The rope still swings - Episode 2
**Title: “Awake, but Not Alone”**
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Harris jolted awake.
A desperate gasp tore through his lips as he clutched at his neck — searching, trembling — half-expecting to find a rope still strangling him. But there was nothing. Just sweat. Cold, clammy, suffocating sweat. It soaked his shirt like he had been dragged out of a frozen lake.
His heart thudded like a war drum in his chest.
*Was I dreaming?*
The memory of the noose... the shadow... the voice... it all still echoed in his mind with terrifying clarity.
The room was freezing.
No, not just cold — unnaturally cold. The type that seeps into your bones, crawls up your spine, and makes your breath fog in the air even when the heater is supposedly on. The blankets that once comforted him now felt like sheets of thin ice.
He pulled the covers tighter around himself, curling into a fetal position. His teeth chattered violently.
“W-What the hell is going on in this place?”
Every inch of the apartment screamed silence — that suffocating, eerie kind. Not peaceful. Predatory. As if something was watching. Waiting.
He tried to convince himself it was just a bad dream. Just the mind playing tricks in a new, unfamiliar place. He rubbed his face, but his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
*That rope... those bloodstains... that thing at the foot of his bed...*
Suddenly, a soft creak echoed from the living room.
His blood turned to ice.
*Just the wood... it’s an old building,* he tried to assure himself.
Another creak. Closer.
Then silence.
He stared at the bedroom door, half open, the crack as dark as pitch.
The shadows seemed to stretch a little longer than they should. Breathe a little deeper.
And then —
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Three slow, deliberate knocks on his bedroom door.
Harris stopped breathing.
He didn’t answer.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Again.
He slid deeper into the blanket, like a child hiding from monsters under the covers.
He closed his eyes. *Please go away. Please let this be a dream.*
But his ears caught something else now — a whisper. A voice, barely audible.
“Haaaarris...”
His heart almost stopped.
It wasn’t Abraar. It wasn’t the wind. It was the same voice from his dream.
Cold. Inhuman. Too real.
He dared to peek toward the crack in the door.
It was wide open now.
And the rope...
It was swinging.
Back and forth.
Back...
And forth...
But there was no wind.
No movement.
No explanation.
And then...
The ceiling fan turned on by itself.
*Click.*
The old blades began to spin slowly. Creaking. Groaning like a rusted machine.
But Abraar had said it wasn’t even connected to electricity.
As Harris stared in frozen horror, the fan picked up speed.
And then — it stopped.
The rope, however, kept swinging. Faster. Higher.
As if someone was playing on it.
Suddenly, the air turned thick. It pressed down on his chest like an invisible weight. The room dimmed, even though the light was still on. Shadows leaked across the walls like ink in water.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.
And then — the rope swung violently in a circle and slammed against the wall with a loud *crack*.
A blood smear appeared on the wall.
From thin air.
That was it.
Harris jumped out of bed, grabbed his phone, and ran to the door.
But the door was gone.
Where it used to be, there was now just a blank, smooth wall. No handle. No hinges. No escape.
He turned around, eyes wide with disbelief...
And on the mirror in the wardrobe, a new message had appeared — written in fog.
**“You’re already hanging, Harris. You just haven’t realized it yet.”**
Harris fell to his knees, whispering, “God help me…”
---
Tears welled up in Harris’s eyes as his body trembled in fear. The icy cold had wrapped itself around his limbs like chains. Still shaking, he made the split-second decision to escape through the window in the living room corridor. Without looking back, he jumped out and ran straight to Abraar’s flat.
He banged on the door, breathless, his body freezing like a living corpse. Abraar opened the door, shocked to see Harris in such a state.
“What happened?!” Abraar asked, alarmed.
Shivering and stumbling over his words, Harris said, “Abraar... get me out of here. I can’t stay in that place anymore!”
“What happened, Harris? Tell me!”
“Something is in that apartment. Something dangerous. First I had a terrifying dream. Then I heard footsteps in the living room. I felt a presence. The door disappeared. There’s something with terrifying eyes... something *long*.”
“Wait... what do you mean the door disappeared?”
“There was a *plain wall* where the door should have been!”
Abraar stared at him, trying to make sense of it. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?!” Harris yelled.
“Then how did you get out?”
“Through the living room window! Please, just help me!”
Abraar looked at him with concern. “I think this might all be in your head. Come, let’s go check the room together.”
“Fine,” Harris muttered, still trembling.
Both of them walked toward Apartment 41. Harris hesitated at the door. Abraar opened it confidently.
“See? There *is* a door,” Abraar said.
Harris blinked in disbelief.
They entered the room. It was silent. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
“You probably woke up from a nightmare and hallucinated the rest,” Abraar said gently.
But Harris couldn’t let go of the memory. Abraar’s words from earlier echoed in his mind:
*"Whoever touches the rope suffers greatly..."*
“Abraar,” Harris said slowly, “I didn’t touch the rope... but in my dream, I saw myself tying it around my neck.”
Abraar went pale. Cold sweat broke across his brow.
“Also,” Harris continued, “the fan was spinning. On its own.”
“It can’t,” Abraar whispered. “There’s no electric connection.”
“I swear it was spinning. Loud. Like a dying engine.”
Abraar took a deep breath. “You said you saw a shadow... with a knife?”
“Yes. It stabbed me. Then I woke up screaming.”
Abraar was now visibly shaken. A name suddenly came to his mind: Altaf.
Altaf was a former tenant... who had experienced the same horrors.
“Harris,” Abraar said softly, “you should rest. Try to sleep.”
He walked out of the room, but inside, his heart was racing. He knew exactly what Harris was going through.
Abraar picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“Hello? Ziyaad?”
“Abraar? What’s up?”
“It’s Harris... my new tenant. He’s experiencing the same things Altaf did. I think this time... he won’t survive. Please, let me remove him from that flat. I can’t watch another soul fall victim to this... please, I’m begging you.”
“Shut up,” Ziyaad snapped. “If he dies, he dies. I only care about the money. Don’t you dare move him or your body will be the one leaving that flat next.”
“But...”
“No buts. Do what I say.”
Ziyaad and Abraar were brothers, but polar opposites. Ziyaad was cold and greedy. Abraar, however, was kind-hearted and bound by duty. He didn’t want to see another death.
But death was coming.
Who was Altaf?
Where did he go?
Why is Harris next?
Will Ziyaad ever listen?
Or will Abraar defy him to save Harris?
**To be continued...**
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