Chapter 2: Recognition and Panic

Is it really that madman outside?

Kabir was fiddling nervously with his phone, while Aman chewed his nails—an old habit of his whenever he was anxious. The fluorescent tube light above us flickered, making our faces look ghostly. I felt all eyes in the room on me, waiting for some kind of answer. For a second, I wished I hadn't looked through the peephole at all.

Everyone else in the room was looking at me.

Rohan, our self-declared 'Second', gestured for me to say something. Even Sneha, usually the quietest, sat up straight on her bunk, her eyes wide. It was as if time had frozen and we were all holding our breath.

I checked through the peephole again. The madman outside seemed oddly familiar.

I squinted harder, trying to make out features beneath the grime and blood. Something about the way he scratched at his arm, the way he tilted his head to one side—it reminded me of someone. Maybe from the hostel, or... no, that couldn't be. My mind kept circling back, unable to settle. In my chest, my heart was thudding like the dhol at Ganesh Visarjan.

The others took turns peeking, all with the same feeling of recognition.

We passed around the peephole like prasad at a temple—each of us sneaking a glance, only to step back, brows furrowed, lips pressed tight. Rohan tried to lighten the mood, half-whispering, "Yaar, darshan lena hai kya?" but even he fell silent after a second glance. Kabir muttered, "Yaar, lagta toh apna hi banda hai... but kaise ho sakta hai?" We were all searching for an answer none of us wanted to voice. It was as if a silent question was hanging in the air, thick and heavy.

But at this moment, the madman’s face was smeared with blood, his clothes were torn and caked with mud—completely unrecognisable.

Even if it was someone we knew, the state he was in now made it almost impossible to be sure. I could barely make out the features through the streaks of blood and filth. The sight sent a fresh shiver down my spine. For a second, I felt like retching. The boys behind me shuffled nervously, whispering prayers under their breath.

Kabir, our fourth roommate, asked me:

"Bro, what do we do?"

Kabir’s voice was hoarse, eyes darting from me to the door. He always tried to act brave, but tonight his bravado had run out. He clutched his cricket bat tightly, as if it could protect us from this nightmare. I could see his knuckles turning white with fear.

I thought for a moment:

"Don’t go out."

"Bas, darwaza mat kholna," I said, voice as steady as I could manage. I glanced around, trying to appear calm, though my own legs were shaking. At moments like this, you don't think about being a hero—only about getting through the night.

The warden had already warned us in the group: this madman was extremely violent, attacking anyone he saw.

Somewhere, a door slammed shut on another floor, echoing through the stairwell. The group chat kept pinging, students posting updates, forwarding warnings, some even making nervous jokes to lighten the tension. But everyone followed the warden's warning as if it were a command from above. No one wanted to be the first idiot to open the door and end up in the hospital.