After seeing two of them near the road outside my aunt’s house, I stopped pretending this place was safer.
It wasn’t.
It was just quieter.
My aunt still swept the yard every morning. My mother still made tea. The TV still played old shows that nobody watched. Everything looked normal from the outside.
But the air felt different now. Heavier. Like it had learned our names.
I started waking up before sunrise. Not because of dreams. Just because my body didn’t trust sleep anymore. The ceiling fan’s ticking sound felt louder in the dark. Sometimes I counted the spins without meaning to.
One morning, I noticed something new.
The neighbors across the road had tied red cloth to their gate. Not decorations. Not for a festival. Just strips of cloth, hanging loose, moving with the wind.
I asked my aunt why. She said people were trying different things now. Different things to keep bad air away.
No one said the real word.
That afternoon, I walked to the small shop near the corner to buy biscuits. My aunt gave me exact change like she always did.
On the way, I passed the spot where the two tall shapes usually stood.
Only one was there now. The other was gone. I didn’t feel relieved. I felt watched.
Inside the shop, the owner didn’t smile. He didn’t complain. He just took the money and handed me the packet.
Behind him, taped to the wall, was a piece of paper.
Not a price list.
A drawing.
It showed the same shop. Same counter. Same shelf of chips. And behind the owner, a tall shape stood. I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
When I stepped outside, the air felt thick again.
At home, my mother was arguing quietly with my aunt in the kitchen. Not shouting. Just low voices. Words like safe, temporary, and go back floated through the doorway.
I stayed in the living room and pretended not to hear.
That evening, the power stayed on.
The fan didn’t stop.
Nothing knocked on my door.
And somehow, that felt wrong.
Before sleeping, I checked the terrace. Another drawing had appeared. This one showed the road in front of my aunt’s house. Two tall shapes stood near the bend. One was darker than the other. Under the picture, in small letters:
“One stays. One moves.”
I didn’t know what that meant. But I felt like I was about to.
That night, I dreamed for the first time in days. Not about shadows. Not about drawings. I dreamed about my old room.
The window.
The desk.
The chair in the corner.
Everything was normal. Until the chair moved by itself. Just a little.
When I woke up, my heart was beating too fast for a quiet room.
In the morning, the neighbor’s house was locked. The red cloth on their gate was gone. So was their car. No one said anything about it.
That afternoon, my aunt asked if I wanted to help her water the plants. I said yes, mostly because I wanted to be outside for a while.
We didn’t talk much. The hose made a soft hissing sound as water hit the dry soil. Some leaves looked healthier than they should have. Too green for how little sun they got.
Near the wall, I noticed something strange.
Chalk marks.
Not drawings.
Just rough symbols.
Lines.
Circles.
Crossed shapes.
They didn’t look like anything specific. But they felt intentional, like someone had taken time to put them there.
I didn’t ask about them.
That evening, my aunt burned incense again. She walked through every room slowly.
Not rushing.
Not stopping either.
Like she was checking corners without looking directly at them. I followed her once.
In the guest room, where I slept, the smell of incense felt heavier.
Not comforting.
More like a warning.
That night, I heard something new.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Whispers.
Soft.
Slow.
Not in a language I understood.
They didn’t come from one place. They came from everywhere.
The walls.
The ceiling.
The floor.
I stayed still. My blanket felt thinner than usual. The whispers didn’t get louder. They just stayed. Like they were waiting for me to react.
Eventually, they faded.
In the morning, the plants looked healthier.
Brighter.
Too bright for soil that had been dry for weeks. One of the leaves had small black marks on it.
Not dirt.
Not bugs.
Just marks.
I tried wiping them with my finger. They didn’t come off.
That afternoon, my mother said we might go back to our town soon. Not because it was safer. Because staying here didn’t feel different anymore.
I didn’t argue.
What would be the point.
Before sunset, I walked to the bend in the road again. Only one tall shape stood there now.
The darker one.
The other was gone. When I stared at it, my head felt tight.
Not painful.
Just full. Like too many thoughts were trying to exist at once.
I didn’t move.
Neither did it. For a moment, I felt something strange.
Not fear.
Not calm.
Recognition.
Like it knew me.
And I knew it.
When I turned back toward the house, my chest felt lighter. But the air still felt wrong.
That night, another drawing appeared on the terrace. This one showed a road.
Not our road.
A longer one.
Cars packed with bags.
People leaving.
Tall shapes standing along the sides.
Watching.
Under it, one sentence:
“Running teaches us where you go.”
I folded the paper. Put it in my pocket. And for the first time, I wondered something I hadn’t before.
What if the drawings weren’t warnings anymore. What if they were directions.
