Chapter 6: TERROR

He stepped onto the stairs. One foot. Then the next. The shadows didn’t move; they waited. The silence didn’t break; it waited. And Rehan… walked into it like a storm waiting to be unleashed.

CHAPTER - 6: TERROR

Rehan’s boots clicked sharply against the wooden floor as he ascended the first-floor stairs. Every step echoed, bouncing off the empty hallways like a warning.

He veered to the right, moving toward the first room. His hand went to his side, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of his gun. The black door loomed ahead. He twisted the handle slowly, the hinges groaning under the strain.

Inside, the room was almost entirely empty. A single black chair sat in the center, its presence oddly deliberate. Against the stark emptiness, the chair seemed almost like a sentinel, waiting. A drawer stood open nearby, the only other piece of furniture in the space.

Rehan stepped in, his movements deliberate.

His boots whispered against the floor, the 

sound bouncing through the vacant room. He studied the chair, tilting his head. Why was it placed there, dead center? Why was the rest of the room bare? Something about the arrangement felt… intentional.

He crouched and checked the drawer. Empty. Almost. Until his fingers brushed a single sheet of paper.

He unfolded it.

The drawing made his pulse stutter. A face, grotesque and unnatural, leered up at him. Every feature was painted in vivid, angry red. A long, serpentine tongue slithered from the mouth, curling unnaturally like a living thing. The eyes were solid black voids, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Two sharp, white horns jutted from the forehead, an eerie contrast against the crimson nightmare.

Rehan’s mind raced. What… What is this?

He lifted his gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. The same drawing sprawled across the ceiling, an exact mirror of the one in his hand. And the black chair—its placement now horrifyingly precise—sat directly beneath the tongue, as if aligned to some grotesque purpose.

Shock coursed through him, but his instincts snapped him back. Someone had placed that chair there intentionally. But why? He had no answer.

He stepped back, exhaling slowly, his eyes never leaving the macabre tableau above. Whatever message this was, he knew one thing: he was now very much part of the game.

Rehan turned and left the room, boots echoing once again through the empty hall, mind racing with the horror of what he had just seen.

12:15 AM.

Rehan stepped into the next room, boots whispering against the floor. The air was colder here, heavier, as if the shadows themselves were watching.

A lone drawer caught his eye. He approached it, fingers brushing the edges before tugging it open. Inside lay a single sheet of paper. He lifted it, the paper trembling slightly in his grip.

“To the another world”—the heading was scrawled in jagged letters, each stroke sharp and deliberate.

Rehan’s eyes flicked up toward the window. Beyond the glass, the city slept in complete silence, a blanket of calm over streets and rooftops. The contrast made the words on the paper feel all the more chilling.

He read on:

"Peoples of the another world, wait… wait for me. I am coming there. I want to live in your world, I also want to live with powers that you also have. Wait… wait for me. The Peoples of another world."

Rehan’s brow furrowed. “Peoples of another world… what the hell does that even mean?” His fingers tightened around the paper. The writer’s either insane—or playing a game I haven’t even begun to understand yet.

A slow, deliberate shiver ran down his spine. He knew, instinctively, that he had just touched another layer of this nightmare.

Without wasting a second, he folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket. His gaze swept the room once more—empty, silent, yet heavy with intention.

Rehan turned on his heel and stepped out, every step echoing into the stillness, his mind racing. One thing was certain: this puzzle was far from over.

12:20 AM

Rehan reached the last room on the right side of the first floor.

He pushed open the black door and stepped inside. Instantly, his eyes shot upward.

The same grotesque drawing stretched across the ceiling.

This room was arranged differently. A black chair sat in the left corner, and a drawer stood beside it. On the floor, directly beneath the tongue of the ceiling face, lay a sheet of paper.

Rehan moved toward the paper, bent down, and picked it up. His gaze flicked upward again, tracing the red, twisted face above.

He straightened, paper in hand, and read aloud quietly to himself:

“If the evil R… E… H… A… N… will arrive, then I will run to Cape Spear. I want to come to another world from there.”

Rehan’s brow furrowed. Evil… me? He thought. Well, it knows me… but it didn’t even write my name properly.

The letters were separated. R… E… H… A… N… Was it trying to spell or pronounce the letters aloud?

He remembered a sound—the ticking rhythm he’d heard on his way to school. Perhaps the writer pronounces the letters this way because, in that “another world,” people spoke in sounds rather than words. That made sense.

Then maybe, he thought, it really believes there is another world.

Rehan held the paper tightly in his hand, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. The face above, the chair, the paper… everything in the room seemed deliberately positioned, waiting for him to understand its meaning.

The door of the room hung half-closed, perfectly intact—no cracks, no splinters.

Beyond it, the darkness stretched endlessly, concealing everything in its depths.

Then, a single shot rang out.

The bullet drifted through the air, spinning lazily, almost suspended in time.

It struck the upper center of the door, tearing through the wood with a jagged crack.

Wood splintered outward, dust rising in ghostly clouds, marking the violent intrusion.

The fragments scattered across the floor, catching the dim light, as the bullet embedded itself into the room beyond, silent but deadly.

For a moment, nothing moved. The stillness of the room felt heavier, laden with anticipation, as though the air itself had thickened around the ruptured door.

The space beyond remained hidden, the faint outline of the shattered doorway the only clue to what had just happened.

Another bullet struck the door.

Then another.

And another.

One more.

The shots began to multiply, their rhythm increasing, a storm of metal tearing through the stillness. Soon, the air outside the room was filled with the relentless pounding of bullets. They tore into the door one after another, each impact rattling the wood, splinters spraying outward like jagged confetti.

And yet… inside, no sound responded. No cry. No movement. Only silence.

A figure stood below, peering up at the shattered doorway.

“Is he dead?” he asked, voice tight with unease.

“Maybe scared,” came another reply, hesitant.

A third voice, more determined, said, “Let’s go in, then.”

They stepped closer, eyes fixed on the darkened doorway.

But still, nothing stirred from inside. Not a whisper. Not a breath. Only the room, quiet, waiting, untouched by the chaos of bullets.

Four men climbed cautiously, moving along the upper floor. They stopped just outside the room, pressed against the wall, peering in.

One of them leaned slightly and whispered, “Can’t see anything… let’s go inside.”

Slowly, one by one, they stepped into the room. Then the next. And the third. And finally, the fourth.

The door swung shut quietly behind them, settling perfectly into its frame.

Inside, Rehan stood in the shadows, his presence unseen. He held his gun firmly, calm and deliberate.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

In a fraction of a moment, all four men froze. Rehan moved with precision, neutralizing the threat without a sound. Their advance had ended before it truly began.

Silence returned to the room, heavier than before. The bullets, the broken door, the tense approach—all of it now swallowed by the dark, still air.

The men downstairs froze.

“Whose gunshot was that?!” one of them shouted.

“Come out! Come out, you bastard!”

Inside the room, Rehan moved without hesitation.

He picked up one of the fallen men’s guns and pressed it against the hole in the door—the shattered opening at the upper center. Without exposing himself, he began firing.

Bullets ripped through the door nonstop.

He adjusted the angle slightly, moving the gun wherever there was space, never releasing the trigger. Every second, another round thundered out, tearing through the doorway from different points. The firing didn’t stop until the magazine ran dry.

Rehan pulled the gun back, immediately grabbed another, and kicked the door open.

Men were visible in front of him.

He opened fire.

They fired back—but they couldn’t aim properly. Every time they tried to line up a shot, Rehan forced them back with precise, relentless fire. Out of seven, three went down before they could react.

Without slowing, Rehan retreated inside, grabbed a third gun, and lowered himself as he moved out again—keeping himself hidden. 

He advanced carefully toward the stairs, 

slipping to the right side of the doorway near them, positioning himself, ready and aimed.

Down below, the remaining men watched nervously, unsure whether he had left the room or was still inside.

Suddenly, Rehan rose.

One shot—clean and controlled—struck a man in the hand, sending his weapon clattering away.

Another tried to return fire. Rehan sprinted toward the stairs—and a bullet caught his hand. He didn’t stop.

Before the third man could shoot, Rehan fired again, hitting between the thumb and fingers. The grip failed. The gun dropped.

Rehan began descending the stairs, calm, unhurried, his weapon steady.

“Put the guns down,” he said evenly.

“It’ll be better for you. Otherwise… it won’t take me long.”

They understood.

One by one, the guns hit the floor.

12:50 AM

Rehan stood in front of them, calm, unreadable.

“So,” he said evenly, “your name is Marc. You’re Clark. And you’re Clive.”

Their silence told him enough.

“Marc,” Rehan continued, his voice steady, “listen carefully. Tell me—who is the culprit behind all this mess?”

Marc scoffed. “Why should I tell you?”

Rehan smiled faintly. “Let me explain something to you. Whether you talk or not doesn’t really matter to me. I still have two more people to ask.”

He paused.

“But if you talk, you live. You go to jail. If you don’t…” His eyes hardened. “I’ll send you there. What was it called again? Yes—another world.”

Marc swallowed.

“So decide. Because I’m ready either way. And these two”—he glanced at the others—“they’re just options.”

Marc hesitated. “If I tell you… you won’t kill me?”

“No,” Rehan replied casually. “I won’t.”

“Don’t tell him, Marc!” Clive snapped.

Rehan chuckled. “Oh—one more thing. Sorry, I forgot to mention this earlier.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“The one who gives me the answer walks free. The other two don’t.”

“What?!”

“Are you mad?!” they shouted almost together.

Rehan nodded. “Of course I am.”

“Fine,” Marc said quickly. “I’ll tell you.”

“No—wait! I’ll say it!” Clive interrupted.

“No, me!” Clark blurted out.

Rehan sighed. “Ah. Decide first. Who’s talking?”

Marc opened his mouth. “Listen, Jefferson—”

“No!” Clive shouted. “I’ll say it! Jefferson! Jefferson did all of this!”

Clark spun toward him. “Why did you say that?! I was going to!”

Rehan exhaled slowly. “I knew it,” he muttered. “That name was on the school list too.”

“Listen!” Marc said urgently. “Jefferson is heading to Cape Spear!”

Clive glared at him. “Why did you say that?!”

“Because I want to live,” Marc snapped back.

“Enough!” Rehan barked. “Shut up. All of you. Calm down.”

He looked at Marc. “Now tell me—why did you join Jefferson?”

Marc hesitated, then spoke. “He said he’d pay us a lot of money… if we helped him reach the other world.”

“Help how?” Rehan asked.

“By helping him kill people here.”

Rehan nodded slightly. “I see. And tell me—has he reached Cape Spear yet?”

“No,” Marc replied. “He hasn’t reached yet. He’s on the way. I think he’ll get there by morning.”

“Alright,” Rehan said quietly. He yawned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I should get going.”

Clive stared at him. “Wait—what? You’re not going to kill us?”

“No,” Rehan said. “I’ve already taken your guns. UNI will identify you soon anyway.”

He smirked. “So run.”

Marc frowned. “You mean… you won’t arrest us?”

“Nope,” Rehan replied, stretching lazily. “Not in the mood.”

He turned toward the main door, walking away, and said over his shoulder,

“I’m telling you—run. If UNI catches you, they won’t be as polite as me.”

6:30 AM

Cape Spear

The sea stretched endlessly, waves crashing against the rocky coast beneath a pale morning sky. The lighthouse stood tall near the edge, silent, watching the horizon.

Jefferson walked along the shoreline, his footsteps slow, deliberate. The wind brushed past him, carrying the sharp scent of salt and cold water. He reached the base of the lighthouse and turned toward its entrance.

Just as he was about to step inside—

A voice echoed from within.

“Hello, Jefferson.”

He froze.

The voice was calm. Familiar.

It was Shaziya’s.

— — — — TO BE CONTINUED — — — —

THE GAME IS COME TO AN END.

CHAPTER - 7: THE AFTERMATH 

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