I didn’t really notice Arun much in the beginning.
He was just quiet. That’s the only word that fits. Quiet kid in class, quiet kid in the corridor, quiet kid during break. He sat near the side, close to the window, and he drew. Always. Not like normal kid drawings either. No heroes, no cartoons, no football stuff. Mostly people.
At first it didn’t feel creepy. Just odd.
The first time I properly saw one of his drawings was by accident. A sheet slipped off his desk when he stood up. It landed near my shoe. I picked it up because it was just there.
It was Uncle Ramesh, the school janitor.
The drawing was good. Like, too good. The bald head, the mustache, even the way his shirt looked a bit loose. Arun didn’t do it in a funny way. He didn’t exaggerate. It was just him.
But in the picture, Ramesh wasn’t standing.
He was on the floor. Eyes open. A mop bucket tipped over. There was a dark patch under his head.
I remember I didn’t even know what to say, so I went with the first thing that came.
“That’s kind of dark,” I said, and handed it back.
Arun took it without looking at me properly. He didn’t smile. He didn’t explain. He just tucked it inside his notebook like it mattered.
Next morning, Ramesh didn’t come to school.
We noticed it because the corridor floor wasn’t cleaned. There was dust near the stairs and some wrappers in the corner. Normally Ramesh would yell at us for that.
By lunch, an ambulance was outside. Teachers were whispering near the staff room. Somebody said he slipped in the washroom. Hit his head. Died instantly.
I stood there holding my lunch box and felt my stomach drop.
I told myself it was a coincidence. I forced that thought hard because the other thought was stupid and scary.
A few days later, Arun drew Mrs. Shrestha.
She lived across the street from my house. Not old old, but older. Always in her small garden. Always holding those scissors. Not fancy scissors. The slightly rusty kind people keep for years.
In Arun’s drawing, she was in the garden. One hand on her chest. The scissors on the ground.
I saw it because one boy tried to snatch Arun’s notebook and Arun pulled it back too fast. The page flashed. Enough for me to see.
I asked him about it later.
“Why did you draw Mrs. Shrestha like that”
He didn’t answer at first. He kept pressing his pencil like he was trying to make it darker.
Then he said, “She told me.”
“Who told you”
He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say anything else.
Two days later, Mrs. Shrestha collapsed in her garden.
It was in the afternoon. I heard people shouting outside. Someone ran to call an ambulance. When I looked from my window, I could see the gate open and her husband standing there like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
They said it was a heart attack.
After that, it wasn’t just me noticing.
People started talking in low voices. Not openly, but you could feel it. Like when you walk into a room and the conversation changes.
Arun didn’t react to any of it. He just kept drawing.
That night I couldn’t sleep properly.
Not because I saw ghosts or anything. Just because my mind kept replaying the drawings. The exact positions. The way the drawings didn’t look like imagination. They looked like someone had seen it already.
I tried to distract myself. I stared at the ceiling. I listened to the sound of bikes passing outside. I drank water. Still, my head kept pulling me back.
So yeah. I did something dumb.
Arun lived a few streets away. Close enough that it didn’t feel like a long walk, but far enough that I didn’t go there often. His house was small. Nothing special. A gate that squeaked.
I went late. Not super late like midnight. Just late enough that most people would be inside.
I knocked softly.
No answer.
I waited and knocked again.
Still nothing.
I tried the door. It wasn’t locked.
That should have made me leave. Normal people would leave. I didn’t. I don’t know why. Curiosity and fear do weird things.
Inside, the house felt quiet. Not peaceful quiet. More like nobody is supposed to be making noise.
I didn’t call out. I just walked slowly.
I found his room because I’d been there once before during a school project. Same small table. Same stack of papers.
His sketchbook was on the table.
I opened it.
Every page was a person from our town.
Some were normal portraits.
Some weren’t.
Some showed people falling. Some showed people lying down in places they shouldn’t be lying. I don’t want to describe all of them because my brain still tries to skip over those pages when I think about it.
What bothered me was how calm the drawings were.
No dramatic blood. No horror movie faces. Just people… finished.
At the back, I saw a fresh drawing.
It was my brother, Kiran.
My stomach tightened so fast it felt like someone squeezed it.
In the picture, Kiran was on the old wooden bridge near the river. That bridge everyone uses as a shortcut even though it’s half broken all the time. You can hear the wood creak under your feet. Some planks look darker because they’ve been wet too many times.
In Arun’s drawing, one plank under Kiran’s foot was cracked.
Kiran was falling forward.
I didn’t even close the sketchbook properly. I dropped it on the table and ran outside.
I called Kiran.
No answer.
I started running toward the river.
I remember thinking stupid things while running. Like why didn’t I wear shoes. Like why my chest hurt. Like please let this be the one time it’s wrong.
When I got there, police lights were already flashing.
People were gathered like it was some show. Someone was crying loudly. Someone was arguing with a policeman. I pushed forward.
They pulled Kiran out of the water.
His clothes were heavy. His skin looked different. His face looked like it wasn’t his anymore.
And the plank on the bridge was broken.
Exactly where Arun had drawn it.
After that, I don’t remember walking home clearly. I just remember being back in my room and staring at the wall for a long time.
The next day at school, Arun was drawing again.
That part made me angry, I think. Not loud angry. Just inside. Like how can you sit there and draw when people are dying.
I walked up to him.
“What are you drawing now”
He slowly turned the page toward me.
It was a woman standing in front of a mirror.
But her reflection looked wrong. Like the face was stretched. Like the eyes were too dark.
I knew it was his mother because of her hair and her shape and even the earrings.
“She will see her real face,” Arun said.
I didn’t know what to do with that sentence. It sounded like something he copied from somewhere.
That night I slept badly. Not because I saw anything. I just woke up a lot.
In the morning, the news spread fast.
Arun’s mother was dead.
Bathroom.
Mirror broken.
People said she screamed.
After that, Arun got even quieter.
Then, a few days later, Arun walked up to me and handed me a drawing.
It was me.
In my room.
Something behind me.
Hands around my neck.
My throat went dry when I saw it.
“This one is special,” Arun said.
“Why”
He looked at the paper, not at me.
“They really want you.”
That night I locked my door. I checked the window. I left the light on even though it made it hard to sleep.
I kept telling myself drawings can’t kill people. A kid can’t predict death. None of this makes sense.
Around three, my door slowly opened.
No sound. No wind. Just open.
And in the corner of my room, something started forming.
Tall.
Thin.
No face.
And it was moving toward me.
👍 👍