EP4. Episode 4: Room 309
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It was 2:46 a.m.
The entire town of Lakhnagar was drowning in silence. No streetlights worked anymore. The only sound was the unrelenting red rain tapping against windows like cold fingernails begging to come in.
Meanwhile, ACP Arjun Rawat sat in his jeep, drenched in sweat, even though the temperature outside had dropped to 8 degrees. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
What he had seen in the Brijraj Mansion — that face in the mirror — wasn't possible.
Not again.
He took out an old file from the dashboard — the one marked "Sharma Family Case: 1993". There it was.
Room 309.
The number had appeared multiple times in statements and reports from the original fire case. The twins, Aryan and Advik Sharma, were said to have started acting strange weeks before the fire. Drawing symbols on walls. Talking to someone named "Anay". Their diary pages mentioned Room 309 again and again.
But here's the problem.
The Brijraj Mansion didn't have a Room 309.
Arjun couldn't sleep. He drove straight to the Lakhnagar General Hospital — a place that had been partially shut down ever since the incident in the psychiatric wing two weeks ago, where a nurse slit her throat in front of patients during the red rain's first appearance.
He had a hunch.
He entered the back gate. Everything smelled of mold, blood, and disinfectant. The walls were peeling, and the emergency lights flickered weakly. Inside, the hospital was deathly silent.
As he passed Ward 3A, a woman's scream echoed down the hallway. He ran toward it — but found nothing. Only a wheelchair slowly rolling toward him…
with no one pushing it.
And then he saw it — an old rusted sign behind a broken frame.
Room 309 → Sublevel Basement
It wasn't part of the current hospital blueprint. This section was built decades ago — long before the fire at Brijraj Mansion.
Heart pounding, Arjun found the hidden stairwell and descended into the dark.
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The air thickened.
Each step down made the silence louder.
And then the smell hit him.
Rot. Blood. Burnt flesh.
He reached the basement, shining his torch around. The walls were smeared with something dark — handprints again — some small like a child's, others long… twisted… inhuman.
At the end of the corridor, an old metal door stood slightly open, with the number 309 scratched on it in red.
He pushed it open.
The inside wasn't a room.
It was a ritual chamber.
Symbols covered the walls. Candles long melted into the floor. And in the center — an old hospital bed with leather straps, and a video camera pointing toward it.
The room was colder than ice. His breath turned visible. He reached for the camera, clicked play — and the screen blinked to life.
A grainy video showed a child, strapped down. Maybe 10 years old. Crying. Screaming for help.
Doctors in the video surrounded him, speaking something that wasn't Hindi… or any language Arjun had ever heard.
Then suddenly — all at once — the boy stopped moving.
His eyes rolled back. And from his mouth, in a voice that wasn't his own, he whispered:
"The rain is the key. When it falls, the door opens. And Anay walks free."
The screen cut to static.
Arjun staggered back, heart racing.
He turned around — and there, behind him, standing in the doorway… was a little boy in a hospital gown, head tilted, eyes pitch black, blood dripping from his nose.
He spoke softly.
"You shouldn't have come here alone, Arjun."
The door slammed shut.
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