A young boy finds a simple black thread on his wrist. He tries to remove it, but it won't come off. A chillingly simple Indian horror story with a shocking ending you won't see coming.
A normal day for 10-year-old
Ten-year-old Rohan lived in a small, friendly town. His life was simple and happy. He went to school, did his homework, and played cricket with his friends until the sun went down.
One Tuesday, after a particularly dusty game, Rohan came home and washed up. As he was drying his hands, he saw it.
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| The black thread meant that the ghost had chosen Rohan. |
A single black thread was tied loosely around his right wrist. It was the kind priests sometimes use, but thinner. He didn't remember putting it on.
He shrugged. It was just a thread. He went to dinner, barely noticing it.
The itch
The next morning, the thread felt tighter. It also began to itch. There was a deep, annoying itch under the thread that he couldn’t scratch.
Annoyed, Rohan decided to take it off. He pulled at the loose end. It didn’t come undone. He pulled harder.
The knot wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had been superglued shut. He got a pair of scissors from his mother’s sewing kit.
He slid the scissor blade under the thread and snipped.
The scissors wouldn't cut it.
The metal blades passed right through the thread as if it were made of air. But he could still feel it there, tight and itchy on his skin. A cold trickle of fear went down his spine. This wasn't normal.
Rohan’s fear sets in
The thread got tighter every hour. The itch became a constant, burning sensation. Rohan couldn’t concentrate in school. He couldn’t hold his cricket bat properly.
He kept pulling and picking at it, but his fingers just passed through it. He was the only one who could see it. His parents thought he was pretending when he complained about an itchy wrist with nothing on it.
After three days, a thin, red line appeared on his skin under the thread. It looked like a burn. It hurt.
Rohan was now truly scared. He didn’t know what to do. He stopped playing. He stayed in his room, staring at the black thread that was slowly digging into his skin. He felt like he was being marked for something.
The old story
Desperate, he went to see the oldest person he knew: his grandmother, Aaji. He found her sitting in the sun in her backyard.
He didn’t say anything. He just held out his wrist. His eyes were full of tears.
Aaji’s friendly smile vanished. Her face turned pale. She grabbed his wrist gently, her old fingers trembling.
“Who did you anger, son?” she whispered, her voice shaky.
“No one, Aaji! I promise!” Rohan cried.
“This… this is not a thread,” she said, her voice low and serious. “This is a warning. It is a message. It means a spirit has chosen you. It has tied its presence to you. The tightening… it is coming closer. When the thread disappears completely from sight…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. Rohan understood. He was running out of time.
The unexpected ending
That night, Rohan couldn’t sleep. The thread was so tight now it was cutting off his circulation. His hand felt cold and numb. The red burn line was angry and sore. He could almost feel a cold presence in his room, waiting.
He was crying, praying for it to stop. Just before dawn, he fell into an exhausted, fearful sleep.
He woke up to the sound of birds chirping. Sunlight was streaming into his room. He felt different. Lighter.
He looked at his wrist immediately, his heart pounding.
The black thread was gone.
There was no mark. No red line. No pain. His wrist was perfectly normal. He felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. He laughed. It was over! It was just a bad dream!
He ran downstairs to tell his parents. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
“Mom? Dad?” he called out.
He pushed open the kitchen door. His mother was standing at the stove, making tea. She turned around and smiled.
Rohan screamed.
It wasn’t his mother. It had her face, her clothes. But its eyes were solid, shiny black marbles. And around its wrist, was a single, loose black thread.
It smiled a smile that was too wide.
“Good morning, son,” it said in his mother’s voice. “Did you sleep well?”
Rohan stumbled back, his blood frozen. He looked around the kitchen. In the corner, his father was reading the newspaper. He looked up. He had the same black marble eyes. A black thread was on his wrist too.
The thread wasn’t a mark for death. It was a tag for a takeover. The spirit didn’t want him. It wanted him dead. And it hadn’t chosen just him.
It had chosen his whole family. And now, it was him whose life had to be snuffed out.
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