Morning arrived too quickly after the terror-filled night in Gangtok. Rahul woke with a start, his shirt stuck to his back with cold sweat. He'd dreamt of faceless figures standing at the foot of his bed, whispering his name. Around him, the others were already awake but pretending not to be. Deep was staring at the ceiling, jaw tight. Satyam was mechanically folding his clothes, his movements too precise, too controlled. Raghav sat by the window, rubbing the strange symbol on his wrist—darker today, as though it had been traced in fresh ink overnight.
No one spoke about the knocking, the voice, the thing that had whispered through the door. Speaking made it real. And if it was real, then none of them were safe.
When they finally gathered in the lobby, the silence between them felt heavy, fragile. The driver walked in, his eyes sweeping over their pale faces. He didn't ask how they'd slept.
"If you still want to see the old monastery," he said quietly, "today is a good day. The weather will hold."
There was something in his tone—not an invitation, but a warning wrapped in calm. Raghav met his gaze and held it a moment too long before looking away.
The drive was quiet. Even Deep didn't try to lighten the mood. He just stared out the window, chewing on his thumbnail—a habit Rahul hadn't seen since their first nervous week of college. The road climbed steadily, and with each turn, the air grew colder, thinner. The forest on either side was dense, still, watchful. Twice, Rahul caught Raghav tilting his head as if listening to something the rest of them couldn't hear.
"You okay?" Rahul asked quietly.
Raghav just shook his head. "It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. None of this was nothing.
When they finally pulled up to Pemayangtse Monastery, the silence outside was profound. No birds, no wind—just the soft, lonely flutter of prayer flags hanging motionless in the still air. The monastery itself was beautiful in a weathered, solemn way, but it felt empty. Abandoned.
The driver didn't get out. He rolled down his window and said, his voice low, "Stay together. And if you hear your name… don't answer it."
He was looking at Raghav when he said it.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood, butter lamps, and dust. Sunlight fell in narrow strips through high windows, illuminating floating motes and faded thangka paintings. The place should have felt peaceful. Sacred. Instead, it felt like a held breath.
They wandered slowly, speaking in hushed tones, though there was no one to disturb. Satyam kept close to the walls, as if afraid of the open space in the center of each hall. Deep walked ahead, shoulders tense, jumping at every shadow. Raghav moved like a ghost, his eyes scanning every dark corner, his fingers occasionally brushing the mark on his wrist.
It was Rahul who felt the pull first—a strange, quiet tug in his chest, leading him down a long corridor to a small meditation chamber. An old monk sat in the center, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the monk opened his eyes.
"You have come far," he said, his voice soft but clear.
Rahul's throat tightened. There was something in the monk's gaze—a knowing, a sadness—that made him feel exposed.
"Are we… allowed to be here?" Deep asked, uncharacteristically formal.
The monk's eyes moved slowly over each of them, lingering on Raghav and Rahul. "The mountains test those who carry old shadows," he said. "Not all who enter seek peace. Some are brought."
He closed his eyes again, as if the conversation was over. They backed out slowly, the silence now feeling charged, intentional.
They continued exploring, but the air grew colder. Shadows seemed to stretch toward them. Whispers brushed against their ears—not words, not yet, but sounds, like someone murmuring just out of sight. At one point, Satyam froze.
"Did you hear that?" he whispered.
They all had.
In a dusty prayer hall, they found a large Buddha statue, its paint faded with age. Rahul approached it, drawn by the same pull he'd felt earlier. Behind the statue, his fingers found a loose panel. Inside was a small alcove, and inside that—an old scroll.
They unrolled it carefully on the stone floor. It was a map, hand-drawn, detailed, with mountains and rivers and valleys carefully marked. One spot deep in the wilderness was circled in dark ink, with three Lepcha characters written beside it.
Before they could make sense of it, the monk was there again, standing in the doorway. He moved silently, like part of the shadows.
"Echoing Valley," he said softly, his eyes on the map. "A place the mountains remember. Few go there. Fewer return unchanged."
Raghav leaned closer. "What does the writing say?"
The monk's voice was barely a whisper. "Where the mountains remember, the lost find their way… or lose themselves forever."
The words hung in the air, heavy, real. Rahul's chest felt tight.
Then the room grew cold. The butter lamps flickered, though there was no wind. Shadows began to pulse, stretch, twist. And the whispers—now they were clear. Voices they recognized, fears they'd buried.
Rahul heard his father's voice: You'll never be enough.
Raghav heard his mother, years ago: Why can't you be stronger?
Deep heard laughter—mocking, sharp—and Satyam heard his own thoughts echoing back: You're just pretending to be brave.
They stumbled out of the hall, gasping, shaking. The monastery no longer felt empty. It felt alive. Aware.
The monk followed them, his calm finally broken. "The presence that follows you is not of this place," he said urgently. "It has attached itself to one of you. And through him… to all of you."
His eyes went to Raghav, then to Rahul. "The dreamer and the seeker. Together, you form a path it recognizes."
Before anyone could respond, a deep, resonant bell began to toll—once, twice—shaking the walls. The monk's face paled.
"That bell only rings when something unhallowed enters," he whispered.
A howling wind erupted inside the corridor, though the windows were sealed. Shadows surged toward them from the far end of the hall. The monk thrust a small piece of parchment into Rahul's hand.
On it, in rushed script, were two words in English:
It followed you.
"Go," the monk said, his voice trembling. "Remember the map. The answers lie beyond this place. But the Valley… it does not welcome visitors."
They ran. Doors slammed behind them. Shadows clawed at their heels. By the time they burst into the courtyard, the sky had darkened, though it was barely midday.
The driver was waiting, his face tense. He didn't speak, just gestured sharply toward the car. They piled in, breathless, shaking. As the monastery shrank in the rearview mirror, Rahul looked down at the scroll still clenched in his hand, and at the monk's note.
Raghav was staring out the window, his reflection pale in the glass.
Their trip was no longer an adventure.
It was a journey into something they didn't understand—and might not survive.