The Night of the Beast

It had been three months since that night. I had moved to a new flat in the city, far from that village, telling myself it was just a bad dream brought on by stress and loneliness. Life slowly went back to normal. I started sleeping with the lights on for a while, then eventually stopped — convincing myself I was being silly.

Then, last Tuesday, I got a call from my cousin who still lives in the village.

“Did you take anything from the old house when you left?” he asked, his voice oddly tense.

“No, why?” I said, confused.

He went quiet for a moment. “Because something’s been scratching at our door every night since you moved out. Same time. Midnight.”

My blood went cold. I hadn’t told anyone in my family the full story — only that I’d had a “bad dream” and wanted to leave quickly. I never mentioned the eyes, the claw marks, the whispering voice.

“It started the night after you left,” he continued. “At first we thought it was a stray dog. But last night… last night I looked through the window, and I saw eyes. Red and yellow. Just like you described to Maa before you left — don’t think I didn’t hear you.”

I sat down on my bed, my hands trembling just like that night.

“There’s something else,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Last night, after the scratching stopped, I heard a voice. It said your name. Not mine. Yours.”

I haven’t slept properly since that call. Every night, I check my windows three times before bed. I keep every light in my flat on. And last night — for the first time since I left the village — I heard it again.

Scratch… scratch… scratch…

But this time, it wasn’t coming from outside my window.

It was coming from inside my closet.

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