Chapter 9: Echoes in the Dark

Aadi's footsteps pounded the corridor, a frantic drumbeat against the tiles, his breath ripping from his lungs in sharp, ragged gasps that burned like shards of glass. The hum wailed behind him, a mournful howl laced with the echoes of that guttural laughter—the three hooded figures' chilling taunts as they'd shredded his world in an instant. Blood still seared his vision—Manisha's throat spraying crimson, Neha's neck snapping under a boot, Ria's chest gushing as the rock's glow flared and died. His scars screamed—chest red and slashed, arm jagged, ribs welted—each throb a lash of failure, of cowardice, as he stumbled through the shadowed halls, tears streaking his face, the tray long abandoned in his panicked flight. 

He didn't think—just ran, legs churning on instinct, driven by one desperate need: home. His house wasn't far—past the school gates, down the winding street, a fragile refuge in the chaos. The school twisted around him, a maze of locked doors and flickering lights, every shadow a glinting blade, every echo a hooded grin—but he knew the way, muscle memory propelling him toward the exit. His chest heaved, ribs aching where the knife had grazed him, blood soaking through his torn shirt, but he couldn't stop—couldn't face the trio's knives and baton, the "A" stitches on their collars searing his terror. Manisha's fierce snarl, Neha's shaky courage, Ria's unhinged cries—all gone, snuffed out in a heartbeat, leaving him alone with the hum and the crushing weight of his survival. 

He burst through the school's side door, the night air hitting him like a fist—cold, damp, the sky a bruise of clouds blotting out the stars. The gates loomed ahead, rusted and ajar—he sprinted, shoes slapping wet pavement, his breath a plume of frost as he slipped through, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. The street stretched before him, lined with dark houses and skeletal trees, the hum pulsing softer now, a low thrum that clung to his scars like a shadow he couldn't shake. Footsteps echoed behind—deliberate, relentless—his heart lurched, a sob choking his throat as he pushed harder, legs trembling under the strain. 

The first figure's voice slithered through the dark, low and taunting. "Where'd you scamper off to, kid? Can't outrun us forever." A laugh followed, sharp and cruel—the knife-wielder's sneer cutting through. "He's quick for a dead boy—let's see how long he lasts." The baton tapped pavement, a slow, rhythmic menace—the third figure's smirk a blade in the silence. "Should've stayed and played—would've been faster." 

Aadi's lungs burned, scars pulsing—home was close, the corner shop's dim light a marker, his street just beyond. He darted past it, weaving through parked scooters and overflowing bins, their shadows flickering under streetlights. His house rose ahead—peeling paint, cracked porch light flickering—a fragile promise of safety. He stumbled up the steps, hands slick with sweat and blood, fumbling with his keys—his father's quiet care, his mother's suspicious glare flashed through his mind, oblivious to the hell on his heels. The key turned, the door swinging open—he slipped inside, slamming it shut, locking it with trembling fingers, breath heaving as he pressed his back to the wood, sliding to the floor in a heap. 

The house was dark, silent—but the hum lingered, a low pulse vibrating through the boards, a tether he couldn't break. A creak sounded upstairs—footsteps, heavy and slow—his father's voice rasped through the stillness, rough with sleep but sharp with irritation. "Aadi? What's all this commotion?" The hallway light snapped on, casting a harsh glare as his father descended, rubbing his eyes, his faded kurta creased from the bed. He stopped mid-step, squinting at Aadi slumped against the door—blood streaking his shirt, face pale and tear-streaked, hands clutching his knees like they could hold him together. 

"There are people outside trying to hurt me," Aadi choked out, voice raw and quaking, his breath hitching as he fought to form words. "They—they killed—" His voice broke, Manisha's blood, Neha's snap, Ria's scream flashing again, guilt and terror strangling him until he could barely breathe. 

His father frowned, lines carving deeper into his weathered face, stepping closer. "Hurt you? Killed who? Aadi, what're you saying—why're you bleeding like this?" His tone shifted, concern slicing through the grogginess as he crouched, reaching for Aadi's arm—blood smeared his fingers, the gash on Aadi's ribs stark and weeping beneath torn fabric, the older scars glaring like accusations. "This isn't some fall—what happened to you? Look at you—you're a mess—where'd this blood come from?" 

Aadi flinched, pulling back, eyes wild with panic. "I—I don't know—they came after us—knives, a baton—they're after something—I ran—" His voice cracked, the hum surging in his ears, a mournful wail that drowned his father's next words. "They're outside—don't—" 

The doorbell rang, a sharp, jarring chime slicing through the tension—Aadi's breath seized, terror flaring anew. "Don't open the door—it's them!" he pleaded, scrambling to his feet, pressing harder against the wood as if he could bar the nightmare with his body. His father straightened, brows knitting, doubt flickering in his tired eyes—but he stepped toward the door, hand on the knob. "Aadi, calm down—let me see who—" 

"No!" Aadi lunged, grabbing his arm, voice shattering. "They'll kill you too—please, don't!" 

His father paused, searching Aadi's frantic face—then turned the knob anyway, pulling the door open. Cold air swept in, the porch light flickering over an empty stoop—no figures, no blades, just the rustle of wind through bare branches and the distant hum of a streetlight. He stood there, peering into the dark, then turned back, voice firm but laced with unease. "There's no one here, Aadi. What's going on with you? You're hurt—talk to me straight. Who did this? Why're you bleeding all over the floor?" 

Aadi sagged, legs buckling—relief clashed with dread, the hum pulsing louder in his skull. "I—I don't know what they are," he rasped, clutching his bleeding ribs, the gash seeping fresh red through his fingers. "They killed my friends—tonight—at school—I saw it—blood everywhere—they wanted something Ria had—I ran—don't know why me—" His father's hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him, but his eyes narrowed, worry hardening into frustration. 

"You saw this? Aadi, that's—why didn't you call someone? Police? And this blood—you're cut deep—did they do this? What'd they want?" His father's voice rose, urgency breaking through as he pulled Aadi toward the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel from the counter to press against the wound—blood soaked it fast, his hands shaking slightly as he held it firm. "You're not making sense—slow down. Friends dead? Who's Ria? What thing? You can't just stumble in like this and—" 

"They had knives—a baton—they were too fast," Aadi cut in, voice trembling as the towel's pressure stung, tears spilling anew. "Manisha—her throat—Neha's neck—Ria—they stabbed her—I couldn't stop them—I just ran—" The slaughter replayed, vivid and relentless—guilt clawed his chest, his breath hitching as he shook. "They're after me—I heard them—they're still out there—" 

His father's jaw tightened, towel pressed harder, blood staining his fingers. "Aadi, listen—you're hurt bad, scared out of your mind—maybe you saw something, maybe you didn't. But this—" he gestured at the gash, the soaked towel—"this is real. How'd you even get home like this? Why didn't you call? You're talking murder—where's your phone?" His voice cracked, concern warring with disbelief as he shook his head. "You're not a kid who gets into fights—what's this about a rock? You're shaking—look at me!" 

Aadi's eyes darted, the hum a chaotic roar—he couldn't meet his father's gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. "I—I lost it—my phone—they killed them for it—Ria had this glowing thing—I don't know—I just—" His voice broke, sobs wrenching free as he clutched his ribs, blood seeping past the towel. "They're gonna find me—I can't—" 

His father's hand shot out, a sharp slap cracking across Aadi's cheek—silence fell, the sting snapping him still, breath hitching as he stared, wide-eyed. "Enough!" his father barked, voice low but steady, gripping Aadi's shoulders with both hands now. "You're home—you're safe—calm down. No one's here, see? You're bleeding, you're scared, but you're alive—breathe, Aadi. Just breathe." His tone softened, hands firm but trembling as he pulled Aadi into a rough embrace, blood smearing his kurta. "We'll figure this out—police, hospital—but you've got to stop, okay? You're here with me." 

Aadi's sobs quieted, the hum fading to a whisper—his scars throbbed, the night pressing silent around them, his father's grip the only anchor as terror ebbed into a fragile, hollow calm.