The city had worn Arun down.
Day after day, the same crowded buses, the same honking horns, the same suffocating apartment where the walls pressed too close. He wasn't poor, not exactly, but he was restless. He wanted silence, air, a place where he could finally hear himself think.
When the advertisement appeared—Old estate for rent, large property, cheap, immediate possession—he thought it a prank. But curiosity led him to call, and a dry voice on the other end gave him an address.
The house stood at the very edge of the forest, a hulking silhouette of stone and timber. The trees pressed close, their branches knitted together like skeletal fingers clawing toward the roof.
Mr. Varma, the landlord, waited by the gate. A tall, narrow man wrapped in a dark coat despite the summer heat, he carried himself like someone who hadn't slept in years. His eyes barely touched Arun's face, skittering instead toward the treeline, toward the house, as though afraid to look too long.
"You'll find it quiet here," Varma said. His voice was smooth, but carried something brittle beneath. "That is… if you can bear quiet."
Arun laughed. "Quiet is exactly what I need."
The landlord didn't smile. His hands trembled slightly as he produced the keys—long iron things, heavier than Arun expected. "The place has been empty for… some time. If you hear anything unusual, don't answer back."
Arun frowned. "Excuse me?"
But Varma had already pressed the keys into his hand. "If you wish to leave, do so before the seventh night." His voice dropped lower. "After that, the house decides."
Before Arun could question him further, Varma turned and walked briskly down the forest road, coat trailing like a shadow.
Arun stood at the gate, the keys heavy and cold in his palm. The house loomed before him, its windows black, its roof steep and sharp against the sky. For the first time, he felt something he couldn't quite name—anticipation, unease, maybe both.
He unlocked the door.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of earth and damp stone. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps. A staircase climbed into shadows above, and long halls stretched into darkness.
It was quiet. Not the city's kind of quiet, but something heavier. A hush. The kind of silence that pressed on the ears, as though the walls were listening.
Arun exhaled, shaking off the chill.
It was just an old house.
And yet… as he set down his bag and closed the door behind him, he thought he heard something.
A whisper.
Soft. Wet.
So faint it could have been his imagination.
Still, it curled through the silence, carrying a word that made the hair rise on his neck:
"Arun…"