint on the glass.
Small.
Long fingers.
Didn’t look right. I wiped it off with my sleeve. The glass felt colder than my skin.
The next day, Arun didn’t come to school. Some kids said he was sick. Some said he was taken somewhere. I didn’t really care about the reason. I just felt like something was missing.
After class, I walked to Arun’s house. The gate was open. That felt wrong.
Inside, it was quiet. Like nobody had been there for a while. Drawings were everywhere.
On the walls.
On the floor.
On the table.
All of them showed the same tall shape.
Sometimes it stood behind people.
Sometimes it reached for them.
Sometimes it just watched.
Arun was sitting on the floor. He looked tired. Like he hadn’t slept.
“They won’t stop,” he said.
“What won’t stop,” I asked.
“The pictures. The voices.”
“What do they want”
“More people.”
My stomach felt tight.
“Can’t you stop drawing,” I asked.
He shook his head.
“They get angry.”
Behind him was a new drawing. A group of people near the old wooden bridge. I recognized some of them.
The shop owner.
The bus driver.
A few students.
And me.
The tall shape stood in the middle. Its arms were open.
“Why are we all there,” I asked.
“They’re hungry,” Arun said.
“Hungry for what”
He didn’t answer.
That evening, people gathered near the river. Some lights were set up. Nothing big. Just something to look at.
The railing on the bridge broke.
People fell.
Some into the water.
Some onto the rocks.
There was screaming. Sirens. Chaos.
Three people died.
After that, I think I stayed home for a while. Or maybe I went out once. I don’t really remember. Everything felt slow.
One night, I heard footsteps outside my room.
Slow.
Heavy.
My door handle moved a little. Then stopped. I didn’t move. The footsteps went away.
In the morning, there was a paper under my door.
A drawing.
It was me. Sitting on my bed. Looking at the door. The tall shape was closer this time. Its hand almost touching my shoulder.
At the bottom, Arun had written:
“They’re almost here.”
