Rohan’s eyes flew open to the sound of rustling leaves.
Cold grass pressed against his cheek. He sat up fast, heart pounding.
He was in his family’s garden.
But he had no memory of lying down there, no memory of falling asleep, and no memory of anything that happened the night before.
Moonlight slipped through the branches of the mango tree. The house stood dark and silent behind him. Not a single light was on.
Rohan pushed himself to his feet. His hands were trembling. “How did I get here?” he whispered.
The garden had always felt warm and familiar. Tonight it felt like a place he had wandered into by mistake.
He brushed dirt from his clothes and walked to the back door. Locked. The metal felt cold, as if it hadn’t been touched in hours. He knocked softly.
No answer.
He tried the windows. All shut tight.
Rohan’s breath clouded in the cool air. “Mum? Dad?” he called.
Only insects answered, chirping with an odd, shaky rhythm.
He walked across the grass again. His bare feet brushed something that didn’t belong there. A small mark—like a shallow footprint—sat beside the mango tree. It faced the house. Another one stood behind it. Then another.
Rohan knelt. The prints were too large to be his, and spaced too far apart. They led from the far edge of the garden to the exact spot where he had woken up.
His mouth went dry.
Someone had stood over him.
He backed away, his pulse thudding in his ears. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. The screen stayed black when he tapped it.
Dead.
He had charged it before bed. He was sure of it.
He walked to the gate and unlatched it. The metal creaked lightly — a sound he heard every day — but tonight it made him flinch. He stepped into the quiet lane outside his house.
The streetlights were on, but the air felt too still. Houses that usually glowed with TVs and late-night chatter sat dark.
Rohan whispered, “Where is everyone?”
A soft knock came from behind him.
He spun around.
The back gate had shut on its own.
He didn’t want to go back inside the yard, but he also didn’t want to walk into an empty street alone. So he returned cautiously, keeping his eyes on the shadows.
The garden looked the same. But when he reached the mango tree again, he noticed something else.
A crumpled sheet of paper rested under one of the roots. He picked it up. The page had faint dirt smudges, and a few words written in shaky handwriting:
Don’t follow them. Stay awake. If they call your name, don’t answer.
Rohan’s stomach twisted. Was this some kind of prank? But no one around here played jokes like this, and the writing felt rushed and scared.
He looked up at the house again. The curtains in his bedroom window were slightly parted. He was sure they had been closed earlier.
Someone was inside.
He felt a wave of fear push him back a step. He rubbed his arms, trying to warm them. The night seemed colder now.
A soft thump came from inside the house.
Then another.
Slow. Heavy. Like footsteps.
Rohan’s voice shook. “Who’s there?”
No reply.
A faint light flickered behind the bedroom curtain. Not bright enough to be a lamp. More like a phone screen.
But his phone was dead in his hand.
He backed toward the garden gate, thinking he should run to a neighbor. Then he froze.
Someone was standing on the other side of the street.
A tall figure, barely lit by the streetlight. Not moving. Not speaking.
Just watching.
Rohan’s breath hitched. He stepped back toward the house, but the figure didn’t follow. It only lifted its head slightly, as if listening.
Then, in a slow, drifting motion, it raised one hand and pointed directly at Rohan’s bedroom window.
The curtain twitched again.
A cold pulse went through him. He couldn’t stay outside, but he didn’t want to go back inside either.
He forced himself toward the house door. The knob turned easily this time, as if someone had unlocked it from the inside.
The house smelled strange — faintly damp, metallic, and unfamiliar. Rohan’s legs trembled. He flicked the hall light switch.
Nothing.
He followed the faint glow coming from upstairs. Each step groaned under his feet. His skin prickled as the air grew colder.
Near his room, he heard breathing.
Not loud. Just… present. Like someone trying to stay hidden.
Rohan pushed his door open with his fingertip.
The glow was coming from the corner of his room.
A phone lay on the floor.
It was cracked, covered in dirt, and clearly not his. Its screen flickered with a strange static pattern. Words flashed on it for a second:
Did they touch you?
Don’t let them.
Rohan backed against the wall. “What is happening?” he whispered.
Then, from behind him, someone whispered his name.
Soft. Close. Almost touching his ear.
He spun around.
No one was there.
The whisper came again.
This time from the garden.
Rohan looked out the window. The tall figure was gone. But the footprints by the tree had changed. They now formed a circle around the spot where he had woken up.
And the whisper rose again, gentle and steady:
“Rohan…”
The voice sounded like his mother.
But he knew she wasn’t out there. His parents weren’t even home tonight—they had gone to visit relatives. He remembered that now, sharp and sudden, like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
So who had called his name?
He grabbed the cracked phone from the floor. The static shifted, showing fresh text:
Don’t answer.
Whatever you hear next, don’t answer.
Rohan stared out at the dark yard.
The voice called again, louder this time, closer.
“Rohan. Come here. Please.”
His eyes burned. His breath shook so hard he could barely hold it in.
Then the voice changed.
Just a little.
Enough to sound wrong.
Stretched. Hollow. Like someone trying to copy a sound they had never heard.
“Rohaaaan…”
Rohan stepped back.
The whisper came once more, soft and coaxing:
“Let’s go inside.”
But he was already inside.
And the whisper was coming from behind the bedroom door.
Rohan gripped the cracked phone, heart racing. The screen turned black.
Then new words appeared slowly, one by one:
Don’t sleep in the garden again.
They remember you.
