Mike was a quiet, disciplined 15-year-old. He didn't talk much—preferred sketching imagination and ruins in his notebook over chatting with classmates. After something terrible happened in their hometown of Pune—a tragic event no one ever discussed—Mike’s mother decided they needed to start over.
They moved to Devgaon, a small hill town in Himachal Pradesh known for its temples, fog, and tales of vanished families.
Their new house stood near the edge of the town, tucked between mossy deodars. It was old, creaky, and cold. Its doors groaned, and the windows looked like empty eyes staring into the forest.
Even the property agent had seemed nervous, handing over the keys with a hurried “Everything will be fine...... Just stay inside the house as soon as the temple bell rings.”
It had only been a few hours since they moved in, but Mike felt like the place recognized him. The smell from the attic—burnt paper, incense, and old wood—was strangely familiar. Like home.
That night, he had a dream.
He saw himself—a younger version—sitting in that very attic, trying to scream through the fog in a mirror. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Mike enrolled in Sri Vidya Public School, a small institution with dusty corridors and iron-grilled windows. He thought things might finally be normal again.
Until someone slipped a note into his desk:
“You shouldn’t be here again.”
Later, he noticed something carved into the underside of his wooden desk, written in his own messy Devanagari:
“Don’t trust the mirrors.”
That evening, his mother made his favorite childhood dish: rajma chawal with mango pickle and fried papad.
The aroma of the simmering rajma, thick with garlic and hing, brought tears to his eyes.
He sat at the dining table and took the first bite.
Instantly, a memory slammed into him like a speeding truck.
The same plate. The same papad crumbling in his hands.
A woman sitting across from him—not this version of his mother, but a softer, kind-eyed version.
Then he heard the door creaking open behind her and a scream from the attic.
He dropped his spoon.
“I’ve had this dinner before, I have been here before” he whispered.
His mother froze. Then her tone hardened.
“Don't start all this again, Mike," she snapped. "Can't you ever keep quiet?"
Mike stared at her, his heart thudding. Had he really been here before?
Later that night, in the bathroom, he caught his reflection lagging behind.
The mirror version of him looked terrified and mouthed:
“You’ve come back. Run.”
When his mother left for the local market the next day, Mike took the chance to explore the house in silence. Something in his bones told him the answers were hidden here—somewhere behind the peeling walls and creaky floorboards.
As he tapped along the kitchen wall, he heard a hollow thud. Curious, he pried off a loose panel and discovered a small, dusty crawlspace.
Inside was a forgotten storeroom, untouched by time.
There were old toys, faded and broken, scattered across the floor. A rusted steel tiffin box sat in one corner, its lid barely hanging on. A tiny study desk, marked with crayon scribbles, stood against the wall—one of the legs slightly shorter than the others, causing it to wobble. On top of the desk was a family photograph, yellowed with age.
Mike's heart stopped when he looked closer.
The photo was of him—a younger version, smiling shyly. Beside him stood a woman, but her face had been circled in red ink, over and over again, until it almost tore through the photo.
And then he saw it.
A small handmade diary, wrapped tightly in red thread, like a warning… or a seal.
With trembling fingers, Mike opened it. On the very first page, written in his own handwriting, were the words:
“This house eats memories. It made you forget. I am your past. I remember for you.”
As the words settled in his mind, something inside him stirred.
The past wasn’t gone. It had been waiting...
Suddenly, memories flooded Mike’s mind like a violent monsoon downpour—relentless and overwhelming.
He had lived in this house before. Not just visited, not imagined. He had grown up here, played on these same cracked tiles, and scribbled on these very walls as a child. The scent of damp wood, the hum of the attic, the chill in the air—they weren’t unfamiliar. They were part of him. The house hadn’t just welcomed him—it had known him.
He remembered the protective yantras he had once drawn, years ago, in chalk and turmeric beneath the wooden floorboards. His hands, still small then, had trembled as he traced ancient symbols he didn’t fully understand—symbols his real mother had whispered to him, urging him to stay quiet, to draw fast, to believe. Those yantras were meant to trap something evil inside the house—something they could not defeat, only seal.
And then came the most painful memory of all—so sharp it felt like his chest might cave in.
His real mother had died in this house, trying to protect him.
He saw her face now—soft, kind, with a red bindi and gentle eyes filled with fear but fierce love. She had stood between him and the darkness that crept from the attic, chanting until her voice gave out. She had made him run, whispering his name like a prayer. She had not survived.
The woman who had moved here with him... who cooked his food, smiled too perfectly, and avoided questions...
Was not her.
It had never been her.
What lived with him now was something else—something born from the house itself. A mask. A mimic. A memory twisted into flesh and lies.
And now, the house wanted him too.
But this time, he remembered.
This time, he would fight.
That night, he asked softly over dinner, “Mom, we have come here before, right?”
She smiled—a too-wide smile that cracked her skin. Her voice distorted into a deep rasp.
“You never left, son.”
The Past guided him.
In the attic, he pried open the loose floorboards, revealing faded chalk sigils—yantras painstakingly traced with haldi and ash. Kneeling, he redrew the ancient symbols with fresh lines, whispering chants lifted from the red-threaded diary, the words twisting his tongue and filling the air with an eerie cadence.
The fake mother’s scream tore through the house, shrill and desperate, as the walls trembled violently and the windows shattered, glass raining down like shards of memory. But sigils alone would not end this nightmare.
He reached for a battered can of kerosene stored beneath the eaves, its rusty spout cold and unforgiving in his hand. Pouring the flammable liquid across the floorboards and around the sigils, the sharp, chemical stench mingled with the dust and decay.
With trembling fingers, he struck a match, the tiny flame flickering against the choking darkness. The fire caught quickly, licking eagerly at the kerosene-soaked wood, swallowing the floorboards, crawling upwards along the walls, devouring the peeling wallpaper and ancient dust in a roaring blaze.
The house screamed with the rage of a thousand forgotten memories, timbers cracking and splintering, the fake mother’s tortured wails blending with the roar of flames. Heat pressed against his skin, sweat mingling with tears as he stood firm, chanting the final incantations.
As the fire consumed the past, the twisted presence began to unravel, its hold weakening, dissolving into smoke and ash.
When dawn broke, the house was a smouldering ruin—charred beams jutting into the sky, ashes scattered like forgotten dreams. And in that destruction, he found a sliver of peace, knowing he had finally severed the chains that bound him to the ghostly nightmare.
Mike woke up with a jolt.
The room around him was unfamiliar. Too clean. Too sterile. Sunlight poured through white curtains. The bed was soft, the air lightly perfumed with lavender. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall. His phone buzzed beside him with school notifications from a city he didn’t recognize.
There was no dust. No creaking. No cold.
A new apartment. A new city. A new beginning.
He got out of bed slowly, heart pounding. A voice called from the kitchen—warm, cheerful, almost musical.
“Mike! Breakfast is ready, sweetheart!”
He walked out to the dining area, and there she was: a woman in a cotton kurta, smiling brightly over a plate of warm aloo paratha and achar. She looked perfect.
Too perfect.
She handed him his schoolbag with a loving pat on the head.
Mike hesitated.
Back in his room, he unzipped the bag, and his blood ran cold.
Inside, nestled between notebooks and textbooks, was the same handmade diary, wrapped in red thread, worn at the edges, humming with memory.
Hands trembling, he opened it.
On the first page, the words glared back at him:
“I remember for you.”
He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry.
He simply closed the book, eyes steely, jaw tight.
The Past had followed him again.
But this time?
He remembered too.
And this time, he wasn’t going to run.
He was going to end it.
React
