Johny, Johny
A Short Story by Vasu Gangapalli

The rain hammered the window like a thousand restless fingers.
Thunder rolled through the night, and the entire house was swallowed by darkness as the power went out.

Anup groaned, rolling over on his bed. He hated nights like this. The wind howled through the gaps in the old wooden windows, and the shadows seemed alive—stretching and shrinking with every flicker of lightning.

He reached for his phone.
Dead. The battery had died hours ago.

He sighed and pulled the blanket over his face, trying to shut out the sound of the storm. Just as he began to drift, there came a faint creak from the corner of the room.

The closet door.

Anup froze. He didn’t remember leaving it open. Slowly, it continued to move, the hinges groaning in protest as it opened wider.

Then came a voice.
Low. Raspy. Amused.

“Johny, Johny…”

Anup’s breath hitched. His heart thudded against his ribs.
He tried to convince himself it was just his imagination. Just the wind.

But then it came again, louder this time—closer.

“Johny, Johny…”

His lips trembled. “Y–Yes, Papa…” he whispered, the words slipping out of him involuntarily.

There was a pause. Then a soft, sinister chuckle.

“Afraid of me?”

He clutched his blanket tighter, his body shivering. “N–No, Pa…pa…”

Another lightning flash illuminated the room—and through the thin fabric of his blanket, he saw it.
A shadow. Tall. Twisted. Human, but not quite. It moved closer to his bed, its edges writhing as if it were made of smoke and memory.

The voice crooned, almost playfully. “Telling lies?”

Anup’s breath came in gasps. He wanted to scream, to run, but his limbs felt paralyzed. He forced himself to sit up, yanking the blanket away—
The room was empty.

The closet stood open, yawning into blackness.
Nothing there.

He exhaled shakily. “It’s… it’s just in my head…”

Then something cold brushed his left ear.
A whisper followed.

“Ha… ha… ha…”

Anup bolted from his bed, tripping over the rug, stumbling toward the switchboard. He flicked it repeatedly. No power. The thunder roared again as if mocking him.

When he turned around, the closet door was now shut.

His heart pounded. Slowly, he stepped closer, his trembling hand reaching for the handle. He gripped it tight, took a deep breath—
And yanked it open.

Inside, hanging neatly, was his late father’s coat. The same old, faded brown one that still smelled faintly of tobacco.
He hadn’t touched it since the funeral three years ago.

Something slipped from the coat pocket and fell to the floor—a small voice recorder.

Anup bent down, his hands shaking, and pressed play.

From the recorder came that same chilling voice.
“Johny, Johny…”
Pause.
“Afraid of me?”
Pause.
“Telling lies?”

He dropped the recorder, his blood running cold. He remembered now—his father used to scare him as a child with that rhyme. A cruel joke he never forgot.

But this—this couldn’t be a coincidence.

He turned to the closet again. The coat swayed slightly, though there was no wind.

Then, softly, from behind him, the same voice—no longer from the recorder—whispered:
“Open your mouth… ha, ha, ha…”

Lightning struck, flooding the room with white light.

Anup spun around.

The shadow was standing right behind him—smiling with his father’s face.

The next morning, when the neighbors broke down the door after hearing screams all night, they found the room silent.

The bed empty.
The closet closed.

Only one thing lay on the floor—a child’s rhyme, scrawled in shaky handwriting across the wall in what looked like blood:

“Johny, Johny, yes Papa…”
“Eating fear? No, Papa…”
“Telling lies? Ha… Ha… Ha…”