A road trip to the Himachal hills was all Vikram and his friends wanted for a perfect weekend and a perfect escape from their 9 to 5 jail. But who knew that their jail was far better than the prison they were going to enter?
What begins as a search for help quickly turns into a horrible nightmare. There’s no way out. And the house isn’t going to leave them too…
The Road Trip
It started like any other impulsive college plan—half-baked, overconfident, and fueled by youthful excitement.
Kabir’s rugged SUV cut through the chaos of Delhi traffic as the five friends headed north into Himachal Pradesh. The playlist blasted through the speakers, and for a while, everything felt perfect.
“This is the break we needed!” Kabir shouted, gripping the wheel with a devil-may-care grin.
“Until we lose network and have to communicate like cave people.” Meera replied, rolling her eyes. The weight of her DSLR camera pressed against her chest as she scrolled through her phone one last time.
Rhea sat in the front seat, staring at the winding roads and towering pine trees. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater—a nervous habit.
In the backseat, Pia sketched the passing trees, her pencil strokes fast and sharp. Arjun, the tech geek, sat beside her, his smartwatch flashing NO SIGNAL repeatedly.
Hours passed, and the forest grew denser. The setting sun turned the sky orange and purple. As the party proceeded higher into the mountains, it grew colder and foggier.
Then—THUD!
The SUV jolted violently. The engine spluttered, hacked, and failed
“Are you kidding me?” Kabir muttered, stepping out to inspect the damage. “The axle’s cracked. We’re stuck.”
The forest pressed in around them, shadows creeping as twilight faded into night.
“Up there is a house…” said Rhea softly, pointing through the mist. Just on a nearby hill stood an old colonial bungalow silhouetted by faint moonlight.
“Looks ancient!” Meera said, squinting at it.
“Definitely better than sleeping in the car,” Kabir sighed.
The five friends made their way towards the house with their backpacks on their shoulders. Kabir opened the rusty iron gates which groaned.
The bungalow looked down upon them; the cracked windows reflected the moonlight as predator’s eyes.
The Unsettling Welcome
Kabir knocked heavily on the door, which slowly creaked open to reveal a flickering glow of candles lighting the inside.
In the doorway stood a greying middle-aged woman clad in an old and faded cotton saree, critically sharp, yet welcoming.
“Welcome to you all, children,” she said in remarkably soothing tones.
“I’m Aparna, the caretaker. You must be tired. Come in.”
Standing behind her was Vikram—a wiry man with hollow cheeks and piercing eyes. His smile was a bit edged like the edge of a sword.
“You should count yourself lucky for coming before the storm,” Aparna said and continued smiling.
The friends stepped into the bungalow’s grand hall. The place felt frozen in time—dusty velvet curtains faded family portraits, and intricate wooden furniture that looked older than the house itself.
Aparna led them to their rooms, each one dimly lit by a single candle.
Later, they met Ishaan—a deaf and mute young man who moved through the shadows like a ghost. His large, unblinking eyes studied each of them carefully.
“Why is he staring?” Pia whispered to Meera as Ishaan disappeared into the hallway.
“He’s harmless,” Meera said, though her voice trembled slightly.
The group gathered in the drawing room after dinner. Aparna stood by the doorway, her figure half-hidden in shadow.
“Do not wander around at night,” she said softly. “This house has… secrets.”
The flickering candlelight made her shadow dance along the cracked walls before she disappeared into the darkness.
But secrets, as they soon discovered, refuse to stay hidden.
The Disappearance
Morning arrived with a chilling silence.
Pia was missing.
Her bed was untouched, her sketchpad lay abandoned on the floor, and faint smudges of red trailed across the doorframe.
“She wouldn’t just leave,” Rhea said, clutching Pia’s sketchpad to her chest.
Vikram appeared in the doorway, his cold smile carved into his face. “Perhaps she went for a morning walk. These hills are… unpredictable.”
But his words felt hollow.
The group searched the house, their voices echoing down empty hallways. Meera noticed faint scratches etched into the wooden staircase as if someone had been dragged against their will.
Kabir tried breaking open a locked door where they had seen blood trailing underneath, but Vikram appeared again, his smile now replaced by something darker.
“Some doors must remain locked,” he said, his voice low.
That evening, Ishaan appeared in the hallway, his trembling hands slipping a crumpled piece of paper into Meera’s palm.
It read: “You are in danger. Leave!”
Before they could react, the front doors slammed shut. Heavy locks clicked into place.
Aparna and Vikram emerged from the shadows.
“No one leaves,” Aparna said softly, her voice filled with something that felt like satisfaction.
The Hunt Begins
The horrifying truth unraveled: the bungalow wasn’t a refuge—it was a trap.
Aparna and Vikram weren’t caretakers—they were hunters. Every room, every hallway, every door was part of their twisted game. The house was a labyrinth designed to confuse, isolate, and break its victims.
And Ishaan? He was their pawn. Forced into silence and obedience, he was the predator they had trained—silent, efficient, and deadly.
Chaos erupted in the bungalow. Rhea and Arjun raced to the basement, hoping to find tools or a way out, the air thick with fear. Each step down felt like it took them deeper into the darkness.
Meera climbed the stairs, her mind frantic as she searched the attic for an escape. The house seemed to grow colder, its silent corners whispering danger as she stepped into the shadowed space.
Kabir stayed behind, his hands moving quickly to set makeshift traps. The sound of footsteps grew closer, but he focused, knowing these moments could mean the difference between life and death for his friends.
In the basement, Rhea and Arjun found dusty journals and old photographs. The truth was more horrifying than they imagined: The house once belonged to a sadistic British officer who hunted humans for sport. Aparna and Vikram were his descendants, continuing the gruesome legacy.
But hidden among the records was another truth—Ishaan had once been a victim. Orphaned, tortured, and brainwashed into becoming their enforcer.
When Ishaan cornered Rhea and Arjun in the basement, knife in hand, Rhea thrust the journal towards him.
“This isn’t you,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”
For a moment, Ishaan froze. His eyes flickered with something—recognition? Pain?
He dropped the knife and handed Rhea a brass key. Then, in silence, he pointed toward the front door.
The Final Confrontation
The group regrouped in the grand hall, but Aparna and Vikram were waiting.
A brutal confrontation followed.
A brutal confrontation followed. Kabir tackled Vikram with all his strength, and they crashed into a glass cabinet, shattering it into pieces. The two men struggled fiercely, fighting for dominance amidst the chaos.
Meera, injured but determined, fought Aparna with a shard of glass. As they clashed, the sharp edge sliced deep into Meera’s side, but she pressed on, refusing to back down despite the pain.
In the basement, Arjun worked frantically at the control panel, his fingers flying over the buttons. With a tense moment of suspense, the electrical locks gave way, offering a brief escape, but he knew it wouldn’t hold long.
Above them, Ishaan watched, his eyes filled with quiet resolve.
“Run!” he signed desperately to Rhea.
With trembling hands, Rhea used the brass key to unlock the front door. The group stumbled into the freezing night, gasping for breath.
Behind them, the bungalow stood silent, its windows like empty eyes watching them flee.
A single gunshot echoed from within.
Rhea froze, staring back at the silhouette of the house. But there was nothing—just darkness.
[A few days later…]
Back in Delhi, Rhea sat alone in her apartment, clutching Pia’s sketchpad. The police had dismissed their story. No such bungalow existed in official records.
Late one night, a package arrived at her door.
Inside was a blood-stained sketch of the bungalow. Below it were scribbled words:
“You think you escaped?”
A faint knock echoed through her apartment.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound grew louder.
Rhea’s breath hitched as she backed away from the door.
[Blackout]
