The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

The Old House

The old house sat on a hill, surrounded by overgrown woods and shrouded in mystery. It had once been part of a thriving village, but now it stood alone, its windows dark and its paint peeling. The war had swept through the area, leaving behind a ghost town.

A group of soldiers, weary from weeks on the front lines, stumbled upon the house as they sought refuge for the night. The four of them—Lieutenant Carter, Sergeant McKay, Corporal Andrews, and Private Miller—were tasked with fortifying this area for their battalion. The soldiers moved cautiously, scanning the deserted house for any sign of life.

“If anyone’s here, we’ll take them as prisoners,” Carter said, his voice carrying authority.

They swept through the house, their footsteps echoing in the empty rooms. But it was clear: the occupants had long since fled. The house was empty, except for the ghosts of its past.

Outside, in the garden, they discovered a deep, freshly dug hole. It looked out of place, as if someone had been preparing for something. But with their mission in mind, they paid it little attention. They had a job to do.

The Vanishing

The following day dawned grey and cold. The soldiers set about fortifying the house, laying sandbags and positioning their weapons. But as the sun climbed higher, they realised Corporal Andrews was missing.

“Where the hell is Andrews?” McKay grumbled, his patience worn thin.

The three remaining soldiers scoured the area, calling his name, their voices swallowed by the forest. The only answer was the rustling of leaves in the wind. No trace of Andrews could be found.

“Maybe he deserted,” Private Miller suggested, though doubt lingered in his eyes.

But Carter shook his head, his jaw set in determination. “Andrews wouldn’t just leave us. We stick together. We’ll find him.”

Yet, as night fell and shadows deepened, unease crept over the remaining soldiers. They huddled close, their rifles ready, every creak of the old house setting their nerves on edge.

The Disappearances

The next morning, Private Miller was gone. His bedroll lay abandoned, his gear untouched. Panic set in as Carter and McKay searched every inch of the house and surrounding woods, desperation clawing at their throats.

“This isn’t right,” McKay muttered, sweat trickling down his neck despite the chill.

Fear gripped them like a vice, and they realised they were being hunted, picked off one by one. But by whom? Or what?

That night, Carter stayed vigilant, his eyes scanning the darkness, adrenaline coursing through his veins. But exhaustion tugged at him, pulling him into a restless slumber.

The Capture

A sharp blow to the back of his head wrenched Carter from sleep. He awoke, groggy and disoriented, to find himself bound and gagged. Beside him, McKay and the others lay similarly restrained, their eyes wide with fear and confusion.

Looming over them was an old man, his beard wild and his eyes steely. He held a shovel with one hand, a soldier’s gun slung over his shoulder. He moved with the precision and strength of a man who had survived much and lost even more.

“Who are you?” Carter tried to demand, but the gag muffled his words.

The old man regarded them with cold detachment, a grim determination etched into his weathered face.

“You came to my home,” he finally spoke, his voice gravelly yet resolute. “My family, my neighbours—they were taken from me. I won’t let you do the same.”

Realisation dawned on Carter and his men. This man, this grave digger, was not merely a hermit defending his home. He was a man who had suffered unimaginable loss, determined to protect the last sanctuary he had.

The Endgame

The old man dragged them one by one to the edge of the pit, a grave he’d dug in preparation. The soldiers struggled against their bindings, trying desperately to escape.

“This is for them,” the old man said, his voice laced with the weight of grief. “For all those who never got the chance.”

One by one, he used their weapons against them, ensuring they would never return to wage war on what was his. The shots echoed through the silent woods, a final requiem for the soldiers who had come seeking refuge but found something else entirely.

As he covered the pit with dirt, the old man felt a sombre peace. He had protected his home, avenged his family, and honoured the memories of those he had loved.

The Survivor

As the dust settled, the old man returned to his solitary existence, living among the ghosts of his past. But unbeknownst to him, one soldier survived. McKay, left for dead, clawed his way out of the grave, determined to escape the hell that had claimed his friends.

He limped away, vowing to tell the tale of the grave digger and the haunted house on the hill. But deep down, he understood the old man’s pain, the desperation that drove him to such lengths.

And as he disappeared into the woods, the old man stood at the edge of his property, watching the sunrise, a silent guardian of the only home he had left.