A Christmas Nightmare (Chapter 3): And Her Nightmare Begins

A Christmas Nightmare: Join four friends on a trip to Mount Abu. They play truth and dare, a harmless game, until it turns into a nightmare—A Christmas Nightmare.

Author’s Note: A Christmas Nightmare

Hey all, please note, this book is a spicy dark novel of a nightmare in a creepy old Villa in Mount Abu

Before you start, I hope you have read Chapter 2 of A Christmas Nightmare.

A Christmas Nightmare (Chapter 2): She Makes Him Angry

A Christmas Nightmare – Chapter 3

Wamika

The cold air bit at my face as Samay and Anshul hoisted me up, their hands firm under my arms as I squeezed through the open window. The moment my boots touched the creaky wooden floor, a soft groan escaped from the aged planks, making me freeze.

My breath hitched as I scanned the shadowed room ahead. No one came. Which was good, but what if someone was here, maybe upstairs?

I turned and saw Anshul staring at me, forehead creased.

“I don’t feel so good about this,” he muttered, his voice low but tense, cutting through the silence like a blade. I so wanted to latch on to his concern and get the hell out of this place, but the alcohol burning in my system made me a little daredevil. Not much, but a little.

“Oh, stop babying her,” Samay shot back before I could say a word, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Let her have some fun for once. You can’t keep her wrapped in bubble wrap forever, dude. She’s twenty years old, not five. We aren’t able to go on adventure trips because she is always afraid.”

My cheeks burned at the accusation, but once again, before I could answer back, Anshul grunted beside me.

“She doesn’t need to do something reckless to have fun.”

“This isn’t reckless. Ritika already knocked here once. If there was someone home, they would have opened the door. They didn’t, so this place is empty.”

“Maybe they were out.”

“At night twelve?”

Before their bickering could escalate, I shook my head firmly, swallowing the knot of nerves rising in my throat. “It’s fine,” I said, more to myself than to them. I had to do this. Not because I wanted to, but because I’d rather face the house than Ritika’s endless teasing if I chickened out.

Anshul sighed, his concern clear in the crease of his brow, but he gave me a small nod. Ritika’s laughter rang out as she spun in exaggerated circles in the snow, already giddy from the thrill of the dare. One by one, they retreated, their voices fading into the night. The moment their footsteps disappeared, the reality of my situation sank in like ice water pouring over my skin.

What did I do? I swallowed my fear and turned, leaning against the window while my eyes roamed, checking the dreaded place.

The house seemed to exhale around me, its silence almost mocking. My heart thudded hard against my ribs, each beat loud enough to echo in my ears. The faint light from the cracked shutters barely illuminated the room, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Maybe I could find the switch and turn on the lights. Or maybe I should just shut up and finish the dare, then climb our and run. I was sure Anshul was waiting for me outside.

Yet standing still became hard, too hard.

I took a step, hesitant, the old floorboards groaning beneath me as if the house was complaining, too. The air tasted thick—damp and stale, like it hadn’t seen a breath of fresh air in years. But there was something else underneath it, something sharp and foreign. A faint burning scent, like burnt paper or… was it a cigarette? I couldn’t tell. My dad didn’t smoke. Neither did my friends.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides as I forced myself to keep moving, each footstep slow and deliberate. “Ten minutes,” I whispered under my breath, trying to convince myself. “Just ten minutes. That’s all. Ten minutes, then I’m out.”

It had seemed easy enough when Ritika had suggested it. Stay in the old house for ten minutes, she’d said, her grin wide with mischief. But now, surrounded by the heavy silence and the weight of the house pressing in on me, I cursed myself for agreeing. Each creak of the wood, each distant groan of the old walls made me flinch, my eyes darting toward every shadow as though something would leap out from the dark.

I took another step, then another, the sound of my breathing loud in the stillness. The house felt alive in its own way, like it was watching me, testing me. My grip tightened on my phone, my fingers hovering over the flashlight button. If I turned it on, it might make me feel safer. But it might also give away my presence—to what, I didn’t know. That thought kept the light off, even as my pulse raced faster with each passing second.

At first glance, the interior looked like a horror movie set come to life. The wallpaper hung in tattered, curling strips, revealing dark patches of stained plaster underneath. Cobwebs clung to the corners like ghostly veils, and the air carried a damp, musty smell that seemed to seep into my skin. My first instinct was to wrinkle my nose, but as I stepped further into the room, the strange details began to stand out—details that made my stomach churn.

The furniture, though clearly aged, wasn’t scattered or abandoned. A battered armchair sat angled near the fireplace, its faded cushion bearing the faint imprint of someone’s weight, as though it had been occupied not long ago. The floor, while uneven and dusty in patches, didn’t have the heavy accumulation of neglect I’d expected. And the walls, while worn and cracked, had an odd sense of care—like someone had tried, at some point, to preserve them.

It didn’t feel like an empty house, abandoned to decay and nature’s cruelty. It felt… used.

This wasn’t a ruin.

This was a home.

The realization hit like a bucket of ice water dumped straight onto my chest. My breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a choke. I froze mid-step, heart slamming so hard against my ribs it felt like it might crack one. Someone lived here. Someone who definitely didn’t want visitors.

Oh, God. My pulse pounded in my ears, a drumbeat of pure panic. This wasn’t an abandoned house.

I spun around, my instincts screaming at me to move. To get out before whoever—or whatever—lived here realized I was inside. My feet carried me to the window in a desperate blur, fingers gripping the rough, icy edge of the sill. My plan was half-formed, shaky at best: climb out, hit the ground running, and pray I could reach the villa before they caught me.

But then the sound came.

A faint shuffle. Above me. Slow. Dragging. Deliberate.

My breath hitched. My grip on the windowsill faltered, fingers trembling. The shuffling stopped, then started again, heavier this time, the vibrations faint but unmistakable in the floor beneath me. It was the kind of sound you couldn’t ignore.

Panic bubbled in my chest. Even if I managed to jump out of the window, the time it would take me to circle the house and sprint to the villa… I’d be caught. Also… my jump wouldn’t be silent, I was sure I would scream.

My head spun with worst-case scenarios. I had no idea who lived here. I knew no one in Mount Abu. If I screamed, would my friends even hear me? Was Anshul waiting outside to save me?

“Why did I do this?” I hissed under my breath, my voice shaking like leaves in a storm. Stupid dare. Stupid me. Why couldn’t I be the person who said no, who stayed back at the villa sipping chai while everyone else risked their necks for adrenaline?

What do I do now? I had to get out. I hoisted myself on the window panel and nearly lost it when I saw it wasn’t as easy as I had expected. Anshul and Samay had picked me up before and I needed them to hold me when I jumped out. I couldn’t do this alone.

A sob broke free as I jumped back inside. My body was shaking now. I peeked out, but no one was there. Where were my friends?

“Anshul,” I whispered, the name barely leaving my lips. Where the hell was he? Where the hell were any of them?

The house creaked again, a hollow, ominous sound in the suffocating silence. My legs locked, my mind racing with the need to move but unable to convince my body to act. I stood there, frozen and helpless, as the footsteps above grew louder. Closer.

Then instinct kicked in. My feet moved before my brain fully registered the decision, carrying me away from the window and deeper into the house. I didn’t have a plan—only the overwhelming need to hide. My pulse pounded in my ears as I slipped into what looked like the kitchen, a cramped, dimly lit space dominated by an ancient stove and a rickety wooden table.

I crouched behind the counter, pressing my back against its cool, splintered surface. My hands flew to my mouth, clasping tightly to muffle the sound of my breathing, which came in short, panicked bursts. The air was stale and heavy, and my chest burned from the effort of holding in a scream.

I couldn’t let them hear me.

Whoever they were.

The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional groan of the old floorboards above me. Each creak felt like a warning, sending a jolt of panic through my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the counter as if that alone could make me invisible. My lips moved silently, whispering desperate prayers. Please let this be a misunderstanding. Please let them stay upstairs.

Then it came: the distinct thud of footsteps descending the stairs.

My breaths turned shallow, ragged, as the sound grew louder. Each step felt deliberate, heavy, like a countdown in the quiet. The faint light spilling in through the kitchen window danced on the floor, casting shadows that seemed to twist and stretch unnaturally. Then, I saw them—a pair of shoes stepping into view. Scuffed leather, soles worn thin, and frayed laces. Inches from where I was crouched, frozen.

My gaze climbed slowly, unwilling but compelled. Up past the tattered hems of faded jeans, over knees caked in specks of dirt, and finally to toes that peeked out through a tear. My stomach churned, twisting tighter with every inch.

The figure moved closer. My hands clamped harder over my mouth, desperate to muffle the sound of my shaky breathing. My lungs burned from the effort of staying silent, but the silence itself was suffocating. My heartbeat pounded so fiercely, I was sure it was loud enough to give me away. Then I saw more—the legs, the torso, and finally… the face.

He looked like something pulled from a fever dream—a nightmare walking in the flesh.

Dark, unruly hair spilled down his forehead in loose strands, barely restrained by the tie at the nape of his neck. A few defiant locks curled against his temples, framing a face that seemed chiseled from stone and weathered by countless storms.

His beard, thick and unkempt, clung stubbornly to his jaw, its wildness only sharpening the harsh angles of his cheekbones—cheekbones so razor-edged they could probably slice through steel.

The black vest he wore hugged his broad shoulders like a second skin, the fabric stretched taut over muscle that didn’t just suggest power—it promised it. His arms were bare, veins snaking down like rivers carved into granite, and the way they flexed with the slightest movement hinted at strength that could crush steel or send someone flying with a single punch. And his jeans? Worn, frayed at the edges, and hanging low on his hips in that effortlessly sexy way that screamed he didn’t give a damn—and that only made it hotter.

But it wasn’t his physique that made my pulse stutter like a faulty engine. No, it was his eyes.

Blue. But not the kind of blue that offered comfort or warmth. No, these were shards of ice, cold and unyielding, glowing faintly in the dim light like they had a power all their own. They weren’t just eyes; they were weapons, cutting through the shadows and pinning me in place. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think.

The world shrank until it was just him and those terrifyingly vivid eyes. Every nerve in my body screamed to run, but my feet refused to obey.

A scream tore from my throat before I even realized it, breaking the fragile stillness like glass shattering against concrete.

His head snapped toward me instantly, his body tensing, coiled like a predator ready to pounce. The sharpness in his gaze turned lethal, his stare locking onto mine. I shrank back, pressing myself harder against the counter as though the cold, unyielding wood could somehow swallow me whole.

For a moment, his expression was pure steel—cold, unrelenting, assessing. Then something softened, just slightly. His hand rose, fingers scratching absently at the dark scruff on his jaw, his head tilting to the side in a gesture that seemed almost curious.

What was he thinking? What the hell was going in his head?

I swallowed hard, the sound far too loud in the oppressive silence, and his eyes dropped to my throat. Panic surged through me, and I yanked the scarf that had slipped from my shoulder back up around my neck.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice rough and gravelly, each word dragging against the air like a blade on stone.

It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Words scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving only the deafening roar of my pulse in my ears. All I could do was stare, frozen under the weight of his presence.

He wasn’t someone old and withered that I could run away from. He was young, maybe in his early thirties. There was something about him—something primal and dangerous—that made him feel untouchable.

His eyes narrowed, and after a beat, he nodded slightly, as if acknowledging my silence.

His hand moved then, slow and deliberate, lifting a bottle I hadn’t noticed before. The motion was unhurried, almost casual, as he tilted it to his lips and took a deep swig. The faint scent of alcohol drifted into the air, and my stomach churned violently.

A drunk stranger. In an abandoned house.

Every horror story I’d ever heard played in a relentless loop in my mind.

Then I saw his hands.

Dark streaks marred his knuckles, dried in jagged, uneven patterns. Red. My chest tightened, my breath catching as the worst possibilities slammed into me. Blood? Whose? My gaze darted back to his face, searching for answers I didn’t want to find.

“Please,” I croaked, my voice trembling, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want to die.”

Why the hell did I say that? but I had said and I wasn’t regretting it. He had to let me out. I would never return again. “Please… let me go…”

He didn’t move. No sharp intake of breath, no flash of emotion in his eyes. Just a lazy lean against the counter, his broad shoulders sinking into a casual slouch while I crouched beneath him like a cornered animal. My hiding spot—a pathetic half-attempt under the counter—was useless. What had I been thinking?

The bottle in his hand swayed like a pendulum, its movements unhurried, his fingers loose around the neck. His other hand disappeared into his pocket as though he had all the time in the world, as though my fear was just an amusing sideshow.

“Are you my temporary neighbor?” he asked casually. Neighbor. Oh… he knew I was from the adjacent villa? Then he also knew I wasn’t alone. He knew I had friends… someone who would come to save me…

I offered a hesitant nod. He stared, not reacting. At all.

That almost made it worse—the infuriating calmness, the faint upward curve of his mouth as his piercing blue eyes locked onto mine. They held a dangerous edge, sharp and gleaming, but cold, like polished ice.

My eyes once again went to his palm, the fingers smeared with red.

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips, flickering there and gone.

“Paint,” he said, the single word slicing through the silence like the crack of a whip. His voice was steady, low, each syllable dragging, rough and deliberate, as if savoring the weight of it. “Red paint. Not blood.”

My breath stuttered, my lungs seizing up as I tried to process his words. Paint? I wanted to believe him. I really did. But the streaks on his knuckles, dried and jagged, looked too much like blood, too much like something I couldn’t explain away.

My chest rose and fell in uneven heaves, my fingers curling tighter around the edge of the counter until the pressure shot up my arms. The pain was grounding in the worst way.

“Are you alone?” he asked, his tone still deceptively calm, but this time it carried an undertone—a slither of something darker, coiling and flexing like a shadow ready to pounce.

I shook my head instinctively, my voice caught somewhere between my throat and my fear. The lie tumbled out without a second thought. My friends were nowhere in the sight, but I couldn’t admit that. I wouldn’t.

His eyes narrowed, not much, just a flicker, but enough to send a spike of dread through my chest. The smirk melted from his face, replaced by something colder, harder.

He straightened, and the shift in his posture was subtle but terrifying. The easy slouch evaporated, his movements now purposeful, his boots scraping against the floor as he turned and strode toward the hallway.

My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out every other sound as his steps echoed through the house. The creak of hinges, the groan of old wood, the sharp snap of a door flung open—all of it pressed down on me, each noise sharper than the last.

He was searching. For what? Someone? Something? My stomach churned with every crash and scrape, the seconds stretching into an unbearable eternity.

When he returned, the smirk was gone. His eyes—icy, sharp, and cutting—locked on me with predatory precision.

“Did you lie to me?” His voice wasn’t calm anymore. It was louder, harsher, each word biting through the air like a whip crack.

I flinched, shrinking further into myself as his boots thudded against the floor. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t give me a chance to stammer out another useless excuse. Instead, he moved to the window—the one I’d stupidly used to sneak in.

The sharp slam of it shutting reverberated through the room, the lock clicking into place like the snap of a trap. My knees wobbled, the weight of the sound landing like a hammer in my chest.

Did he lock my friends out? Were they insane? They should have been here by now but they weren’t. And now… how would they save me?

The air thickened, every breath harder to pull in, as though his presence alone had sucked all the oxygen from the room. My throat tightened painfully, and my head spun as the reality settled over me like a shroud.

Trapped.

I was trapped here. Alone. With him.

He turned back to me slowly, his shadow stretching long across the floor, dark and jagged, distorting with the flicker of the dim light. His expression was unreadable now, a mask of stillness that somehow carried more menace than before.

The silence pressed against my ears, deafening, and every instinct I had screamed at me to run, even though I knew there was nowhere to go.

I’d never felt fear like this before. It was raw, unrelenting, clawing up my ribs and locking me in place. Every muscle in my body ached to move, but the weight of his gaze pinned me down, coiling tighter and tighter until I thought I might snap.

The End of Chapter 3 of A Christmas Nightmare.
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