The Pencil’s Reply

The monsoon had turned the streets of Dhaka into brown rivers, and the old school building seemed to groan under the weight of the rain. Inside, on the top floor, a handful of students huddled together in a classroom that hadn’t seen a full class in weeks. The power had flickered out an hour ago, leaving them in the dim glow of a single emergency lamp, its greenish light casting long shadows.

‘This is boring,’ said Rafi, a lanky boy who always had a smirk. ‘Let’s do something exciting.’

‘Such as?’ asked Sumaiya, wrapping her dupatta tighter around her shoulders.

‘We could tell scary stories,’ suggested Arif, his eyes gleaming. ‘I know one that’ll make you pee your pants.’

They all laughed, but the unease was palpable. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the rain hammered the windows like a thousand tiny fists.

‘Let’s play a game instead,’ said Nusrat, pulling out two pencils from her bag. ‘Have you heard of Charlie Charlie?’

The name sent a chill through the room. Some nodded, others shook their heads, but curiosity won. They cleared a space on the floor, placed the pencils in a cross, and sat in a circle around them.

‘Okay,’ Nusrat said, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘We ask if Charlie is here, and if the pencil moves, he’s joined us.’

They all leaned in, hearts pounding. The only light was the faint glow from outside, filtering through the heavy curtains. Nusrat spoke the words, clear and deliberate.

‘Charlie, Charlie, are you here?’

The pencil didn’t move. The room held its breath. Then, barely perceptible, the top pencil twitched and pointed to ‘No’.

A collective gasp. Some giggled nervously. ‘It’s just the wind,’ said Rafi, though there was no breeze.

‘Let’s ask if he wants to play with us,’ said Arif, trying to sound brave.

Nusrat repeated the question. This time, the pencil swung sharply to ‘Yes’.

A thrill passed through the group. They were playing with something beyond their understanding.

‘What do you want to ask him?’ Nusrat looked around.

Sumaiya, who had been silent, spoke up. ‘Ask him why attendance has been so low.’

They laughed, but the laughter died when the pencil moved violently, pointing to ‘Yes’ again, and then spun in a circle before stopping.

‘What does that mean?’ whispered Farida.

‘I don’t know,’ Nusrat admitted. ‘Maybe he’s telling us something.’

They decided to ask more questions: ‘Are you in this room?’ Yes. ‘Are you a student here?’ Yes. ‘Do you know why students are missing?’ Yes. ‘Can you tell us?’

The pencil pointed to ‘No’, then ‘Yes’, then ‘No’ in rapid succession, as if confused or mocking them.

Suddenly, the emergency lamp flickered and died. The room plunged into darkness. A few screams, then silence. They fumbled for their phones, but the screens were dead.

‘Okay, this isn’t funny,’ Rafi said, his voice shaky. ‘Who turned off the lamp?’

‘No one,’ Nusrat whispered. ‘We’re all here.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Farida pleaded.

They tried the door, but it was locked from the outside. The windows were barred. They were trapped.

A sound came from the corner of the room—a scratching, like nails on wood. Then a low, guttural breathing. They huddled together, trying to see in the darkness.

‘Charlie?’ Nusrat called out, her voice trembling.

The pencils on the floor began to move on their own, scraping across the tiles, forming a pattern. One pencil pointed to each of them, one by one, as if counting.

‘He’s choosing someone,’ Arif said, his voice barely audible.

‘No, don’t let him,’ Sumaiya cried.

But it was too late. The pencil stopped at Rafi. A cold wind swept through the room, and Rafi’s eyes glazed over. He stood up slowly, his body stiff, and walked to the window. He began to tap on the glass in rhythm, humming a tune no one recognized.

‘Rafi, stop it!’ Farida shouted.

Rafi turned, and his expression was not his own. His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile, and he spoke in a voice that crackled like static. ‘You wanted to know why they’re missing? They’re with me now.’

They all stared in horror. The words hung in the air. Then the lights flickered back on, and Rafi collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

They rushed to him, but he was breathing. The pencils had stopped moving. The game was over, but the terror had just begun.

In the days that followed, Rafi was never the same. He’d sit in class, staring blankly, occasionally whispering to himself. A week later, he stopped coming to school. His parents said he had a fever, but rumors spread.

Now, weeks later, our attendance has dwindled to even fewer students. Those of us who were there that day try to act normal, but we know. We know what happened to those who disappeared before us. They were called by Charlie, one by one, through the game. And now, at night, I feel a cold presence in my room. I see the pencils on my desk move slightly, pointing toward me, as if waiting for me to ask the question again.

But I won’t. I’ll never speak his name again. Yet, as I write this, I feel a draft, and my pencils shift on the desk. They point to the door. A voice, barely there, whispers, ‘Charlie, Charlie, are you there?’