The Karakoram Express came to a grinding halt at Rawalpindi shortly after noon. Compared to Lahore, the air here felt sharper, almost thinner, as though the altitude itself carried an edge. The station was alive with motion—porters shouting for passengers, vendors weaving through crowds with trays of food, and trains hissing and clanking as they arrived and departed in constant rotation. The entire place felt restless, as if even the infrastructure couldn’t afford to slow down.
Yet beneath that ordinary chaos, an unusual tension lingered.
People moved with unusual haste, their eyes often drifting toward the northern horizon where the mountains began to rise. It wasn’t curiosity in their gaze—it was caution. Children ran past carrying snacks, but even their laughter sounded restrained, as though they had been taught not to draw too much attention. Even the stray dogs moved differently, pausing too often, watching too long, as if they too were aware of something unspoken in the air.
We stepped down onto the platform, stretching after the long journey. The smell of coal smoke and fried food hung around us, but it did little to settle the unease building in my chest. A thin layer of mist drifted across the tracks, softening everything it touched. The sunlight above looked pale and distant, offering no real warmth. Even our footsteps seemed exaggerated, echoing longer than they should have.
As we discussed arranging transport for the next leg—jeeps that would take us toward the northern routes—a figure approached us.
He was elderly, wrapped tightly in a thick wool shawl. His face was lined with age and experience, but it was his eyes that unsettled me most—deep, steady, and strangely aware, as though he had already seen what we were about to face. His walk was slow, yet purposeful, carrying an urgency that didn’t match his age.
“You’re heading north,” he said, not as a question, but as certainty.
We exchanged glances but said nothing at first. There was something about his voice that made conversation feel unnecessary. Finally, Diljeet gave a slight nod. “Yes. We are.”
The old man studied each of us carefully, his gaze lingering longer than comfort allowed. It felt less like observation and more like inspection. “Go back,” he said firmly. “Those roads are not meant for travel right now. Not because of snow… but because of what moves after dark.”
Amit narrowed his eyes slightly. “And what exactly moves after dark?” he asked, attempting calmness, though the tension in his tone betrayed him.
The man hesitated, his attention shifting briefly toward the distant tracks, as if the mountains themselves might overhear him. When he spoke again, his voice dropped into a near whisper.
“The dead,” he said. “They are not staying buried anymore. Not only in your valley… but across the roads leading into it. After sunset, they walk. And they search.”
A sudden breeze swept across the platform, rustling papers and carrying with it a damp, earthy chill. The station noise seemed to dull for a moment, as though the world itself had paused to listen.
Peter gave a weak chuckle, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “We’ve dealt with things like that before. Nothing we haven’t handled.”
But the old man didn’t react. His gaze remained fixed, unreadable. “Not like this,” he replied quietly. “These are not spirits that linger or speak. They don’t respond. They don’t feel. And they don’t stop.”
A heaviness settled in my chest as his words sank in. Abdul exhaled slowly beside me, his breath visible in the cold air. “We’re still going, aren’t we?” he asked softly, almost as if confirming what he already knew.
No one answered.
That silence said enough.
The old man turned away without another word and disappeared into the moving crowd. One moment he was there, and the next, swallowed by the station’s constant motion, as if he had never existed at all.
We stood there for a while longer, each of us lost in thought. The railway stretched ahead like a silver thread vanishing into the distance, pulling toward the mountains that now dominated the horizon—dark, jagged, and unwelcoming.
Peter finally broke the silence. “Did he just vanish… or was that just me?”
“He was real,” I said quietly. “And whether we like it or not, his warning was real too.”
Amit attempted a laugh, though it came out strained. “Wonderful. Official introduction to the region: ‘Welcome, don’t die.’”
Peter shook his head. “Yeah, and apparently the dead are now socializing. Great upgrade.”
Abdul didn’t respond to the humor. His expression remained tight. “We shouldn’t wait here too long. If night is truly dangerous, we need to reach the safer stretch before sunset.”
We didn’t argue.
A short while later, we were packed into an old, weathered jeep. The driver loaded our gear without speaking much, as though he too understood the seriousness of the route ahead. The engine struggled before finally coming alive with a rough roar. We settled in, gripping whatever we could as the vehicle began to move.
The road ahead curved toward the mountains, disappearing into rising terrain and fading mist. The farther we moved, the more the world behind us seemed to shrink, while the peaks ahead grew larger—cold, silent, and unyielding.
Inside the jeep, the mood had changed completely. Peter held the side handle tightly, Amit murmured quiet prayers under his breath, and Abdul stared forward without blinking. Diljeet focused on the road, but even he carried tension in his posture.
Finally, he spoke. “Those mountains… they don’t feel welcoming.”
A gust swept across the path, carrying the sharp scent of frost and earth. Somewhere above, a lone bird called out—a harsh, echoing sound that seemed to linger longer than it should have.
Peter gave a weak grin. “Perfect. Birds, warnings, creepy strangers. We’re basically in a curated horror experience.”
Amit shot him a look. “Less talking. More surviving.”
I tried to smile, but it didn’t come. The mountains were no longer just scenery ahead of us. They felt alive in a way that didn’t invite company.
Watching.
Waiting.
With every turn of the wheels, the valley below faded further into memory, and the peaks ahead swallowed more of the sky. The fog thickened around us like something deliberately closing in.
No one said it aloud, but we all felt it.
Once we crossed into those mountains, we would no longer be travelers.
We would be intruders.
And somewhere deep within that silence, it already felt like something had noticed our arrival.
Author’s Note: This chapter was edited with AI assistance for grammar, readability, and flow.37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ49N2MKQMNt
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