As I trudge towards the dorms, the campus feels like a maze. After a few wrong turns, I finally find my floor. Lyngdoh’s warning rings in my head, “Valorhouse doesn’t forgive mistakes, especially from scholarship students.” Recalling Kanta’s reaction to my room number only adds to my unease. The foyer feels colder than the mountain air, my footsteps swallowed by the stone walls. I drag my suitcase, its wheels snagging on the uneven floor, glancing back every few steps, half-expecting someone there. I know this path – left, right, past the crooked exit sign and a faded portrait. But somehow, I end up right where I started.

I freeze, the hairs on my neck rising. My heart thuds, slow and heavy. Behind me, the hallway stays unchanged, silent and empty. I step back, just to check, but the corridor seems to stretch and snap me right back. I grit my teeth. I’m not lost, I know the way. I just can’t seem to get there. I retrace my steps, right, left, straight, left, but always end up in the same place. The elevator looms, its metal doors reflecting my confused face. I’m sweating now. I shove the suitcase aside, rake a hand through my hair. My thoughts spiral, feeding off my own confusion. Is the building playing tricks on me? Or am I walking in circles without even knowing it?

I force myself to calm down, to think rationally, but the loop tightens. The walls blur together, and it’s like I’m stuck in some twisted maze. My frustration boils over, and I slam my fist against the wall, just to feel something real. The pain jolts me, but it doesn’t snap me out of the nightmare. A soft sound cuts through my panic, a small, almost imperious meow. I whirl around, and a sleek white cat hops in, staring at me, unbothered. Its eyes glint with something like disdain, like I’m the one who’s lost my mind. For a moment, I just stare, chest heaving, mind spinning. Then, like flipping a switch, the corridor returns to normal, just a straight path, stretching out calmly in front of me.

The cat meows again, sharper this time, swishes its tail, and walks off. I swallow down the knot in my throat and follow, too shaken to question it. My pulse slowly settles as I trail after the cat, feeling ridiculous for how rattled I was. It stops at a door, glances back at me, then loses interest and trots away. I stare at the door, the brass numbers glinting faintly in the dim light: 237. My room. I exhale, forcing a shaky laugh. I’m just tired and the fatigue is messing with my head. I reach for the handle, pushing down the uneasy feeling still gnawing at my gut. The room surprises me. It’s bigger than I expected, with two twin beds flanking a large window that offers a perfect view of the sprawling campus lawns. There’s a clean, muted vibe to the place: beige walls, wooden desks, a pinboard already cluttered with notes and sketches on one side.

My half of the room, however, is a glaring blank slate. My travelworn duffel bag and scuffed suitcase look pitiful against the neatness of my roommate’s side. It is meticulously arranged, the bed made with surgical precision, not a wrinkle in sight. The desk is stacked with neatly aligned books. He’s perched on his bed, sketching with laser focus. He’s dressed in a pristine navy sweater, dark trousers perfectly ironed, with a face that’s serious and intense. His jet-black hair is combed with precision, and he has the air of someone who thrives on discipline and order. He finally glances up. His gaze is calculating, sweeping over me with quiet judgement. The cat walks in and perches on his bed.

“Hey,” he says, flat as an ECG line. There’s a southern accent, maybe Tamil or Malayalam, but I can’t place it right away.

“Angad,” I say, forcing a grin as I toss my bag onto my bed. “Your new roommate, and might I add, Punjab’s finest export. Limited edition.”

He finally looks up, his dark eyes scanning me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. “Chittayan Sreekumar,” he says, his voice clipped. “Sree, if you must.” He then turns to the cat, staring hopefully at him, “Oh, that’s Casper. He’s not mine, he just freeloads. Emotional support with claws.”

Casper purrs loudly, then tumbles over, stretching out like he’s showing off his fluffy belly. I can’t help but crack a smile, the tension bleeding from my shoulders.

Sree’s tone isn’t hostile, but it’s far from friendly. He gestures vaguely towards my bag. “Freshen up. And don’t wreck the place. We need some ground rules.”

“Rules?” I tilt my head. “Damn. I was hoping for a ‘No rules, just vibes’ kinda dorm.”

He deadpans back, “Vibes don’t mop the floor.”

I shoot him a salute. “Copy that, Captain Clinical. No vibe spills near your side of the room.”

I laugh, but Sree doesn’t. He’s already back to sketching. Sree isn’t exactly unfriendly, but everything about him screams, “Do not mess with me.” Definitely not someone who tolerates chaos, which, unfortunately for him, is basically my middle name.

I glance at his notebook which he’s so passionately engrossed in. “So, are you an artist? Like MF Hussain?” I ask, flashing my brightest grin.

“Manga,” he replies without looking up. “Japanese comics?” he looks up and adds, as if explaining to a clueless child.

I nod quickly, pretending I understand, but his sigh betrays his impatience. Clearly, he’s not thrilled about a chatterbox roommate. I shove my luggage into a corner, taking Sree’s hint to freshen up. No amount of deodorant can hide the layers of travel grime, and judging by his earlier look, he has clearly noticed. The bathroom is small but functional, with a glass partition around the shower. I switch on the light; it briefly flickers, then steadies. The air feels oddly heavy, almost suffocating. As I step in, a faint crinkling noise like nails dragging over glass pricks at my ears. I glance at the partition, expecting streaks, but the glass is spotless.

Shrugging off the unease, I turn on the shower. Warm water cascades down, briefly relaxing me. But the light flickers again, quicker this time. Then the water changes colour, first a faint rust, then quickly deepening to murky red. Within seconds, a torrent of blood-red liquid pours over me, its metallic tang filling my nose. My breath catches in my throat. The lights above buzz violently before the bathroom plunges into darkness. I scream, stumbling backward and slamming into the wall. “Sree! Sree!”

I fumble for the door, my hands shaking, and manage to wrench it open. The dim light from the room offers no comfort. I burst out, dripping wet, clutching the towel around my waist. “Sree!” I shout, but the room is empty.

The bathroom door slams shut behind me with a force that makes me jump. My pulse pounds in my ears as I rush to the door of the room, yanking at the handle. It doesn’t budge.

“Open up!” I scream, my voice breaking. “Sree! Where are you?” Just as panic threatens to consume me, the door creaks open, and Sree steps in, a bewildered look on his face. “What the hell is going on?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my soaked and frantic state.

“Blood,” I stammer, pointing at the bathroom. “The shower … it was … there’s blood.”

Sree looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”

“Just … just check it!” I snap, pulling at his sleeve.

Reluctantly, Sree steps into the bathroom. The light flickers once but stays on. The water runs clear. “There’s nothing here,” he says flatly, though his tone carries a sliver of unease.

Before I can respond, a faint knock echoes through the room. Sree freezes, hand still on the shower knob. “Did you hear that?” I whisper. The knock returns, louder, more insistent.

“It’s probably the door,” Sree says, not sounding convinced as he opens it to reveal an empty hallway. The knock sounds again. But this time, it’s coming from inside the room. Our eyes meet, fear mirrored clearly. “Where –” Sree begins, but stops abruptly as pounding erupts from the wardrobe, growing louder, each thud hammer-like.

Suddenly, a bone-chilling shriek pierces the air. The wardrobe bursts open, and a figure tumbles out, limbs flailing wildly. Sree and I scream, scrambling towards the door, hearts pounding. The figure sprawls across the floor, convulsing. As the light flickers back on, it reveals a boy wrapped in black fabric, face smeared with make-up. He erupts into laughter, rolling on the floor as the wardrobe door swings shut behind him. Sree and I stare, stunned, as more boys flood into the room, howling with laughter. The seniors, their faces alight with glee, slap each other on the back. “Embrace the phantoms of Valorhouse, freshies,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re only getting started.”

Excerpted with permission from The Liar Among Us, Bishhal Paull, Bloomsbury India.

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