Chapter 10: The New Host
Chapter 10: The New Host
The face under the bed was Pranav’s, but the smile was not. It was a serene, vacant expression of utter tranquility, the look of a man who had been hollowed out and filled with something else entirely. As he beckoned, a voice slipped into Rohan’s mind, not through his ears, but directly into his thoughts. It was Pranav’s voice, yet it was calm and smooth, stripped of all the panicked energy Rohan had known.
We saved you a seat, Rohan. It’s still warm.
The space beneath the bed seemed to ripple, the shadows there deepening from mere blackness into a physical, churning void. The shadow that had scuttled away that first night, the greasy man-shape that had haunted his nightmares, now flowed out from under the bedframe. It was not a single shape this time. It was a tide of darkness that rose and coalesced, unfurling itself into a standing form.
Rohan’s breath hitched, a dry, useless sound in his throat. This was the Seventh Guest. The entity. The thing that had hunted them all. And it was wearing his friends.
It was a walking, breathing tomb, a horrific amalgam of the people he loved. Its towering form had Aman’s broad shoulders, but they slumped with an unnatural posture. It tilted its head, revealing a face that was a shifting collage of stolen features. He saw Zoya’s wide, artistic eyes, now locked in a state of eternal, placid horror. The line of Kunal’s jaw was there, but from it spilled not a beard, but a cascade of the same thick, oily black hair he’d vomited into the toilet. Sneha’s mouth, once so quick to laugh, opened and closed silently, a voiceless, repeating scream. And stretched across this nightmare mosaic was Aman’s confident, welcoming smile, now twisted into a predatory sneer of absolute ownership.
It was all of them, and none of them. They were the flesh of this new, composite being.
A voice emanated from it, a sound that was at once a chorus and a whisper, the layered voices of his dead friends speaking in horrifying unison.
“We told you,” the chorus-voice sighed, a sound like wind through a graveyard. “It’s not just in the apartment.”
Aman’s smile widened on the monstrous face. “It’s in us.”
Zoya’s eyes blinked slowly. “Now we are in it.”
The truth crashed down on Rohan with the force of a physical blow. You couldn’t save people who had become the monster’s building blocks. They weren’t prisoners; they were parts. Integrated. Consumed. The entity didn’t just kill. It assimilated.
Absolute despair was a surprisingly clear state of mind. All the frantic hope, the desperate need for survival, burned away, leaving behind a single, cold, hard ember of rage. He was going to die here. He was going to be absorbed into that… thing. He was going to become another feature on its face, another voice in its chorus. But he would not go peacefully. He would not smile like Pranav as he was led to the slaughter. He would break something. He would leave a scar.
His wild eyes darted around the room, searching for a weapon, for anything. The swaying coats in the wardrobe. The weeping walls. The smiling, beckoning face of Pranav, still lying peacefully under the bed. There was nothing to fight. How do you punch a shadow?
Then he remembered. The symbol. The invitation. The source.
The seventh mug.
With a raw, animal cry, Rohan launched himself out of the bedroom. He didn't run. He charged. The air instantly grew thick and heavy, resisting him, like he was wading through the same brackish water he had coughed up for days. The entity didn’t pursue with speed; it simply flowed into the hallway behind him, a wave of darkness and memory that sucked the heat from the air. The whispering song that permeated the apartment swelled, the distorted melody climbing in pitch until it was a deafening, discordant roar inside his skull.
He burst into the living room, his gaze locking onto his target. There, on the coffee table, amidst the shattered remains of the other six, sat the pristine white mug. It was an island of order in the chaos, an altar to his doom.
He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the smooth ceramic. It was cold, unnervingly so, with the deep, final chill of bone.
The amalgam-creature filled the doorway behind him, its composite face a mask of placid amusement. “You can’t refuse an invitation you’ve already accepted, Rohan,” it whispered, and this time the voice was almost entirely Sneha’s, a chillingly sweet, mocking tone.
“Watch me,” Rohan snarled through clenched teeth.
With a final, guttural scream born of grief and fury and a sliver of mad hope, he hurled the mug with all his strength against the weeping brick wall.
It shattered with a sharp, definitive crack, like a skull breaking.
The result was instantaneous. The creature shrieked. It was not the layered chorus of his friends, but a singular, piercing wail of pure agony, a sound so high-pitched and alien it felt like it was tearing the air apart. The monstrous form recoiled violently, flickering like a faulty projection. Its features dissolved into a vortex of screaming shadow. The black substance bleeding from the walls hissed like water on a hot pan and retreated into the mortar, leaving behind dry, clean brick.
Rohan stood panting in the sudden, ringing silence, the creature’s shriek echoing in his ears. He had done it. He had found its vulnerability. The mug wasn't just a symbol; it was a phylactery, a vessel for its connection to this place. He had broken it. He had broken the curse. A wild, euphoric laugh bubbled up from his chest. He had won. He had avenged them.
The silence stretched for a full, glorious second.
Then, a low chuckle echoed through the room. It was a soft, gentle sound, layered with the voices of his friends, but this time it held no malice, only a deep and ancient amusement.
Rohan’s victorious laugh died in his throat. He turned slowly back to the coffee table.
Where only scattered fragments had lain moments ago, the seventh mug now sat.
It was whole again. Pristine. White. Not a copy, not a replacement. It was the same mug, perfectly and impossibly restored. A thin, delicate wisp of steam curled up from its lip, carrying the faint, sweet scent of warm milk and honey. The drink was ready.
The entity flowed back into the room. Its form was stable again, the faces of his friends locked back into their serene, horrific places. It glided towards him, its movements now smooth and inexorable.
“Silly boy,” it whispered, and this time the voice was Zoya’s, full of an artist’s pity for a subject that could not grasp the bigger picture. “You can’t break the cup.”
Its shadowy tendrils, smelling of rust and rot and the grave, reached for him.
“You are the cup.”
Rohan opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The darkness enveloped him.
Time passed. An hour, or a year. The sun, which had been a pale promise on the horizon, now streamed brightly through the large windows of Apartment 5B, illuminating the dancing dust motes in the still air. The apartment was no longer a wreck. It was clean, tidy, almost welcoming. The furniture was neatly arranged. The walls were dry.
At the coffee table, Rohan sat perfectly still.
His clothes were clean. His face, once pale and haggard, was calm. His eyes, once wide with a terror that had hollowed him out, were now empty, serene pools, staring at nothing. A gentle, placid smile graced his lips, the exact same smile Pranav had worn under the bed. The vacant smile of one who has finally come home.
The song played softly, not from a phone, but from the air itself. The distortion was gone. It was a sweet, cheerful pop melody, an easy-listening tune perfect for a quiet afternoon.
Arranged on the table in a neat, perfect circle were seven mugs. Six were the bright, cheerful colors his friends had chosen. The seventh, stark white, sat directly in front of Rohan. He sat, and he waited. A gracious, patient host.
He waited for the sound of new laughter from the hallway. He waited for the tell-tale jingle of keys, for the turning of a lock. He waited for the next guests to arrive, eager to make them feel welcome. Eager to save them a seat.
Characters

Aman

Rohan
