I didn't remember deciding to text her.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
One moment I was standing by the door, jacket half on, staring at the location pin and replaying the call in my head—the pauses, the breathing, the way her voice had dipped when she said chanting.
The next moment, my fingers were already moving.
Can I come and take a look at your room… now?
The message sent before I could reconsider.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly over the keyboard. A part of me expected something to happen immediately—another call, another whisper, the chanting bleeding through the speaker like sound had learned how to crawl.
Nothing happened.
No vibration.
No reply.
The room felt too quiet.
That silence pressed against my ears, thick and padded, like the world was holding its breath. I tried to tell myself this was normal hesitation. That people second-guess things at night. That fear sharpened imagination.
None of it stuck.
I paced the narrow room. Every excuse I formed collapsed the moment it surfaced.
It's late.
It's not your problem.
You don't know what you're dealing with.
Fear didn't pay rent.
Hesitation had never saved me before.
I zipped my jacket, shoved my phone into my pocket, and wheeled my bicycle out past the hostel gate. The night watchman barely glanced up as I passed. He nodded absently, eyes already back on his phone.
If she said no, I could turn back.
That's what I told myself.
My phone buzzed as I pushed off.
I stopped so abruptly my foot scraped against the ground.
Unknown Number: I don't know if this is a good idea… but please don't touch anything marked in red. NR Eminence Apartments, third floor. Call me when you reach.
I read the message twice.
Then a third time.
Don't touch anything marked in red.
Not don't move.
Not don't open.
Just… don't touch.
That distinction sat wrong with me.
I started pedalling.
The road to the apartments was quieter than I expected. Streetlights flickered lazily overhead, throwing long shadows that stretched and collapsed as I passed. A pair of stray dogs slept near a closed tea stall, barely lifting their heads as I rode by.
The city felt half-asleep.
Like it didn't want to witness whatever I was riding into.
Every sound felt amplified—the hum of my tyres, the distant bark of a dog, the faint electrical buzz of a transformer somewhere ahead. My thoughts kept circling the same question.
Is this a good idea?
I already knew the answer.
NR Eminence rose out of the dark like it had grown there—concrete and glass, windows mostly unlit. I stopped at the gate and checked my phone.
No new messages.
I called her number.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
No answer.
I lowered the phone slowly.
The gate creaked as the night breeze pushed against it.
I waited.
That's when I heard it.
A sound like wood being cut slowly with a saw.
Back and forth.
Rhythmic.
Deliberate.
My shoulders tightened.
I scanned the parking area. Empty. The stairwell lights flickered faintly. The sound stopped as suddenly as it had started.
"Who are you?"
The voice came from behind the gate—hoarse, suspicious.
An old security guard stepped into the light, eyes narrowing as he studied me.
"What's your reason for coming here at this time?" he asked.
"I'm visiting a friend," I said quickly. "She lives on the third floor. She's coming down to get me."
He didn't look convinced.
"Name?"
I gave one.
Not mine.
He handed me the logbook.
As I wrote, that pressure returned—that sensation at the back of my head, like someone was watching without blinking.
"If you're done writing…"
Her voice.
Soft. Trembling.
I looked up.
She stood a few steps away, clutching the strap of her bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes kept darting toward the staircase, then back to me.
"…can we please go to my room?" she asked.
It wasn't nervousness.
It was fear.
"Have we met somewhere?" I asked instinctively.
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
A pause.
"Please," she added.
I closed the logbook and handed it back.
"Yes," I said. "Lead the way."
The gate creaked shut behind us.
She moved quickly—not running, but close enough that it felt deliberate. Like staying in open space was dangerous. I followed, glancing over my shoulder before stepping into the lift with her.
The doors slid shut.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The hum of the lift filled the silence as it climbed.
"Can I know your name?" I asked.
She hesitated.
"Meenakshi Menon."
The name clicked.
I'd seen her before. Psychology department. Quiet. Always looked like she was listening to something no one else could hear.
"We study in the same college," I said. "I'm Har—"
"Don't," she cut in. "Don't say your name. Not up there. Not in my room."
The words were rushed. Urgent.
I frowned. "Why?"
"They might hear it."
They.
The lift chimed.
Third floor.
She stepped out immediately.
The corridor lights buzzed overhead, casting uneven pools of light along the floor. She unlocked her door with shaking hands, slipped inside, and gestured for me to follow.
"Come in," she said. "Please."
I stepped across the threshold.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
The room felt wrong instantly.
The wrongness wasn't loud.
That was the unsettling part.
The room had already made a decision, and I was late to it; that was the quiet insistence I felt. There was no sudden chill, no dramatic pressure, no immediate sense of danger.
"Lock it," Meenakshi said.
I slid the bolt shut.
The click echoed louder than it should have.
I stood near the door, taking in details I wouldn't normally notice. The floor was unusually clean along the edges, but scuffed toward the centre. The furniture had been pushed slightly inward, as if the walls needed more space than they used to. The curtains were drawn tight, but not evenly—one side overlapped the other by a few centimetres, like someone had adjusted them in a hurry and never fixed it.
And the lines.
Thin red lines traced the edges of the floor and climbed the walls, uneven but deliberate. Not paint. Not chalk. Something darker, dulled with time.
Meenakshi watched me carefully.
Not my face.
My hands.
"You can sit," she said, nodding toward the chair near the desk.
I didn't move.
"Why red?" I asked instead.
She stiffened. "What?"
"The markings," I said. "Why that colour?"
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "Grandpa said it was the easiest to see."
"That's not an answer," I said gently.
She swallowed. "He said some things don't want to be noticed. Red forces attention."
That sent a quiet ripple of discomfort through me.
"What's it made of?" I asked.
She shook her head. "He told me never to ask."
"Who taught him all this?"
"I don't know."
It came out too fast.
I looked at the walls again. The red lines weren't symbols. They didn't form words or shapes. They followed boundaries. Corners. Thresholds. Places where one thing ended and another began.
"These aren't warnings," I said slowly.
She looked up at me. "What are they, then?"
"Instructions," I replied.
Her breath caught.
"For who?"
I didn't answer right away.
The room felt tighter the longer we stood there. Not smaller—more focused. Like it was narrowing its attention, deciding what mattered.
"Did the police touch anything?" I asked.
"They wouldn't even step inside. One of them said the air felt… wrong."
"And you?" I asked. "Have you broken any rules?"
Her silence was immediate.
Telling.
"I didn't touch it," she said finally. "I swear. I didn't open it. I didn't read anything."
"But," I said.
"But I locked it in Grandpa's cupboard after the funeral," she whispered. "And this morning, it was in my desk. I didn't move it."
Something about the way she said it made my skin prickle.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The rules weren't protecting this room.
They were restraining it.
She moved to the desk and pulled open the drawer slowly, like she was afraid of startling something. From inside, she lifted a cloth-wrapped object and set it on the desk between us.
The cloth was old. Yellowed. Stitched with symbols I didn't recognise. Red thread reinforced every seam.
"What did he do?" I asked. "Your grandfather. Priest? Scholar?"
"He warned people," she said. "That's all anyone ever said."
She unwrapped the cloth.
The book beneath it was thin but heavy, its leather cover cracked with age. Symbols were carved into it—not written. Some were smeared with the same red as the walls.
"He told me to keep it here," she whispered. "Never take it outside. Never read it out loud. And never—"
She stopped.
"—never unwrap it after midnight."
I checked my phone.
2:43 a.m.
She looked down at the bare book.
At the cloth in her hands.
The colour drained from her face.
Something tapped softly against the window.
Once.
I turned.
Nothing moved.
"Harith," she said, her voice cracking. "You solve problems, right? Then tell me what to do."
My name.
In her room.
I'd never told her my name.
The book shifted.
Not fell.
Shifted.
And the chanting started inside the room.