A chill deeper than the mountain air settled over Rohan as he awoke. Not the bite of altitude, something else entirely, something that seeped into bone and marrow, a cold born of silence and emptiness.
He lay on the hard earth floor of what was once his family home, the roof mostly gone, letting in the pale morning light.
Dust, yes, but not motes dancing in sunbeams. This was thick, grey, the residue of something unspeakable.
He pushed himself up, his joints stiff and aching. Twenty-two, and he felt ancient, burdened by a weight that wasn't just physical.
Rohan moved through the skeletal remains of the house. The kitchen, where the aromas of his mother's cooking used to be, now held only the scent of decay and the metallic tang of rust.
Outside, the village was a graveyard of husks. Homes were hollowed out, wood bleached grey, stone cracked and scarred.
The vibrant life, the laughter of children, the chatter of neighbors – all gone, swallowed by whatever had swept through and left only silence in its wake.
Rohan walked to the well, the village's lifeblood. He peered into its depths, the water murky, reflecting his gaunt face back at him.
His eyes, once bright and full of youthful eagerness, were now shadowed, haunted. He hadn't seen another living soul in what felt like ages. Weeks? Months? Time had lost all meaning, stretching into an unending grey blur.
As he drew water, a voice, soft and familiar, reached him. "Rohan? Are you thirsty, my son?"
He froze, heart hammering against his ribs. That voice… it couldn't be. His mother. Dead, like everyone else.
He turned slowly, breath catching in his throat. Standing near the ruined prayer flags, translucent and shimmering like heat haze, was his mother.
Her smile, the one that could always chase away shadows, flickered at the corners of her lips.
"Ama?" he whispered, the word catching, a rusty hinge in his throat. He took a step, then another. She remained there, a spectral image against the backdrop of desolation.
"Yes, my Rohan," she said, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves, "I'm here. Are you eating properly? You look so thin."
He wanted to rush to her, to embrace her, to feel the warmth of her again. But a primal fear, cold and sharp, held him rooted to the spot. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
"Ama… how?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Don't worry about how, child," she said, gesturing him closer with a translucent hand. "Just be happy I'm here. We're all here."
"All?" Rohan's eyes widened, scanning the empty space beyond her.
"Yes," she replied, her gaze shifting. "Your Baba is waiting. And your sister, little Pema, she misses you so much."
A pang, sharp and agonizing, pierced through the numbness that had become his constant companion. Pema. His little sister.
He remembered her laughter, bright and infectious, the way she used to cling to his leg, begging for stories. Gone. All gone.
He looked back at his mother, this shimmering vision of her. Was this a dream? Was he finally losing his mind?
The loneliness, the grief, it had been a crushing weight. Maybe his mind, desperate for solace, was conjuring them up.
"Where are they?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.
His mother smiled again, a sad, ethereal smile. "Just… over there. Come, Rohan. We're waiting." She gestured towards the shadowed remains of their neighbor's house, the entrance dark and gaping like a maw.
He hesitated. Something felt wrong. Terribly wrong. This wasn't comfort. This was… unsettling.
His mother's presence, though familiar in appearance, lacked the warmth he remembered. There was a coolness to her, an echo of something lost, not regained.
"Wait," he said, taking a step back. "I… I don't understand."
Her smile faltered, the edges of it turning down. "Don't you want to see us, Rohan? Don't you miss us?" Her voice held a new note now, a subtle undercurrent of something that wasn't quite sadness, but… something else. Something sharper.
"Of course, I miss you," he choked out, tears pricking at his eyes. "More than anything. But… you're dead. All of you are dead."
Her form flickered slightly, the light behind her seeming to dim. "Death is just a passage, Rohan. We've passed through. And now we're here. For you."
"For me?" He repeated, a cold dread creeping into his heart.
"Yes," she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "We're lonely, Rohan. We want you to be with us. Come home, son. Come home to us."
Home. The word echoed in the desolate landscape, hollow and mocking. This ruined village was no home anymore. And these… these weren't his family. Not really. They were echoes, shadows, something… else.
He shook his head, backing away further. "No," he whispered, the denial a fragile shield against the overwhelming longing and fear. "No, this isn't right."
His mother's shimmering form remained, her face now etched with something akin to disappointment, or perhaps even… anger? It was hard to tell with something so insubstantial, so fleeting.
"You wound us, Rohan," she said, the soft voice now carrying a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. "After all we've been through… after all we've done to come back to you…"
"Done?" He questioned, the word catching in his throat. "What have you done?"
Her form began to waver more violently, the edges blurring. "We waited," she hissed, the sound less like his mother's voice and more like the wind whistling through broken windows. "We waited for you to join us. And you refuse?"
Refuse. The word hung in the silence, heavy with unspoken threat. He could sense a shift, a subtle but terrifying change in the atmosphere.
The eerie calm of the morning was fracturing, replaced by something darker, something predatory.
Rohan turned and ran. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get away.
Away from the spectral image of his mother, away from the promise of his family's return, away from the chilling wrongness of it all.
He fled through the ruins of the village, his breath ragged, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. He could feel their presence behind him, not physically chasing, but something else, something that pressed on his mind, a cold, insidious pressure.
Whispers seemed to follow him, carried on the wind, fragments of his mother's voice, his father's deep rumble, Pema's childish giggles, all twisted, distorted, laced with an undercurrent of malice.
He ran until he stumbled, collapsing behind the shattered remains of the village temple.
He huddled there, knees drawn to his chest, trying to block out the voices, the visions, the creeping dread that was threatening to consume him.
He was going insane. He had to be. This couldn't be real.
But the cold fear in his gut, the icy grip of terror that squeezed his lungs, felt terrifyingly real.
As the day wore on, the visions persisted. They weren't always his family now. Sometimes it was neighbors, villagers he knew, their faces pale and gaunt, their eyes empty sockets staring at him with accusation.
They murmured, pleaded, demanded. They wanted him to join them. They said it was his time. They said he was being selfish by staying behind, by clinging to a life that was no longer his.
"We miss you, Rohan," a woman's voice whispered, one he vaguely recognized as Mrs. Devi from across the village. He looked up, and there she was, standing amongst the rubble, her form translucent and wavering, her eyes hollow. "It's lonely here. Come be with us."
He clamped his hands over his ears, shaking his head violently. "No! Go away! Leave me alone!"
His words echoed in the emptiness, swallowed by the silence that seemed to hum with malevolence. Mrs. Devi's image didn't fade. She simply stood there, watching him with those empty eyes, a silent accusation.
Days bled into nights. Rohan existed on the edge of sanity, haunted by the spectral figures that appeared with increasing frequency. He ate little, slept less. Fear was his constant companion, gnawing at his insides, poisoning his thoughts.
He started to talk to them, arguing, pleading, sometimes even screaming.
"Why are you doing this?" he cried out one day, facing a group of translucent villagers gathered near the well. His father was among them, his spectral form gaunt and stern. "Why won't you just leave me alone?"
His father's voice, cold and distant, replied, "We are helping you, son. This world is broken. There is nothing left for you here but suffering. We offer you peace. Join us in the quiet."
"Peace?" Rohan laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "This isn't peace! This is torment!"
"You are being stubborn," his father said, his spectral brow furrowing. "You cling to the illusion of life when true peace awaits."
"Illusion?" Rohan repeated, his mind reeling. Was this all an illusion? Was his sanity the illusion, and this spectral world the real one? Doubt, like a venomous serpent, coiled in his mind.
He started to lose track of what was real and what wasn't. The visions were becoming more vivid, more insistent, more real than the crumbling world around him.
Sometimes, he would reach out to touch them, his hand passing through their shimmering forms, the coldness a sickening confirmation of their non-existence, and yet… they were still there, still talking, still watching.
One evening, as the shadows lengthened and the sky turned a bruised purple, Pema appeared. She stood before him, small and pale, her spectral eyes wide and innocent.
"Brother," she whispered, her voice like the chime of tiny bells. "I miss you. Come play with me. We have so much fun here. No more hurt, no more hunger. Just play."
Rohan's resolve crumbled. Pema. His little sister. The one pure, innocent light in his shattered world. He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
"Pema," he sobbed, reaching out a trembling hand. "Oh, Pema."
She smiled, a sweet, heartbreakingly innocent smile. "Come on, brother. Let's go." She held out her hand, her translucent fingers beckoning.
He looked at her hand, then at her face, at the familiar curve of her cheek, the shape of her eyes. Longing, a tidal wave of it, washed over him. He wanted to hold her, to protect her, to be with her again.
He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. A jolt, not of warmth, but of icy coldness, shot through him.
And as he touched her, he saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. Not innocence. Not sadness. Something… predatory. Hungry.
The sweet smile twisted, just for a fraction of a second, into something sharp and cruel. And in that fleeting distortion, Rohan saw not Pema, but something else.
Something that wore her face, something that mimicked her voice, something ancient and malevolent that had latched onto his grief, feeding on his despair.
The illusion shattered. The veil lifted. He saw not his family, not his neighbors, but something else entirely.
Something that had taken their shapes, twisted their memories, using his deepest desires against him. These weren't ghosts of loved ones. These were something else, something parasitic, feeding on the psychic residue of loss and trauma, luring him into their cold, empty realm.
He recoiled, snatching his hand back as if burned. The image of Pema wavered, its sweet smile replaced by a snarl, its innocent eyes blazing with cold fury. The other spectral figures around him shifted too, their familiar faces contorting, revealing the monstrous shapes beneath.
They were not welcoming him home. They were trying to devour him.
Rohan scrambled back, his mind finally, irrevocably broken. The horror of what he had almost embraced crashed down on him, shattering the last vestiges of his sanity.
He wasn't just alone in the world. He was hunted. Not by monsters of flesh and blood, but by something far more insidious, something that preyed on the soul.
He started to laugh, a high-pitched, hysterical sound that echoed through the ruins. He laughed at his foolishness, at his longing, at the cruel joke the universe had played on him.
He laughed until tears streamed down his face, until his chest ached, until the laughter turned into choked sobs.
He was utterly alone. And now, truly insane.
As the last vestiges of light faded from the sky and the shadows deepened, Rohan walked towards the ruined temple, the place where he had first sought refuge, the place where his torment had truly begun.
He climbed to the highest point, the broken spire that pointed accusingly at the starless sky.
He looked out at the desolate landscape, at the silent, empty world that stretched out before him, a reflection of the emptiness within him.
The spectral figures gathered below, watching him, waiting. He could hear their whispers, no longer pleading or gentle, but cold, triumphant. They knew they had won.
Rohan closed his eyes, a single, bitter tear tracing a path through the dust on his cheek.
He had wanted to see his family again. He had longed for them so desperately. And in the end, he had. But not as solace. As tormentors. As a final, brutal twist of fate.
He opened his eyes and stepped off the edge.
The fall was short, the impact sickeningly final.
Silence descended once more, broken only by the rustling wind.
The spectral figures remained below, their forms shimmering in the darkness, their empty eyes fixed on the broken body at the base of the temple.
They had not gained a companion. They had merely claimed another victim.
And in the silent, ruined world, Rohan's story ended not with peace, not with reunion, but with the crushing, ultimate solitude of oblivion.