Chapter 1: The Midnight Tenant
The Victorian-style villa sat at the edge of the city, shrouded in a veil of overgrown ivy and thick, morning mist. For Aryan, a struggling novelist looking for a quiet sanctuary, the house was a godsend. The rent was suspiciously low, and the old, dark-wood furniture gave the place a classic, haunting charm.
"You're sure about this place, kid?" the landlord, a man with jittery hands and restless eyes, asked as he handed over the heavy iron key.
"I need the silence," Aryan replied, his voice echoing in the hollow hallway. "The city is too loud for my stories."
By evening, Aryan had moved his desk into the study—a room filled with the smell of old paper and cedar. While rearranging the drawers, he noticed something. A small, silver-handled drawer at the very bottom of the desk was jammed. It wasn't just stuck; it seemed sealed by time itself.
With a sharp pull and the help of a letter opener, the drawer gave way with a loud crack.
Inside, there was no dust. Instead, lay a leather-bound diary, wrapped in a faded blue silk scarf. As Aryan picked it up, a faint scent of jasmine drifted through the air—fresh, as if someone had just placed it there.
He flipped the first page. The handwriting was elegant but shaky, written in dark, blotchy ink.
"To whoever finds this: My name is Ishani. By the time you read this, I will be gone. But he is still here. Do not trust the shadows in this room. He is watching you through the cracks in the walls, just like he watched me."
Aryan's blood ran cold. He looked up, his eyes darting to the corners of the room. The shadows seemed to stretch, creeping toward his feet as the sun began to set.
Suddenly, a soft, rhythmic scratching sound came from inside the wall behind him. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Aryan grabbed his phone to call the landlord, but his screen flickered violently. A notification popped up from an unknown number. It was a single sentence:
"You shouldn't have opened the drawer, Aryan."