The Dark Footsteps !

 Short Story - The Dark Footsteps

I woke up again, hearing the sound of footsteps outside in the dark. The wind was howling, and lightning flashed across the sky, lighting up the night in quick bursts. The footsteps were soft but steady, like someone was walking slowly on the street with a tapping stick—slow and careful. It always happened at the same time, just after midnight. I had heard it for weeks, but tonight, for some reason, I couldn’t ignore it. Why did these steps always come at the same time, and where did the person go?

Curiosity took over, and I pushed the blanket aside, my feet touching the cold wooden floor as I stood up. I glanced toward the small lamp flickering weakly on the table beside me. The flame was low, just barely holding onto life. I reached out and poured a little more oil into the lamp, watching as the light slowly grew brighter, casting dancing shadows on the cracked walls. The glow revealed the old, worn-down hut around me. The walls were chipped and broken, the roof leaking in places, but it was mine—my shelter. Everything I had earlier was lost in the battle—battle won and lost by kings - but for us common people, it meant the destruction of home, hope, and everything we held dear.

It seemed this place was abandoned long ago, but I had found it, a forgotten haven on the outskirts of a world that seemed to have forgotten me. The wind screamed outside, but inside, the flickering light from the lamp gave the illusion of warmth. The floor creaked beneath me as I moved toward the door, eyes still drawn to the small lamp, now shining with a bit more strength. Its light, though dim, filled the room, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could face the unknown outside. I glanced down at my feet, still recovering from the rough wounds they had endured. The pain shot through me as I stood, but I forced myself to ignore it. My body felt broken, each step more difficult than the last, but I couldn’t let it stop me now. 

The sound of the footsteps outside began to fade, as if the person had moved farther away, vanishing into the darkness. With the lamp in my hand, I took a deep breath and gathered whatever strength I had left, stepping out into the night, my every movement sharp with pain, but determined to follow the mystery that had been haunting me.

I anxiously followed the footsteps, the flickering light from my lamp barely cutting through the dark. After a while, the sound stopped. My heart raced as I looked around and realised I had gradually wandered into a dense forest. A strange fear began to creep in, as if I was trapped. I turned back, attempting to retrace my steps toward the hut, but the forest seemed like a mirage. Every turn led me deeper into the same dark maze. After a few more twists and turns, I found myself stranded in the same spot where I had started, unable to escape. It felt like I was stuck in a puzzle with no solution.

The flickering flame was my only companion in the vast darkness, its warm glow offering the briefest sense of safety. "I can’t let it go out," I thought desperately, holding the lamp close. But the wind was relentless, cold, and cruel and left me alone in the pitch-black night. As I stood there, heart racing in the thick of the darkness, I suddenly felt a cold touch on my shoulder, as if time itself had reached out to claim me. I froze, my body still as stone, and with every ounce of courage I had left, I turned around. 

There, standing before me, was a living embodiment of time itself. His face was a map of ages, each wrinkle carved by centuries, as if the years had stretched and twisted his features, leaving him almost unrecognisable. I had never come face-to-face with such an ancient presence, as though he had watched the world change with every passing century.

It was completely dark, and yet, there he stood, visible as though the darkness itself couldn’t touch him. His very presence seemed to carry its own light, radiating from the years etched deep into his skin. I couldn’t understand how I could see him in such pitch-black darkness—how could he be here, visible when everything else was swallowed by night? He was a story—a history, too immense and incomprehensible for me to grasp and describe.

He raised his hand, offering a small, folded leaf. Its edges were brittle, as if it had been held for centuries in his fist. I hesitated, but eventually took it from him. The leaf felt surprisingly warm, as if it contained something alive, though its appearance was fragile. I could sense that whatever was inside, it held great importance. I could see a sense of comfort and satisfaction in the old man's sunken eyes, as though this moment had been waiting for centuries.

I stood there, caught in the storm’s roar, my thoughts swirling with unanswered mysteries. But before I could speak, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and in the instant of that blinding light, the old man vanished— leaving nothing but the storm around me.

A sudden knock on the door broke the silence. Knock... Knock... Knock—slow, deliberate. 

My heart raced. Ah! I was dreaming. I glanced at the lamp, its flame burning bright. I woke up in a cold sweat, my clothes seemed damp, my body tired and aching as if I had been through a storm.

I hesitatingly, moved toward the door and asked, "Who's there?" I could hear no voice except the sounds of the growing storm.

I noticed my feet and clothes, covered in mud, and with a feeling of confusion, I slowly returned to the bed. An old leaf was waiting next to my pillow to be unwrapped—the one the old man had given me in my dream.

As I unfolded the leaf, smoke surrounded me and my body began to change. My teeth grew loose, my skin wrinkled, my vision blurred. 

The transformation was slow, painful, and I could feel myself becoming that old man—his age, his weariness, his burden.

This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

- A Siddiqui

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