The realization struck him—not like lightning, swift and blinding, but like a slow, creeping frost that moved through his veins, chilling everything in its path. It wasn't a sudden thought. It was a dawning, an unfolding awareness that settled into his bones with the weight of dread.
The novel.
The memory of it uncoiled in his mind like a long-forgotten whisper returning to haunt him. Paragraphs flickered behind his eyes—disconnected fragments, eerie descriptions, and that unmistakable image: the shadow with the red eyes. It hadn't felt this creepy when he read it. It was just a shadow then.
But now…
Now it loomed larger in his mind than anything else. The shadow. The way it stood motionless, cloaked in darkness deeper than night. The glowing, red eyes that watched without blinking. And the feeling—that oppressive, suffocating presence that didn't need to move or speak to be terrifying.
The parallel was undeniable.
And if the story continued to match his reality… it meant this was only the beginning.
A slow breath rattled from his lips. The air felt heavier now, harder to draw in fully. The weight of what he was thinking—what he was beginning to accept—pressed against his chest like a hand made of stone.
It had appeared sooner than he expected.
That thought stuck with him, looping like an unfinished sentence.
Because in the story—yes, the shadow had shown itself. It had appeared, hovered, unnerved. But it had never… acted. It hadn't harmed anyone. Not yet.
It was like a symbol. A warning. A presence meant to signal something greater looming on the horizon. Something inevitable.
Still, the fact that it was mirroring his world left no room for complacency.
His heart was beating faster again, this time not just out of fear, but out of urgency. He couldn't sit still. He couldn't pretend this was just another vivid nightmare, or some twisted trick of the light. Because it was not the first time the novel had predicted the future, but this time what haunted Mansh was that the Shadow had appeared sooner than it was supposed to.
And then, like a flare shot up into the sky, one thought blazed to the forefront of his mind:
Ankhush.
His friend.
His best friend.
The only other person who had been reading the same novel. Who had been just as engrossed. Just as unsettled.
And now—he was lying in a hospital bed. Recovering from that accident. The fall. That strange, unexplained fall that no one had seen coming.
Mansh's breath caught again—not from terror this time, but from guilt.
He hadn't visited today. Not since the first day after it happened. School, homework, his own exhaustion—those were the excuses he had told himself. But none of it mattered now.
He didn't know if Ankhush was awake. He didn't know if his friend could even speak yet.
But none of that changed what he had to do.
He had to try.
He had to tell him about the early appearance of the Shadow.
With trembling fingers, Mansh reached for his phone, still lying beside him on the floor where he had set it down earlier after his mom left. His hand closed around it unsteadily. The screen lit up as he pressed the power button, momentarily flooding his face with pale blue light.
He swallowed hard. His thumb hovered over the screen, then tapped on the contacts icon. He scrolled quickly, his finger dragging slightly slower than it should have—his nerves refusing to cooperate fully.
There it was.
Ankhush.
He tapped the name.
The dial tone rang in his ear.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Each ring felt longer than the last. The silence between them seemed to stretch, amplifying the ticking of the wall clock, the distant clatter from the kitchen, the faint hum of electronics in the room.
Four rings.
Still nothing.
His thumb hovered over the screen, his muscles stiff with indecision. He could hang up. Try again later. But no—he let it continue.
Five rings.
No answer.
The call ended with a quiet beep, the screen returning to the contact page, as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
He stared at the screen, his expression tightening, jaw clenched, breath shallow.
Something had happened—and he was certain now, more than ever, that the story wasn't staying in the pages anymore.
It was unfolding—word by word, shadow by shadow—right here, in the real world.
It was actualy normal for him but–
it is earlyer then it should.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry, lips pressed into a tight line that trembled faintly at the corners. His eyes didn't move from the phone screen, still glowing faintly in the dim light of the room. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard—hard enough to sting. The coppery taste of blood spread across his tongue, sharp and grounding.
Frustration stirred low in his gut, coiling like something alive. He hated this waiting—this helpless, useless silence that followed the unanswered call.
'I expected this,' he thought, jaw clenching as the bitter truth solidified. 'He's probably still sedated… or resting. Of course he didn't pick up.'
Still, the silence on the other end had shaken him more than he wanted to admit.
His thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer, reluctant to move. A part of him wanted to redial—just to hear the ringing again, to do something. But he didn't press the button. Instead, slowly, he lowered the phone into his lap, his fingers unsteady as they released it.
The screen dimmed, and in its absence, he was left staring at his own faint reflection in the black glass. Wide eyes. Pale face. Hair disheveled. He barely recognized himself.
The seconds passed—long, unhurried seconds—and for a moment, he didn't move.
He just breathed.
Shallow. Uneven.
His shoulders rose and fell with each inhale, but his gaze had turned inward now, away from the phone and the screen and the world. The fear hadn't faded—it had simply curled deeper into his chest, quieter now, but heavier.
And then, like the tightening of a thread, something clicked into place.
A decision.
It crystallized inside him—not loud or dramatic, but quiet, certain, inevitable.
He couldn't sit here and wait. Not for another call. Not for a message. Not for someone else to act.
No more waiting.
He had to go.
He had to see Ankhush—face to face. Whether or not his friend was awake, whether or not he could even respond, he needed to be there.
They were in this together. Whatever this was—this nightmare bleeding into the real world, this impossible, terrifying connection to a novel that should have been just fiction—they had to face it side by side.
Mansh inhaled deeply, slower this time. A breath of resolve.
Then, with quiet effort, he pushed himself off the floor. His legs ached from sitting so long in one position, but he ignored the discomfort.
He stood upright, spine straightening with purpose. His gaze shifted across the room, already scanning.
He needed his keys.
His hand twitched at his side, already anticipating the next movement. His mind raced ahead, making mental notes—shoes, wallet, jacket. But none of it could start until he found the keys.
They had to be here somewhere.
And the moment he stepped away from the spot where he'd been sitting, the silence of the room shifted once more.
Mansh moved with the deliberate tension of someone walking a tightrope. He didn't rush—couldn't rush. Every step, every breath felt like it demanded focus, as if the very air in his room had turned heavier, weighed down by the lingering presence of something unseen.
He began at his desk. The surface was a scattered battlefield of schoolbooks, half-open notebooks, tangled earphones, and the faint smudges left behind by hurried late-night scribbles. With one hand, he began lifting items one by one, checking beneath them as if his keys might be hiding in the cracks of his routine.
A textbook thudded gently onto the floor as he set it aside. Then another. He opened the drawer beneath, pulling it out slowly—its motion stiff and scratchy from years of disuse. Inside, a chaotic nest of receipts, pens with dried-out ink, crumpled paper bits, and a long-forgotten battery greeted him. He sifted through it with the tips of his fingers, moving things more gently than the frustration inside him wanted. No keys.
He moved to the bedside table next. Kneeling down, he opened the drawer and was hit with the familiar scent of worn wood and dust. Inside were stray coins, a tangled phone charger that hadn't been used in months, and the kind of miscellaneous items that quietly gathered over time—rubber bands, the torn-off tag of an old T-shirt, a broken wristwatch. He rummaged through the pile, his breathing shallow, his lips pursed. Still nothing.
A quiet exhale left him as he sat back on his heels. For a moment, he stared into the half-open drawer like it might suddenly offer up what he needed if only he looked long enough.
Then, with a frustrated grunt, he rose. The motion was stiff, his knees creaking slightly from having knelt too long on the hard floor. He turned to the bed, yanked his pillow aside with one swift motion, then tugged back the blanket and checked beneath it as well. It was a long shot, and he knew it—but desperation didn't care much for logic.
Still no sign of the keys.
The quiet frustration that had been building now simmered at the edges of his patience. His movements grew sharper, his fingers twitchier. Each empty search spot felt like a deliberate insult from the universe. He let out a harsh sigh—louder than necessary—and straightened with a kind of finality.
He stalked toward the door, his footsteps now heavier, more urgent. As he descended the stairs, his frustration propelled him forward. He skipped the last two steps entirely, landing with a dull thud on the floor below.
The house smelled different here. The kitchen was already awake and alive, even though the morning sun hadn't yet claimed the walls. The rich scent of simmering spices hung in the air, sharp and familiar, clinging to the walls like a second skin.
His mother stood at the stove, her back to him, stirring something in a steel pot with slow, rhythmic strokes. Her hair was pulled back into a loose, practical bun, strands of it swaying gently each time she moved. The light from the window caught the silver in her hair, and the steam rising from the pot wrapped around her like a veil.
The normalcy of it all—the quiet clatter of the spoon, the soft hum of the exhaust fan, the muted sizzle from the pan beside her—felt jarring. It was as if two separate realities were trying to overlap, and his mind couldn't reconcile them.
He stood there for a second longer, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast, as if the search upstairs had demanded more from him than it should have. Then, finally, he stepped into the kitchen.
*****
A/N: i have increaced the word count for this one but dont expect me to do the same with others.
sace this book.
vote this book.
let me know your thoughts by commenting.