Kartik was sleeping when the shrill cry of his alarm ripped through the silence. Eyes snapping open, he stared into the dark ceiling, breath caught in his throat. He reached for his phone and blinked at the screen.
“Arjun’s Birthday.”
The reminder pulsed calmly—almost mockingly.
He sighed and chuckled. Arjun, his childhood friend, had made him set this reminder weeks ago. Kartik dismissed the notification and, without much thought, called him.
“Hey, Arjun. Happy birthday, man,” he said, voice still heavy with sleep.
“Thanks, bro!” came Arjun’s voice—lively, almost too lively. “Come over! Let’s celebrate. I’ve got something insane to show you.”
Kartik frowned. “Now? It’s nearly midnight.”
“Exactly. No one’s home. It’s the perfect time.”
Kartik hesitated. He and Arjun lived just a few minutes apart. But something in the way Arjun said that—"It’s the perfect time"—sent a chill crawling up his spine.
Still, Kartik shook it off. “Alright. Be there in 10.”
He threw on a hoodie, grabbed his keys, and stepped out. The air outside was thick, unusually cold for the season. A low fog curled around the streets like it had a life of its own. As he rode through the empty lanes, a strange unease tightened in his chest. It was too quiet. No barking dogs, no night guards chatting by gates. Just his bike and the fog.
When he reached Arjun’s lane, the unease grew worse. The entire block was drenched in darkness—power outage maybe, but even the streetlights were dead. He parked his bike and walked toward the house. It stood there like a shadow—tall, still, silent.
He rang the bell.
Nothing.
He knocked, but no footsteps approached. Just silence.
“Arjun?” he called out.
Then, from inside, a voice—not loud, but clear—“Come in.”
The door creaked open with a gentle push.
The air inside was heavy. Muggy. It smelled faintly metallic, like rust—or blood.
“Arjun?” Kartik stepped in, his voice echoing eerily through the darkness.
From somewhere deeper in the house, the voice replied, “Come see what I got for my birthday.”
Kartik’s eyes adjusted just enough to make out vague shapes of furniture. Then, suddenly, a glow—faint and greenish—flickered in the hallway.
He stepped forward.
And froze.
At the end of the hall stood a figure. Not moving. Not breathing. Just… glowing. A white skull grinned from the chest—grotesque and far too realistic. The light didn’t feel like a T-shirt's glow. It pulsed, slowly, like something alive.
“That’s… that’s my new tee!” Arjun said from the shadows. “Cool, right?”
Kartik squinted. “It looks... weird.”
He took a step closer. The grin of the skull widened—impossibly. Its hollow eyes seemed to twist toward him.
Kartik stumbled back, panic rising. “Okay, joke’s over, man. Stop messing around.”
No answer.
He lunged for the switch on the wall and flicked it on.
The hallway was empty.
No figure.
No Arjun.
Just a T-shirt, draped neatly on the bed at the end of the corridor, glowing in the silence.
His blood ran cold.
The voice whispered again, but now right beside his ear:
“You made it. Finally.”
Kartik screamed.
—
And suddenly, he was back in bed, gasping for air, heart pounding like a war drum. Sweat clung to his skin. His phone was ringing.
He fumbled to look at the screen.
“Arjun’s Birthday.”
The alarm tone was exactly the same.
Kartik stared at it, breath slowing… but then, slowly, his eyes widened.
In the corner of his dimly lit room, hanging from the chair—
Was a glowing T-shirt.
With a skull on it.
Still smiling.