The sprawling city of Dellhey lay shrouded under the cover of night, the once-bustling streets now silent, deserted, as if the city itself held its breath. Fear had taken root here, its tendrils creeping into every home, every street corner, and every shadow. They called it the Season of Fear, when Dellhey's nights were haunted by a single, chilling question:
"Did you ring my doorbell?"
Rogue had returned, slipping into the city like an insidious poison, bringing with him a darkness that had no cure. The doorbell murders, they called it. Every night, one house would hear that fateful sound—a single, loud ring piercing the stillness of the night. When the door was opened, there he stood, a towering figure wrapped in shadow, his eyes glowing like molten coals, his face an unreadable mask.
And then, the question.
"Did you ring my doorbell?"
It was a voice that seemed to come from the very depths of hell. If they answered "yes," their death was swift and brutal. Those who answered "no" weren't so lucky. They vanished, swallowed whole by the night, leaving behind nothing but echoes of their screams.
Rogue didn't know why he bothered asking. He knew no one would confess so easily. But it was the thrill of the hunt, the hope that maybe—just maybe—he'd find the one who had pushed him to this state. He would find them. He would tear apart every life in Dellhey if that's what it took.
The first incident occurred in Durgan Nagar, a quaint suburb where children once played under the warm glow of street lamps, and neighbors exchanged gossip over garden fences. Those days had ended the night Mrs. Parikh opened her door.
She had heard the bell ring once, sharp and sudden, just past midnight. Her husband, heavy with sleep, hadn't stirred, but she felt an odd compulsion. Despite the late hour, despite the unease twisting in her gut, she slid out of bed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She had shuffled to the front door, a strange fog clouding her thoughts, and opened it before she could second-guess herself.
And there he was.
"Did you ring my doorbell?" His voice was low, each word heavy with a strange, dark power.
"N-no," she stammered, fear clutching at her heart. She stepped back, ready to slam the door, but the figure had already moved. A hand like cold steel clamped around her wrist, yanking her into the night. She screamed, thrashing against his hold, but it was useless. He dragged her across the threshold, and then—nothing. The door swung shut behind her, the house as silent and empty as it had been moments before.
The next morning, Mrs. Parikh's husband awoke to find his wife missing. Her side of the bed was cold. Her slippers were gone. The front door hung open, a chilling draft creeping through the house.
They found no trace of her. No footprints. No struggle. It was as if she had been erased from existence.
The second incident happened in Chandi Path. Mr. Suryavanshi, a retired army officer, opened his door to the same question. He had taken one look at the dark figure and reached for the hunting knife he kept hidden in his belt.
"Yes," he'd growled defiantly, raising the blade. "I rang it."
Rogue's smile was thin and humorless. "Good."
What happened next was a blur of violence and gore, the old man's cries swallowed by the night as blood splattered the walls. When the neighbors found him the next day, they recoiled in horror. His body was splayed out on his front porch, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, eyes staring blankly at the sky. A gruesome message was scrawled on the wall in dark, dripping letters:
LIAR.
From then on, no one dared to say "yes" again.
Night after night, Rogue rang doorbells. Night after night, people answered, their voices quaking, their hearts pounding like drumbeats in their chests.
"Did you ring my doorbell?"
"No…"
They never saw the morning light. Some were dragged away like Mrs. Parikh, their screams echoing faintly through the alleys. Others vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the faintest hint of sulfur and charred ash, as if the very ground had swallowed them whole. Parents began locking their children inside their bedrooms, terrified that the sinister visitor might come for them next. Homes that once buzzed with life and laughter now stood silent, their curtains drawn, their doors bolted shut.
But the precautions were useless. Rogue always found a way inside.
Rumors spread like wildfire. They said he could walk through walls, that he could bend time and space itself to reach his victims. Some said he was a demon summoned from the pits of hell; others whispered he was a man driven mad by vengeance, seeking retribution for a wrong no one understood.
It wasn't long before the city fell into complete chaos. Shops shut down as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Street vendors packed up early, their gazes darting nervously toward the darkening sky. Local schools suspended evening classes. The air buzzed with tension, heavy with unspoken fear.
Dellhey had become a city under siege by something far worse than any human threat.
As the days turned into weeks, the police were inundated with reports—missing persons, strange sightings, terrifying encounters—but they were powerless. How do you fight something that disappears into shadows? That defies every law of nature? Each night, they patrolled the streets, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, but it was futile.
The fear ran so deep that people abandoned their homes. Entire neighborhoods turned into ghost towns overnight. The few who stayed did so out of desperation, convinced they could survive if they just hid well enough. But Rogue wasn't fooled. He always found them.
One by one, Dellhey's residents fell. Their numbers dwindled, each disappearance pushing the survivors further into madness.
It was around this time that the Paranormal Investigation Department—more commonly known as the S.C.A.R.E. Unit (Supernatural Cases and Abnormal Research Entity)—was called in. Their leader, Chief Investigator Arjun Mehra, was a stern, no-nonsense man with more than a decade of experience dealing with the unexplained. But even he couldn't mask the unease that coiled in his chest as he reviewed the case files.
"This is unlike anything we've seen before," murmured his second-in-command, Priya Patel, as she spread out photographs of the crime scenes across the table.
Arjun leaned over, scrutinizing the grisly images. Each house showed signs of forced entry, yet there were no fingerprints, no physical evidence that could be traced back to a human intruder. Only that single, mocking question scrawled somewhere on the walls.
"Did you ring my doorbell?"
"What the hell does it mean?" Priya muttered, her eyes dark with fatigue. "Why is he doing this?"
Arjun shook his head, frustration gnawing at him. "It's a message. A taunt, perhaps. But there's something else here—some deeper motive."
He glanced at the map of Dellhey, where each attack had been marked with a red pin. The pattern made no sense. The victims seemed to be chosen at random, no clear connection linking them.
"Every victim answered 'no,'" Priya continued. "And every one of them vanished. What happens if someone says 'yes'?"
Arjun shuddered. "We know what happens."
"What if they're telling the truth?" she pressed. "What if—"
"Then it's worse than we thought." Arjun's voice was grim. "If they say 'yes' and survive, it means they're part of whatever this is. And if they say 'no' and vanish…" He paused, staring at the map, the red pins blurring before his eyes. "It means he's not just killing. He's taking them somewhere."
A cold silence settled over the room, the implications of his words sinking in like a heavy stone. Rogue wasn't just murdering people. He was collecting them.
But for what purpose?
Arjun pushed back from the table, his jaw tight with determination. "We need to find him. Fast."
Priya nodded, but doubt flickered in her eyes. "How? This isn't just some ghost or entity we can track with our usual methods. He's… something else."
"I know," Arjun said softly. "But we don't have a choice. If we don't stop him, there won't be a city left to save."
As they gathered their equipment and prepared to head out, a chilling realization hung between them—Rogue wasn't just hunting his victims.
He was hunting them.
And now, the hunters had become the hunted.
That night, as the city of Dellhey held its breath, the doorbells remained silent.
But deep within the darkness, a figure moved. Rogue prowled through the shadows, his gaze flickering with a malevolent hunger. He would find them. He would make them pay. And if the investigators got in his way…
He grinned, a terrible, twisted smile.
He would make sure they knew the true meaning of fear.
The hunt continued. And Dellhey would bleed before it was over.
The next doorbell would ring soon.