Chapter 2: The Seventh Guest

Chapter 2: The Seventh Guest

The three thumps echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence of Apartment 5B. They were solid, deliberate, and undeniably came from inside the wardrobe in the bedroom. All attempts at rationalization died on Rohan's lips. You couldn't blame faulty wiring or dying batteries for a knock from within a sealed wooden box.

For a moment, nobody moved. They were a tableau of frozen fear, their phone flashlights casting trembling circles on the floor. Pranav was openly weeping now, quiet, hitching sobs that were somehow louder than any scream.

"Okay," Aman whispered, his voice a strained rasp. The bravado he’d worn like armor all evening was stripped away, leaving only raw nerve. "Okay. That's it." He took a shaky breath, his knuckles white around his phone. "We're all here. All six of us. Whatever's in there... we're going to see what it is."

His words were meant to be brave, but they sounded like a death sentence.

"Aman, no," Sneha pleaded, grabbing his arm. "Let's just go. Please. Let's just leave."

"And what? Let it stay here?" Aman shook his head, a wild look in his eyes. "This is my apartment. I'm not getting run out of my own home by a... a prank." He couldn't bring himself to say the word 'ghost'.

Kunal, ever loyal, squared his shoulders. "I'm with you, man."

Rohan felt a cold certainty settle in his stomach. They couldn't leave it. Not knowing. The logical part of his brain, battered and bruised as it was, needed an answer. The distorted song, the empty bathroom, the fogged mirror—it all felt like a prelude to this moment. The thing in the wardrobe was the source. It had to be.

He followed Aman and Kunal into the bedroom, his feet feeling like lead weights. Zoya and Sneha hung back by the doorway, huddled together, while Pranav stayed glued to the couch, his face buried in his hands.

The wardrobe loomed in the corner, a monolith of dark wood. It looked ancient, far older than the rest of the cheap furniture. Aman positioned himself in front of it, his flashlight beam aimed at the keyhole. Kunal stood beside him, poised to yank the other door open. Rohan stood back a few feet, his own light trained on the doors, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"On three," Aman breathed. "One... two..."

He didn't wait for three. In a burst of adrenaline-fueled desperation, he and Kunal wrenched the doors open. They flew wide with a loud creak, revealing the dark interior.

Nothing.

A few of Aman’s coats hung limply from a metal rail. They swayed gently in the disturbed air, their empty sleeves brushing against each other. The bottom of the wardrobe was bare save for a few dust bunnies. There was no one there. Nothing.

Aman let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh. "See? Nothing. It was... it was the pipes. The pipes in the wall behind it."

The relief was so potent it was dizzying. Rohan felt his shoulders slump, the tension draining out of him in a rush. It was all in their heads. A creepy old building playing tricks on their overactive imaginations. The knock was just an old pipe banging, amplified by the wooden shell of the wardrobe. It had to be.

They stood there for a beat, bathing in the anticlimax, the silence broken only by their own ragged breaths.

And then Rohan saw it.

It wasn’t a loud noise that drew his attention, but a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. A swift, dark motion near the floor. He snapped his flashlight beam down, away from the wardrobe and towards the bed.

For a single, heart-stopping second, his light illuminated a shape. It was not a rat or a cat. It was a dense, concentrated patch of blackness, low to the ground, something vaguely man-shaped but scuttling on all fours with an impossible, insect-like speed. It darted from the edge of the wardrobe and shot under the bed with a dry, skittering sound like dead leaves scraping across concrete.

Rohan’s breath hitched. A scream tried to claw its way up his throat, but it was strangled by pure, undiluted terror. He could only manage a choked gasp. "Under the bed."

His words shattered the fragile relief. Zoya shrieked.

That was it. The breaking point. All pretense of bravery, of logic, of confrontation, vanished. Primal fear took over.

"GO!" Aman screamed, his voice cracking.

There was no orderly exit. It was a stampede. They tripped over each other, a tangle of limbs and panicked cries, shoving their way out of the bedroom. Rohan stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe, his mind replaying the image of that thing—its unnatural speed, its greasy shadow-form.

They fled. Down the creaking, groaning stairs of the derelict building, their footsteps a frantic, pounding drumbeat of terror. They didn't stop to catch their breath, didn't look back. They burst through the heavy lobby door and out into the shocking cold of the night.

They didn't stop until they reached the relative sanctuary of the parking lot, illuminated by the lonely hum of a single, flickering orange streetlight. They huddled together in a tight, shivering circle, gasping for air, chests heaving. The cold air burned Rohan's lungs, but it was real. Tangible. He was out of that apartment. They were all out.

Safe.

He needed to ground himself, to reassert some form of order over the chaos that had consumed them. He did the only logical thing he could think of. He counted. His eyes darted from one terrified face to the next.

Aman, pale and trembling. Kunal, wide-eyed and breathing hard. Sneha, sobbing into Zoya's shoulder. Zoya, staring back towards the building as if she expected something to come crashing out. Pranav, looking completely broken. That was five. And himself. Six. They were all here. Everyone was safe.

His eyes swept the circle again, a subconscious double-check.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Seven.

Rohan froze. His blood ran cold, colder than the night air. He counted again, slower this time, his finger twitching almost imperceptibly with each person. Aman. Kunal. Sneha. Zoya. Pranav. Himself.

And the figure standing just behind Zoya.

It stood partially in the deep shadow cast by the streetlight, but it was there, as solid and real as any of them. It was tall, unnaturally so, but hunched over, its shoulders drawn up to where its ears should be. Its posture was subtly wrong, bent at angles that didn't seem possible for a human spine. It was completely still. Its head was bowed low, and a curtain of long, stringy, oily black hair hung down, completely obscuring its face, the ends brushing against its chest. It wore dark, shapeless clothes that blended with the shadows.

It was just… standing there. Part of their circle. A silent, uninvited member of their panicked group.

Rohan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He wanted to scream, to point, to shove Zoya away from it. But he was paralyzed, pinned in place by a fear so profound it felt like a physical weight. His gaze was locked on the silent, hunched form. The Seventh Guest.

He blinked, a desperate, convulsive motion to clear his eyes, to prove he was hallucinating.

In that fraction of a second, it was gone.

There was no sound, no flash of movement. One moment it was there, a terrifying presence in their midst. The next, the space behind Zoya was empty.

There were only six of them again, shivering under a lone streetlight. But Rohan knew. His horrified gaze met Aman's, and he saw the same dawning, sickening realization in his friend’s eyes.

They hadn't escaped the horror of Apartment 5B.

They had brought it out with them.

Characters

Aman

Aman

Rohan

Rohan

The Seventh Guest

The Seventh Guest