The hostel was no longer just old — it was haunted by absence. Rohit had vanished without a trace, and while the others tried to act normal, silence hung over them like a thick fog.
No one mentioned his name at breakfast. Not even Aryan, who was usually the loudest among them.
Later that day, Vishal and Sameer decided to go back upstairs, determined to prove that Rohit had just run away or was hiding. But something deep inside both of them knew — it wasn't going to be that simple.
They crept up the staircase, each step creaking under their feet. The top floor was exactly how Rohit had left it: empty, cold, and suffocating.
"This is stupid," Sameer whispered. "He's not here."
Vishal walked ahead, reaching out to touch the wall near the last room — the same one that had opened on its own the night before.
The moment his fingers touched the cracked paint, he froze.
A voice — not loud, not clear — but unmistakably real, echoed in his mind.
"Don't touch me…"
Vishal staggered back.
"You heard that?" he asked, but Sameer looked confused. "Heard what?"
"The wall… it just… spoke."
They turned to leave, but the door at the end of the hall slammed shut behind them.
And then… the wall began to breathe.
It moved, pulsing like a heartbeat. Cracks in the paint widened into shapes — almost like eyes. Watching.
Sameer couldn't take it. He screamed and ran toward the stairs — but something grabbed his leg. He fell, hitting the steps hard as he rolled all the way down.
The others came rushing out of their rooms, hearing the crash.
Sameer lay at the base of the staircase, unconscious, a deep gash across his forehead. Vishal stumbled down after him, pale and trembling.
"He's not… he's not okay," he gasped. "The wall… it's alive."
That night, Sameer never woke up.
The doctor said it was "trauma-induced coma." But Aryan saw the bruises on Sameer's ankle — they looked like fingerprints. As if something had held him tight… something that didn't want him to leave.
And so, the count dropped to eight.