As we left Diljeet's house at first light, the chilly morning air cut our faces. The only sounds in the half-asleep city were our footsteps and the occasional rickshaw. The streets were slippery with dew. Each of us had a tiny bag filled with things that had previously saved us, such as rope, flashlights, and blessed talismans. Nobody said anything. Words seemed heavy, as though sound itself was afraid of what was to come.
In the orange light of dawn, Lahore Railway Station towered. Pigeons were strewn all over the rafters, steam erupted from motors, and porters yelled. The chilly air was filled with diesel, coal smoke, and fried parathas. The Karakoram Express hissed like a restless snake down the platform.
Long and melancholy, the whistle blasted. Diljeet nodded as I looked him in the eye. We got on board. A slight tremor, similar to a heartbeat, shot up my thigh as soon as my foot hit the metal stair. The train was aware of our destination and disapproved.
The container was dark inside, with fogged windows and faintly flashing lights. In the corners, shadows gathered. We sat together, five buddies united by destiny and things the world would rather forget. A woman clutching her shawl, a man whispering prayers, and beads slipping through shaky fingers were among the other passengers who waited in uncomfortable quiet.
The train jerked ahead. The whistle sounded like a cry from a different planet, as though Lahore itself let go of us.
The city quickly vanished into farms and mist. However, the outside light faded and became muffled by gray. The sky was metallic, and the trees appeared skeletal. The weight of the air increased, pressing on our chests.
"Do you sense it?" Peter muttered.
Yes, I did. a presence. observing.
Then there were footsteps, slow, deliberate, and not in time with the train. I pivoted. The hallway was deserted. The lights wavered. The noise ceased.
The conversation ended abruptly. Every time we spoke, the carriage moaned as though it didn't like our voices. Where they shouldn't have, shadows moved. I saw reflections of faces that weren't our own in the glass.
A infant let forth a piercing, loud cry. Its mother attempted to quiet it. My blood turned cold when her soulless eyes met mine, like though her soul had already departed.
"Just nerves," Amit said.
Peter tensed up. "Go outside."
The fields had vanished, leaving only uneven, gloomy land that resembled abandoned graves. And there it was, watching the train, tall, slender, and ash-pale. As we went by, its eyes followed us with a dim, unblinking radiance.
The train gave a sharp jolt. The lights went off. We were crushed by silence—no breath, no engine. Then everything roared back, and the dull, reddish lights came back. Nobody said anything. Their expressionless expressions indicated that they had anticipated this.
Peter muttered, "We're not even in the valley yet." "So, how is it getting to us?"
Trees twisted like claws outside. The sky darkened with bruises. Along the tracks, sparks erupted. I once noticed a figure at the end of the hallway. I blinked, and it disappeared.
"Don't discuss it," Diljeet said.
By noon, the windows were rimmed with frost. The infant did not say anything. The mother sat motionless.
Then there was a knock, coming from close to the engine. Take your time. hollow. similar to hands on a coffin lid.
In response, the whistle let out a scream.
Ahead, vast, dark mountains rose. The paths curled into the ancient, silent, cursed Kailash Valley.
At that moment, I realized that we were more than just five traveling pals. We had already been joined by something invisible.
There was something waiting.