By the time we returned from the cursed burial grounds, none of us felt the same.
Our pulse still thundered in our ears, and the suffocating stillness of that place seemed to trail behind us all the way back to the hotel. It clung to us like a shadow refusing to let go.
The moment we entered the lobby, we warned the manager that the area surrounding the crematorium was crawling with dangerous criminals. We advised him firmly not to send any employee outside after dark, no matter the reason.
The color slowly drained from his face as he listened.
But he asked no questions.
Dinner that evening was painfully quiet. The clinking of cutlery sounded unnaturally loud in the empty dining hall. None of us could focus on the food. Every shadow in the room seemed deeper than before, as though darkness itself had begun watching us.
Eventually, we made a decision.
We would leave immediately.
Far earlier than planned.
At the same time, Abdul quietly approached the manager and handed him an envelope with trembling hands.
“I can’t continue working here,” he said softly.
“My mother is seriously ill. I need to return to Lahore tonight.”
The manager looked surprised, then sympathetic. After a brief pause, he accepted the resignation silently.
By 9:30 p.m., our belongings were packed, bills cleared, and the room keys returned.
Outside, under the pale glare of the jeep’s headlights, we carefully inspected the vehicle one final time. Every door. Every seat. Every compartment.
Nothing unusual.
Since Abdul was now traveling with us permanently, he volunteered to take the first driving shift. We had already agreed to split the exhausting ten-hour journey equally between us.
Destination:
Lahore.
Expected arrival:
8:00 in the morning.
But deep down, all of us sensed this journey would become far more than a simple road trip.
Soon after reaching the Indus Highway checkpoint, one of the guards stepped toward our jeep. His name tag read Bashir.
He saluted Diljeet respectfully.
“How are you, sir?” he asked politely.
Diljeet gave a calm nod. “Doing well. And your family?”
“They’re all fine, sir,” Bashir replied warmly.
Then, just as he motioned for us to continue, he casually added something that instantly froze the blood in our veins.
“Your cat is beautiful, by the way.”
Silence consumed the jeep.
None of us moved.
Diljeet forced a faint smile.
“Yes,” he replied evenly. “She really is.”
The checkpoint barrier lifted, and Abdul slowly drove forward.
For several moments, nobody spoke.
Then I finally broke the silence.
“What cat was he talking about?”
No one answered.
A cold unease spread through the vehicle as all of us slowly turned toward the back seat.
Empty.
There was nothing there.
No animal.
No movement.
Nothing.
Confusion mixed with fear.
Could a cat have somehow entered the jeep unnoticed back at the hotel?
Impossible.
I had personally checked every inch of the vehicle before departure. Besides, the jeep was completely enclosed.
And even if some stray animal had entered somehow, there was no possible way it could disappear while three of us sat inside with every door locked.
A chill crept slowly down my spine.
Something about this felt deeply wrong.
Trying to steady everyone’s nerves, I finally spoke.
“Stay calm,” I said firmly. “Focus on the road and your driving shifts. Whatever this is, we stay alert.”
But one horrifying thought refused to leave my mind.
What if Bashir hadn’t been talking about a real cat at all?
Gradually, the same realization settled over all of us.
The creature wasn’t an animal.
It was her.
The same entity from Nawabshah.
Following us in another form.
Hours later, as we crossed into Lahore around dawn, something strange happened.
The suffocating heaviness vanished.
Completely.
It was nearly 5:00 a.m., and suddenly the atmosphere transformed. Endless green fields stretched across the landscape, rivers shimmered beneath the pale sunlight, and cool morning air drifted peacefully through the open windows.
For the first time in hours, we could breathe normally again.
Streetlights glowed softly along the roads. Hotels, restaurants, and modern homes lined the streets, giving the area a sense of comfort and safety.
The contrast felt surreal.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., we finally arrived at the hotel we had booked weeks earlier online.
Exhausted and drained, we stepped out of the jeep while Abdul began unloading the luggage.
That was when an elderly man approached us.
He looked frail, yet there was something dignified about him. His calm eyes carried an unsettling depth, as though he understood far more than he should.
“Excuse me,” he said quietly.
“Do you have something to eat?”
Instinctively, I reached for money, assuming he wanted charity. But before I could offer anything, he gently stopped me.
“I’m not begging,” he said softly. “Only asking for food.”
Slightly embarrassed, I handed him some bread, fruit, and bottled water from our supplies.
He accepted them gratefully.
Then his expression changed.
His eyes darkened slightly as he looked past us—almost as if sensing something invisible nearby.
“There is a presence around you,” he murmured.
“Something unnatural.”
Every one of us froze.
Slowly, the old man opened a small cloth pouch hanging from his shoulder. From it, he removed five handmade talismans wrapped in black thread, each carrying a small metallic symbol at its center.
He handed one to each of us.
“Keep these close,” he warned quietly.
“Some spirits do not leave willingly. Sometimes they follow. Sometimes they wait.”
Before anyone could question him further, he turned away and disappeared into a narrow alley beside the hotel.
Within seconds, he was gone.
As though he had never been there at all.
We remained standing silently, gripping the amulets tightly.
Every instinct inside me screamed the same thing.
This wasn’t over.
Not even close.
A cold breeze suddenly brushed past us, yet the trees remained completely motionless. Not a single leaf moved.
The silence became unnatural.
Then came the sound.
Faint.
Distant.
Metal scraping slowly against stone.
A long, dragging noise.
Patient.
Deliberate.
Like a heavy blade being pulled across endless rock somewhere far away.
The sound didn’t echo through the air.
It felt as though it traveled beneath the earth itself.
None of us acknowledged it aloud.
But I saw the fear in everyone’s faces.
The stiffened shoulders.
The nervous glances.
The growing realization settling into all of us.
Even the birds had fallen silent.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, a terrifying question entered my mind.
Should we leave now while we still could?
Or had we already crossed a line from which there was no return?
Whatever waited ahead—
It was no longer simply haunting us.
It was drawing closer.
Author’s Note: This chapter was edited with AI assistance for grammar, readability, and flow.
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