Ahaan took one last look behind him.
The music box in the old room was still playing.
Soft.
Creepy.
It almost sounded like it was whispering his name between the notes.
"Ahaaaan…"
He turned back to the narrow stairs and went down, holding the flashlight tight.
It flickered again.
The air smelled like old metal, wet stone, and… something dead.
Each step felt heavier.
Colder.
The further he went down, the more the walls changed.
First, they were made of stone.
Then… they were made of bones.
Real bones.
Children's bones.
Some of them had little shoes still on.
He almost turned back.
Almost.
But the voice inside him — the one that had been following him since he touched the journal — whispered:
"Keep going, Ahaan. The truth is just ahead."
Finally, he reached the bottom.
There was a heavy metal door.
Scratched all over.
Some scratches looked like they were made with fingernails.
Bloody ones.
Words were written in shaky handwriting across the door:
"DO NOT OPEN. THE SLEEPER ISN'T ASLEEP."
Ahaan's heart thumped.
But he touched the handle anyway.
Because that's what he always did — chase what everyone else was scared of.
The door creaked open.
Inside was a large dark room.
At the center was a circle drawn in chalk on the floor, surrounded by candles.
Inside the circle was a chair.
And on the chair sat a small skeleton, wearing a torn black robe.
Its empty eye sockets looked straight at Ahaan.
Ahaan stepped inside.
The door slammed behind him.
He froze.
Suddenly, whispers filled the room — hundreds of them, all around, all saying the same thing:
"He is waking…
He is waking…
He is waking…"
Ahaan turned the flashlight around the room.
The walls were full of drawings — strange symbols, maps, and faces.
Some of them looked like people he had seen before in dreams.
One drawing showed a boy with black eyes holding a music box.
Another showed a tall shadowy figure with no face, leaning over a crib.
And one picture…
One was a picture of his father.
But not how Ahaan remembered him.
His father was drawn inside the same circle — with his hands bleeding, and the journal at his feet.
Underneath the drawing were the words:
"He opened the door first."
Ahaan stepped closer to the circle.
The chalk began to glow.
The skeleton in the chair twitched.
Then slowly… it turned its head.
And in a dry, dusty voice, it spoke:
"Welcome back… Ahaan."
Ahaan froze.
"You... know me?"
The skeleton smiled.
Cracks spread across its skull.
"You were made here.
Grown in fear.
Fed by stories.
Birthed in whispers."
Suddenly, all the candles blew out.
The room turned black.
Then…
The chalk circle lit up in red.
From the shadows, hands reached out, clawing at the floor.
Ahaan stepped back.
He tripped and fell into the circle.
Everything went silent.
Then, he saw something.
In front of him, standing tall — The Sleeper.
No face.
Just darkness where eyes should be.
It leaned close.
And in a deep, cold voice that sounded like it was coming from inside Ahaan's own skull, it said:
"You brought me back.
You asked for horror…
Now wear it."
Ahaan tried to scream — but no sound came out.
He looked at his hands.
They were melting into shadows.
His skin turned gray.
His eyes felt like fire.
He fell to the ground, clutching the journal.
The pages flew open on their own.
A new line appeared:
"CASE FORTY-ONE: The Sleeper's Mouth."
"Once you taste the void…
It never leaves you."
Suddenly, Ahaan woke up.
He was lying outside the orphanage.
It was morning.
Birds were singing.
No blood.
No bones.
No skeleton.
Only the journal in his hand.
But when he opened it, the drawing from the basement was still there:
His father, bleeding in the circle.
And now… next to it…
A drawing of Ahaan.
In the same circle.
With one red word under it:
"Next."
Story continues...
Story