The bus dropped me at the edge of the village just as the first crack of thunder split the sky.
Rain came down in silver sheets, blurring the crooked outlines of huts and bending trees into hunched silhouettes. The driver didn't wait for me to grab my second bag before he shut the door. As the bus pulled away, its red taillights dissolved into the storm, leaving me alone on the muddy road.
I told myself this was a practical decision.
The university dormitories were full, and I couldn't afford a proper apartment in the city. When I heard about the empty house on the outskirts of Bhairavpur—a place no one wanted—I thought it was luck. Cheap rent. Complete silence. A perfect place to study.
The silence was the first thing I noticed.
No barking dogs. No late-night chatter. Even the crickets seemed muted by the weight of the clouds. The house stood at the very edge of the village, isolated by a field of wild grass that writhed under the wind like something alive.
It was taller than I expected. Two stories. Narrow windows. A slanted roof with broken tiles. The paint had long ago surrendered to time, peeling in strips like dried skin.
I dragged my suitcase up the cracked stone steps and knocked.
The door swung open.
It hadn't been locked.
The smell hit me first—dust, damp wood, something faintly metallic. The interior was darker than it should have been, even with lightning flashing outside. My footsteps echoed as I stepped inside.
"Hello?" I called, knowing no one would answer.
The landlord, a thin old man with trembling hands, had given me the key in the village tea stall earlier that evening. He avoided my eyes as he slid it across the table.
"You're a student?" he had asked.
"Yes."
"You won't stay long."
"I plan to."
He didn't respond to that.
When I asked about the previous tenant, the stall fell silent. Even the kettle seemed to stop hissing.
The landlord cleared his throat. "He left."
"Left where?"
He stared at the table. "Without a trace."
And that was the end of the conversation.
Now, standing in the dim hallway of the house, I felt the weight of those words settle into the corners.
Without a trace.
I shook off the unease. Old houses creak. Villages breed superstition. I wasn't a child.
I set up my small mattress in the upstairs bedroom. The bedframe was broken, but the room had a desk by the window. Perfect for studying. Lightning illuminated the field outside in violent white flashes.
By the time I finished unpacking, the storm had grown louder. Wind clawed at the shutters. The house groaned as if adjusting to my presence.
I checked my phone.
2:47 AM.
I hadn't realized how late it was.
Exhaustion wrapped around me like a blanket. I lay down and closed my eyes.
At exactly 3:03 AM, I woke up.
Not slowly.
Not groggily.
Instantly.
My eyes opened as though someone had called my name.
The storm had quieted. Rain fell in a softer rhythm.
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Directly outside my bedroom door.
I held my breath.
The floorboards creaked with each step, moving from one end of the hallway to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Old houses settle, I told myself.
Wind pressure. Wood expansion.
But the steps had a rhythm.
Heel. Toe.
Heel. Toe.
I glanced at my phone.
3:03 AM.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence poured into the hallway.
Then, a whisper.
Soft. Almost affectionate.
Right behind the wall near my bed.
I couldn't make out the words. Just the shape of speech. A murmur threading through plaster and wood.
I pressed my ear to the wall.
Nothing.
The whisper ceased as suddenly as it began.
I didn't sleep again.
Morning brought sunlight and shame.
I felt ridiculous. It had been my imagination. The stress of moving. The storm.
When I stepped outside, a woman sweeping her yard across the field paused and watched me.
"Good morning," I called.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she crossed herself in a gesture I didn't recognize and went inside.
The second night was quieter.
No storm.
No wind.
I went to bed determined to prove to myself that the previous night had been nerves.
At 3:03 AM, the footsteps returned.
Louder.
Closer.
This time they stopped directly in front of my door.
The handle rattled.
Slowly.
Gently.
As if tested by curious fingers.
My door was locked.
I knew it was locked.
The handle stopped moving.
And then—
Click.
A sound from downstairs.
A door opening.
There was only one locked door in the house.
At the end of the ground-floor hallway.
The landlord had specifically told me not to use it.
"It sticks," he had said. "Nothing inside worth seeing."
The footsteps moved away from my bedroom and descended the stairs.
One step at a time.
I sat frozen in bed, heart pounding in my ears.
After several minutes of silence, I forced myself to stand.
This is my house, I thought. I pay rent.
I opened my bedroom door.
The hallway was empty.
The air felt heavier than before.
I walked to the stairs and looked down.
The ground-floor hallway was darker than the rest of the house.
And at the very end—
The forbidden door was open.
Just a crack.
I had never touched it.
My hands trembled as I descended.
Each step creaked loudly beneath my weight.
The door seemed to breathe, opening another inch as I approached.
Inside was a small study.
A desk.
A chair.
Dust thick as ash.
But something disturbed the floorboards near the desk.
One plank looked newer than the others.
I knelt and pressed against it.
It shifted.
Underneath was a small cavity.
And inside—
A diary.
Leather-bound. Cracked. Faded.
My fingers hesitated before opening it.
The first pages were normal. Dates. Grocery lists. Notes about village life.
Then the writing changed.
It grew frantic.
Uneven.
"They knock at 3:03."
"I thought it was the pipes."
"They walk the hallway."
"They whisper from the walls."
My throat tightened.
The entries became more desperate.
"It isn't outside."
"It's inside the house."
"It doesn't like being ignored."
The final entry covered almost the entire page in jagged ink:
"It wakes when acknowledged."
There was no date.
No signature.
Only one sentence written faintly at the bottom:
"It borrows."
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I turned sharply.
The study was empty.
But the door—
The door was slowly closing.
I rushed forward and caught it before it shut completely.
The hallway beyond was darker than it should have been.
As though the light refused to enter.
That night, I didn't go upstairs.
I stayed in the study with the diary open on the desk.
If this was psychological, I would confront it.
I set an alarm for 3:02 AM.
When it rang, I silenced it and waited.
3:03.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No whispers.
Relief flooded me.
Then I heard breathing.
Not in the hallway.
Behind me.
I spun around.
The study walls seemed closer than before.
The air colder.
The breathing came from everywhere at once.
And then—
A whisper directly into my ear.
"You found it."
I screamed and stumbled backward, hitting the desk.
The diary slid to the floor.
The whisper continued, now layered, overlapping itself.
"You read it."
"You know."
"You opened."
My reflection in the dusty mirror above the desk caught my eye.
For a split second—
It moved before I did.
A delayed smile stretched across my reflection's face.
But I was not smiling.
I shut my eyes tight.
When I opened them, the mirror showed only me.
Pale. Shaking.
Alone.
Days blurred together after that.
I stopped going to classes.
I stopped answering calls.
Every night at 3:03 AM, something different happened.
Sometimes the footsteps ran instead of walked.
Sometimes the whispers spoke clearly.
"Stay."
"Don't leave."
"Help me."
And once—
"Trade."
The diary began appearing in different rooms.
I would leave it in the study, only to find it on my desk upstairs.
Open.
To new writing.
Writing I did not remember adding.
"The walls are thinner now."
"He hears us."
"He sees."
I tried burning it.
The pages blackened but did not turn to ash.
The fire died on its own.
On the seventh night, I decided to leave.
I packed my suitcase before midnight.
At 2:59 AM, I stood by the front door.
The house felt watchful.
At 3:03, the footsteps began—but they were wrong.
Too many.
Not one set.
Dozens.
Rushing down the stairs.
Through the walls.
Across the ceiling.
The locked study door slammed shut behind me.
The whispers rose into a chorus.
"You can't leave."
"You opened."
"You stay."
The front door wouldn't budge.
I pulled harder.
It was as if the house had grown hands and was holding it closed from the other side.
The mirror in the hallway caught my reflection again.
This time—
It wasn't alone.
Figures stood behind it.
Blurred.
Tall.
Watching.
I felt something press against my back.
Cold.
Solid.
A hand.
And then—
Everything went black.
—
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains.
I blinked awake in my upstairs bedroom.
The storm was gone.
The house quiet.
Peaceful.
For a moment, I thought it had all been a dream.
I checked my phone.
No missed calls.
No messages.
I went downstairs.
The study door was closed.
Locked.
Untouched.
I stepped outside.
The woman across the field stared at me.
Her expression softened slightly.
"You're still here," she said.
Her voice sounded relieved.
"Of course," I replied, confused. "Why wouldn't I be?"
She hesitated. "The last student… he vanished."
I laughed.
"That's just a rumor."
She stared at me for a long time.
Then she whispered, "You look different."
I touched my face instinctively.
"Different how?"
She didn't answer.
As I walked back into the house, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror.
I smiled.
It smiled back.
Perfectly in sync.
But for just a fraction of a second—
The smile lingered.
Longer than mine.
And somewhere deep inside the walls, faint and satisfied, I heard a whisper:
"Borrowed."