After that Ahaan hadn't spoken in two days.
Not a word.
After sealing the orphanage door, something inside him changed.
It wasn't just fear anymore.
It was a feeling of being watched.
Even when he was alone.
Even in his own head.
His uncle noticed.
"You okay?" he asked during breakfast.
Ahaan just nodded.
But deep down, his thoughts screamed:
Don't speak.
It hears you.
Because Ahaan had learned something from the book.
The creature that escaped the door doesn't see with eyes.
It listens.
To secrets.
To thoughts.
That night, Ahaan opened the book again.
He didn't touch it.
It just flipped on its own.
As if it wanted to speak.
A red page appeared, covered in strange writing—almost like it was written in whispers.
But Ahaan could understand it:
CASE NINETEEN: The Secret-Eater
"It escaped the Hollow Door.
It wears no face.
It steals your voice.
It becomes you… when it knows enough."
To survive: Never speak your fears.
Never think alone.
And never answer your own voice.
That last line chilled him:
Never answer your own voice.
What did that mean?
Was it a riddle?
Or… a warning?
He decided to stay quiet.
Only speak when needed.
But the voice in his head—the one that used to warn him—was now different.
It didn't sound like a guide anymore.
It sounded like…
Him.
Only colder.
Smoother.
Like it was trying to become more real.
"You're not strong enough to stop it," it said softly.
"Let me help. I can be you. Better."
Later that night, Ahaan sat in his room.
No lights.
No sound.
Just the ticking of the wall clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Then—
Silence.
The clock had stopped.
And something whispered from the dark:
"Tick…
Tock…
You said too much."
Ahaan froze.
He hadn't spoken a word out loud.
But he had thought about the door.
About the book.
About his fears.
And now… it had found him.
From the corner of the room, a shape began to form.
It didn't walk.
It didn't crawl.
It built itself.
Piece by piece.
From shadows.
From his words.
From the fear inside his chest.
It stood tall, faceless—no eyes, no nose, no lips—just smooth skin, like wax.
And when it opened its mouth, it sounded exactly like Ahaan.
"You don't deserve your voice," it said in his tone.
"You use it to cry.
I will use it to command."
Ahaan ran to the mirror.
Not to look.
To write.
He used his finger to trace on the foggy glass:
You are not me.
The creature stepped closer and whispered again in his voice:
"But I know everything you hide.
I know you still cry for your dad.
I know you blame yourself.
I know your hands shook when you sealed the door."
"Shall I scream your secrets for the world?"
Ahaan shut his eyes tight.
It's feeding, he thought.
Feeding on what I never say out loud.
Suddenly, the book on the bed burned with light.
A message appeared in glowing ink:
To weaken the Secret-Eater:
Say something you've never admitted.
But say it with truth.
Secrets rot in silence.
Ahaan knew what he had to do.
He stood up.
Faced the creature.
And, for the first time in days, spoke aloud:
"I miss my father every single day."
"I'm scared I'm not strong."
"Sometimes I want to run away from all of this."
"But I won't."
The creature hissed like a broken radio.
It shook.
Its voice warped.
Ahaan stepped forward.
Louder:
"I have fear, but it's mine."
"You don't get to wear my face."
"I am Ahaan."
The creature screamed—but no sound came out.
It melted into smoke.
The mirror cracked again.
And the book slammed shut.
Ahaan fell to his knees, breathing hard.
But this time… not in fear.
In power.
Because he realized something.
These horrors didn't just feed on blood.
They fed on silence.
Secrets.
Shame.
But truth?
Truth was louder.
Still, the book gave one final warning before he closed it:
"You have won…
But it still listens.
Be careful what you whisper when you're alone."
Then..