Syed Baseerat
It was a cloudy afternoon when I stopped my scooter in front of an old, dilapidated building on the outskirts of town. As I stood observing its eerie silence, a haggard, skinny old man with slumped shoulders approached me.
“Don’t go in, sir,” he whispered urgently. “It’s dangerous.”
I stood frozen, caught between curiosity and caution. The old man’s sunken eyes locked onto mine, and his bony fingers suddenly grasped my arm with surprising strength.
“What do you mean?” I asked, barely able to speak.
“Please don’t enter the building,” he whispered. “No one who’s gone inside has ever come out.”
His fingers dug into my skin. Alarmed, I pushed him away, but he kept repeating in a strange, haunting voice: “Sir, please don’t go in… please don’t go in.”
Then, without warning, he burst into a chilling, devilish laugh. His bloodshot eyes stared into mine. And just like that, he vanished—right before my eyes.
Terrified yet curious, I stood still, heart pounding. Who was this man? What was inside the building? Where had he gone?
After half an hour of internal debate, I decided to take the risk and enter.
Inside, the air was heavy with dust. Cobwebs clung to every corner, and rats scurried as if they owned the place. I called out, “Is anyone here?” No response. I walked further and repeated my call, but again—silence.
Disheartened, I turned to leave. Just then, a voice behind me hissed: “Stop!”
Startled, I looked back—but there was no one. I took a step forward, and suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw him.
The same old man.
Bloody eyes. Long, crooked nails. Messy hair. Bony fingers. An evil smile.
He stared straight at me and said once more, “Sir, please don’t enter this building.” He repeated it thrice before bursting into a demonic laugh. Suddenly, he pushed me down and lifted me against the wall. Everything went black.
When I regained consciousness about twenty minutes later, I found him mumbling to himself, crying silently. He hadn’t noticed that I had woken up. Slowly, I pulled a piece of cloth from my pocket and managed to tie his mouth and hands. He struggled, but I held him tight.
After some time, he began weeping like a child. I removed the cloth from his mouth. He looked at me and asked, “Why did you do this? Why are you looking at me? Please… kill me.”
I was stunned. “I can’t kill you,” I said.
“Why not?” he screamed. “Why?”
I asked him gently, “Why do you want to die?”
“Because there’s nothing left for me to live for. I lost my family… I’ve lost everything. God doesn’t take me. I’m tired of this life. That’s why I live in this building alone. Whenever someone tries to enter, I scare them away. I have no reason to live.”
His words were filled with pain. I sat beside him and said, “Your thinking is wrong. Life is like a journey with ups and downs. Yes, sometimes it hurts us, but it also teaches us. We often blame life without truly understanding it. When we start seeing the inner beauty of life, we realize how precious it really is.”
The old man broke down. “What I’ve lost… is a beautiful thing. It’s my own life,” he sobbed.
“It’s not too late,” I told him. “Come with me. Let’s start again. To live life, age doesn’t matter.”
That day, he came home with me—for a new beginning.
Author is student of Class 9th, New Tiny Hearts Educational Institute, Ganderbal