The Disappearance of Arvind Mathur

It began on an unremarkable Monday morning. Aditi called, but Arvind didn’t pick up. She assumed he was busy, perhaps immersed in his music or lost in a strange book. By evening, when Nikhil texted and received no reply, mild concern set in. Anjali, ever perceptive, called Aditi.

“Have you heard from Arvind today?”

“No. Why? You think something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know… I just have a feeling.”

By midnight, their unease turned into dread.

The next morning, Nikhil and Anjali drove to Arvind’s house. The caretaker, an old man named Raghu, answered the door with worry lining his face.

“Saab nahi dikh rahe kal raat se,” he mumbled.

Inside, the house was eerily silent. His beloved music room was untouched. A glass of wine sat half-empty on the table. His phone lay on the couch. His wallet was there. His car was still parked in the driveway.

Arvind Mathur had vanished.

Aditi insisted they call the police, but Nikhil held back. He knew Arvind had a habit of retreating into solitude. But this felt different. The three of them combed through his house. Then, in his bedroom, Anjali noticed something odd—the closet door was slightly ajar. And behind the neatly arranged clothes, a faint seam in the wall.

A hidden door.

With trembling hands, she pushed it open.

The room inside was nothing like the rest of Arvind’s elegant home. It was a prison of his own making—walls covered in disturbing sketches, chaotic scribbles in red ink. Pages upon pages of poetry, but the words were filled with pain, loss, and an unbearable darkness. Burn marks on the floor. A single wooden chair in the middle of the room, facing a cracked mirror.

And then there was the box.

Nikhil opened it hesitantly. Inside were old photographs, letters, and a bundle of newspaper clippings. Each headline made their blood run cold.

“Businessman Rajeev Mathur and Wife Found Dead in Apparent Suicide.”

“Young Heir to Mathur Publishing Orphaned at 16.”

“Tragedy Strikes Again: Close Family Friend Found Dead in Similar Circumstances.”

Anjali clutched her chest. “Oh my God… he never told us.”

Arvind’s parents had died in what the world thought was a joint suicide. But the clippings hinted at something sinister—whispers of a third presence in the house that night. Someone unseen. Someone who had left behind nothing but shadows. And then, a few years later, another death—a man connected to the Mathur family.

The papers spoke of a curse.

Vanishing into the Dark

The police found no evidence of forced entry. No ransom note. No signs of struggle. It was as if Arvind had simply ceased to exist.

But Nikhil and Anjali knew better. They had seen the hidden room. They had read the writings of a mind unraveling. They knew Arvind had been haunted—not by ghosts, but by something far worse.

His own mind.

Had he run away? Had he ended his own life? Or had the curse finally claimed him too?

The weeks passed. The police investigation stalled. The case of Arvind Mathur’s disappearance turned cold.

But then, one night, Aditi received an email.

It contained only four words:

“I was never alone.”

And attached to the email was a photo.

It was a grainy, black-and-white image of Arvind’s living room. The same one they had searched countless times. Everything looked normal. Except for one thing.

In the mirror, behind the couch where Arvind used to sit, there was a shadow.

A dark, twisted figure standing right behind him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Arvind Mathur was gone. But maybe… just maybe… he had never been alone in the first place.

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