The rain lashed down like the heavens were mourning. I was dozing off to the rhythmic tapping of droplets against the windowpane, wrapped in a cocoon of late-night silence. The house was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a table lamp, and I had no plans to move. Until the doorbell rang.
It was 11:00 PM.
No one visits this late—not in our part of town. Not unless it’s something urgent. Or… something worse.
I pulled on a sweater, glanced at the grandfather clock, and walked to the door. The gate creaked as I opened it. A stranger stood beneath the flickering porch light, soaked to the bone. His breathing was uneven, and his clothes clung to him like a second skin.
"Sorry to disturb," he said, half-shouting over the roar of the storm. "It's a puncture case. My car broke down. I need to call a mechanic."
I stared at him, unblinking. “Not allowed in,” I said flatly.
His face fell. “Seriously?”
Then I chuckled. “I’m kidding. Come in, come in.”
Relieved, he stepped inside, dripping water onto the rug. He shook himself off like a wet dog as I handed him a towel.
“Tea?” I asked, already walking toward the kitchen.
“Yes, please. That would be great,” he replied, shivering slightly.
As the kettle began to hum, he wandered around the living room, taking in the cozy but cluttered space. His eyes landed on a photo on the mantle.
“Your wife?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, keeping my eyes on the kettle.
“She’s… beautiful. Where is she?”
“She’s dead.”
A beat passed. The rain filled the silence like background music.
“When?” he asked, cautiously.
“Last month,” I said, stirring the sugar into the tea. My voice betrayed no emotion.
“I’m… sorry,” he murmured. The kind of sorry that feels more like an obligation than empathy.
His gaze moved to the next frame. A young boy smiled back at him from behind the glass. “Your son?”
“He died too,” I said, turning toward him with two cups in hand.
A silence thickened the room, as if the very air turned heavier.
I handed him his tea and sat opposite him. The steam rose between us like a veil.
Then, a faint creaking noise echoed from the stairs. We both turned.
Descending slowly, dressed in a flowing white saree, was my wife.
Her face was blank. Her eyes locked onto the guest. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks, each step she took echoing through the quiet house.
The guest jumped, spilling hot tea on himself. “WHAT THE—!”
I burst into laughter. “Relax! That’s my wife. Not dead. Another joke!”
He stared at me, stunned and furious. “Are you mad?! What the hell is wrong with you people?!”
We couldn’t stop laughing. My wife stayed in character, her voice airy: “I’m not dead… You still think I am?”
The man didn’t laugh. He sat stiff, glancing nervously between us.
The thunder outside cracked sharply.
My wife brought out an old iron candle stand, the kind that looked stolen from a horror film. I knelt and began lighting the candles, placing them in a circle on the wooden floor.
“What… is he doing now?” he asked my wife.
She didn’t answer.
“Calling our son,” I said calmly.
The guest jumped to his feet. “Okay, enough! This is insane. I’m leaving!”
My wife’s face darkened. Her voice was low, steady. “This is not a joke anymore. Our son died at birth. I couldn’t conceive again. We had a girl… but we always wanted a boy.”
She looked at me. “So I gave a life… for a life.”
Her words hung in the air like smoke.
“Tonight is the night. It was supposed to be a full moon, but the clouds won’t stop him. At 12:00 AM… he comes back.”
The guest’s face drained of all color. “You people are insane! Since I arrived, all I’ve heard are these twisted jokes... I’m leaving, now!”
He stumbled toward the door.
“You can’t leave now,” I warned. “Once the ritual starts, no one leaves. It’s dangerous. For all of us.”
He didn’t listen. He pounded on the door, screaming, “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! I am serious I will call the police!”
I raised my voice. “Don't go! If you leave now, we’ll end up summoning an evil soul. They're not easy to call... and even harder to send back. You’ll understand... when I make the call!”
The clock ticked.
11:58…
11:59…
12:00.
Nothing.
Just rain.
The guest stopped, breathing hard. He wiped his forehead, his eyes wide, his hands trembling.
Then—
DING DONG.
The doorbell again.
My wife jumped and ran to the door. She pulled it open and froze.
I followed, heart hammering.
Two police officers stood in the rain. Behind them—a car.
Inside the car, slumped over the wheel, was the guest. His neck twisted at an unnatural angle. His skin was pale. Lifeless.
Dead.
My heart turned cold.
Slowly, I turned back toward the living room.
The man—the one who had tea with us—was still there. Sitting on the sofa. Staring at us.
He smiled...stretching unnaturally wide
“So… what do you think?....will I be easy to send?”
And vanished.
The candles extinguished with a hiss.
The thunder roared again.
And I finally understood.
We hadn’t called anyone.
He came on his own.
React
