The first thing Aarav noticed was the light under the kitchen door.
He didn’t remember turning it on.
It was past midnight, and the house was quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan in his room. Aarav had just woken up thirsty, and the dry heat of the Indian summer pressed against his skin. He rubbed his eyes and saw a thin line of warm light spilling from the kitchen under the door.
“Strange,” he muttered. His younger brother, Varun, had gone to bed hours ago. Aarav got up, careful not to make noise, and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath his bare feet. The light flickered slightly, like a candle struggling in the breeze. He slowed, his pulse quickening. Something felt… off.
From the kitchen, he heard a soft scrape—metal on tile, a faint clatter. Aarav froze.
“Varun?” he called. His voice sounded too loud in the silent house.
No answer.
Aarav peered around the corner. There he was. Varun. Standing by the sink. The boy’s hair was messy, his back slightly bent, and he hummed a tune Aarav didn’t recognize. The kitchen smelled faintly of milk and spices, warm and familiar.
“Varun?” Aarav stepped closer.
The boy turned slowly. His eyes—wide and unblinking—looked straight at Aarav. But his lips didn’t move. The humming stopped. Silence filled the room.
“Why are you up?” Aarav whispered, trying to keep his voice calm.
No answer. Varun just stared, still as a statue. Aarav blinked. When his eyes reopened, the boy was gone. The kitchen light stayed on.
Aarav’s heartbeat thumped in his chest. “Varun?” he said again.
No sound.
He hesitated, then stepped into the kitchen. The tiles were cold. The milk bottle on the counter had shifted slightly from its usual spot, but Varun was nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe he’s in his room?” Aarav thought. He turned and crept back down the hall.
When he opened Varun’s door, he froze. His brother was asleep, head resting on the pillow, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The alarm clock read 12:14 a.m. He had definitely been asleep the whole time.
Aarav backed out slowly. The kitchen light was still on. He remembered the sound, the figure, the unblinking eyes. He wasn’t imagining it.
He decided to check the house quietly, moving from room to room. Everything was exactly as it should be. The fan whirred, the fridge hummed softly, the old grandfather clock ticked in the living room. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound, except for that line of light in the kitchen, stubborn and calm.
Aarav tried to convince himself it had been a trick of the light, a dream. Maybe he had dozed off halfway to the kitchen. His body shivered, though, like the air itself was cold.
Slowly, he returned to the hallway. The kitchen light now seemed brighter. He peered inside again.
Varun stood there. Same pose, same hum, same wide, unblinking eyes.
Aarav’s stomach twisted. He stepped back, heart hammering. “This isn’t real,” he whispered.
Then the boy moved. Just slightly. Head tilting, hands brushing the counter. Humming started again—soft, low, mechanical almost. Aarav realized the tune wasn’t one Varun had ever hummed before.
“Stop…” Aarav said, voice trembling.
The boy’s head snapped toward him. The eyes—so familiar, so his brother’s—held something else. Empty. Wrong. A shadow lingered behind the pupils.
Aarav stumbled back. His hands shook. He had to get out.
But before he could move, a second sound joined the humming—a soft shuffle from the pantry.
Aarav froze. The pantry door was slightly ajar.
From inside, a small hand reached out. Pale. Still. And the humming stopped.
Aarav’s breath caught in his throat. He blinked, and the hand disappeared. The kitchen light flickered.
He ran.
Down the hall, past Varun’s room, toward his own. He slammed the door shut, heart pounding. The line of light under the kitchen door vanished. Silence returned.
He waited there, listening. The house seemed normal again, almost alive in its quiet, mundane way.
Hours passed. Finally, exhaustion dragged him under.
Morning came slow and orange, spilling through the curtains. Aarav bolted upright, half-expecting the night to have been real.
He went to the kitchen. Everything was as it should be. The milk bottle sat neatly in its place. The counter was clean. Sunlight spilled on the floor.
Varun came in, rubbing his eyes. “I was thirsty,” he said. “Did you hear me calling?”
Aarav froze. “You… you were asleep last night,” he said.
Varun laughed, stretching. “No, I wasn’t. I got up once to grab some water. Don’t you remember?”
Aarav stared. He didn’t.
He glanced at the kitchen light switch. It was off.
And then he saw it—on the floor near the sink, a small, faint footprint. Not Varun’s. Too long, too thin.
It led straight to the pantry.
Aarav’s stomach sank. The house was quiet again, but he felt certain of one thing: last night had not been a mistake.
Something had been there. Watching. Waiting.
And it had worn his brother’s face.
