The House That Waits

The second door

Ali's whole body turned to ice.

That cold hand on his shoulder. He had not breathed for five seconds. His mind was screaming that it was the bloody hand from the window. It had come down to grab him.

He gathered every piece of courage left inside him. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head back.

"Ali? What are you doing here?"

It was Ahmed.

Ali let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His legs almost gave way.

It was not the bloody hand. It was Ahmed, his best friend. He was standing behind him, his school bag still on his shoulder, his face full of confusion and worry.

"Ahmed?" Ali whispered.

Ahmed frowned. "I saw you. You were going to school, then you turned back. Why did you come here again? This place... you were so scared yesterday."

Before Ali could answer, two more voices came from the rusted gate.

"Ahmed! Ali!"

It was Alyan and Hamza. Alyan was Ahmed's cousin, they always went to school together. He had been searching for Ahmed when he didn't come to the bus stop. And Hamza was with him.

Now, all four of them were standing in the lawn of the house no one enters.

Ali's fear instantly turned into panic. Not for himself, but for them.

"Go! All of you go away from here!" Ali said loudly, almost rudely. "Leave me alone! Go to school!"

His friends were shocked. They took a step back.

Because this was not Ali.

Everyone in their school, in their whole street in Peshawar, knew Ali as the most generous boy. The boy who never shouted. Even if someone broke his favorite pen or lost his notebook, he would just smile and say, "It's okay." The boy who always helped with homework, who always told them the difference between right and wrong, who always pushed them to pray, to do good deeds, to help their parents.

If anyone else had spoken to them so rudely, they would have left in one second and never talked to him again.

But this was Ali. That Ali who was there for them when Ahmed's father was sick in hospital. That Ali who gave his own lunch to Hamza when he forgot his. That Ali who never left them in hardships.

So they did not leave.

Hamza came closer. He was the calmest of them all. He saw Ali's eyes. They were not angry. They were scared. Full of pain.

Hamza softly placed his hand on Ali's shoulder, on the same place where Ahmed had touched him.

"Ali," Hamza said quietly. "If there is any problem, you can tell us. We are your friends. We are brothers."

Ali looked at Hamza. Then at Ahmed and Alyan. Their faces were full of sincere worry.

Ali closed his eyes. He tried to control himself. He was a teenager, but he was carrying a weight that no teenager should carry.

When he opened his eyes again, they were full of tears.

And then, for the first time in ten years, Ali told them everything.

He told them about the bloody hand waving from the window that only he could see. He told them about the whisper. He told them about the sentence - "Secrets are a burden..." - the sentence his mother used to say.

"I was very attached to my parents," Ali said, his voice breaking. "I never bothered them for anything. I knew we were poor. My friends had new chocolates, new toys, new cricket bats. I never asked my parents for those. Because I knew they could not afford it. I never complained."

Ahmed's eyes became wet.

"Because my mother told me," Ali continued, wiping his tears, "My mother told me, 'Allah tests you in two ways, Ali. Sometimes by giving you wealth, and sometimes by taking wealth from you. And both are tests. The poor man's test is patience, the rich man's test is thankfulness.' So I never asked. I was patient."

He looked at the big, haunted house in front of them.

"But now... I think my mother knew this house. My parents died, but no one tells me how. My grandfather just says 'They are under the soil, pray for them.' What is the connection? Why does this house know my mother's words? I have to know."

His three friends were silent. They were shocked. They had never heard Ali speak about his parents like this. They knew he missed them, but they didn't know how deep his wound was.

They looked at each other. They knew Ali would not change his decision. When Ali decided something, especially about his parents, he would do it even if the whole world stood against him.

Alyan took a deep breath. "Okay. Then we will come with you."

"What?" Ali said.

"If this is about your parents, it's about us too," Hamza said. "We are with you."

Ahmed nodded. "Four eyes are better than two. And four friends are better than one."

Ali wanted to say no. He wanted to protect them. But a part of him felt stronger now. He was not alone anymore.

He nodded slowly.

None of them knew that this decision - this friendship decision - could be the worst mistake of their lives.

Together, they pushed the main door.

_Creeeeeak._

The heavy wooden door opened, and a cloud of cold dust came out, making them cough.

Inside was a dark hall. Very dark. Even though it was morning outside, no sunlight came inside this hall. The walls were covered in black spider webs. Thick, old webs with dead insects. The smell was of old wood and wet earth.

In front of them was a wide staircase, going up to the next floors. The wood of the stairs was broken in many places. It went up into darkness.

But what caught their eyes were the doors.

On the left wall of the hall, there were three doors. Consecutive. Exactly side by side. All three were closed. All three were made of dark wood, but each had a different mark.

The first door had a mark of a closed eye.

The second door had a mark of an open hand.

The third door had no mark at all.

They stood there, frozen.

"Where should we go first?" Alyan whispered, his voice echoing in the empty hall.

As soon as he said that, the whisper came again.

But this time, it was not only for Ali.

This time, all four of them heard it.

_"...second..."_

A soft, broken voice, like a woman crying far away, whispered just one word.

_Second._

They all jumped. They grabbed each other's hands.

"The second door! It said second!" Hamza said, his voice shaking.

Ali's heart was beating out of his chest. The same whisper. The same voice that knew his mother.

As the one who wanted to solve the mystery, as the one who wanted to know the truth about his parents, Ali felt a pull. A strange force was calling him to that door.

"I will go to the second door," Ali said firmly.

"No, we will go together," Ahmed said quickly.

"No," Ali said. "If something happens to me, at least you three can run and tell my grandfather."

Before they could stop him, Ali walked towards the second door - the door with the mark of an open hand. The same hand he had seen in the window.

His hand was shaking as he touched the cold, dusty handle.

He turned it.

The door opened with a soft click.

Inside was not a room.

It was darkness. Pure, thick darkness that even light could not enter.

And from inside that darkness, Ali saw...