Chapter 1
A manicured hand, its crimson fingernails gleamed in the late afternoon sun, meticulously traced another letter onto the pristine white door. “N... A...” The woman, her perfect blonde bob shimmered, hummed a cheery tune, oblivious to the chilling message scrawled in blood: “Naale Baa.” She was in shock.
Her father pulled into the driveway. He stared at her for long moments before he dismounted and berated her. She turned and stared with vacant eyes, still humming the cherry tune.
His eyes panned across the idyllic suburban street. White picket fences gleamed, children chased each other on neatly trimmed lawns, and American flags waved proudly from every mailbox. This was Palldez Hills, a picture-perfect slice of Americana.
The sun's rays settled on a little girl with pigtails, skipping down the sidewalk. Her smile faltered as she passed a house with a crimson inscription, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Mommy,” she called out, tugging at her mother’s hand, “what does that mean?”
The mother, a vision of brunette perfection, clad in a gym outfit, knelt, her smile strained. “It’s... it’s nothing, sweetie. Just grown-up stuff.”
But if you lingered on the mother’s hand, clenched white-knuckled around her Saint Laurent Cassandre Matelassé flap pouch in quilted grain de poudre embossed leather . A single bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She shook her head as if a fly buzzed her.
But something lurked beneath the surface. As the mother zoomed in, a single, jarring detail shattered the idyllic façade. On a door across the street, another message, identical in its crimson horror, marred the otherwise pristine paint: “Naale Baa.”
A young boy, no older than ten, peeked through a fenced gap of his side yard, his eyes wide with terror. He recoiled, gasping. He saw something and turned quickly. to his house. There on the front door was the chilling message had been scrawled across a door: ”अभी मत आओ" (Abhi mat aao - Hindi for “Don’t come yet”). The boy looked back at the fence then back to his house. His mother’s weathered face framed by a hijab, peered from a window. Her eyes, filled with a primal fear that transcended language and religion, locked with his for a fleeting moment.
Then, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the suburban tranquility. The boy whipped back to the “perfect” side of the tracks. A crowd had gathered around a house, their normally placid faces contorted in horror.
A single police car, its siren wailing, screeched to a halt. Two officers, their faces grim, emerged, their hands hovering near their holsters. They glance across the fence at the nearest home. The front door as written in crimson, “Come Tomorrow”. The blood-red letters seemed to writhe, the meaning shifting, morphing from “Come Tomorrow” to a chilling promise: “You’re All Next.”
Palldez Hills was bisected by a rusty, disused railroad track. The tracks, once bustling with freight trains, now lay silent, a rusting scar splitting the town in two. The idyllic scene fractured further. A group of children, playing near the rusty railroad tracks that divided the neighborhood, grew quiet.
A gap in a fence, offered a glimpse of the other side. Where manicured lawns and perfect houses held sway on one side, a different picture emerged on the other. Modest homes, some with prayer flags strung outside, others adorned with discreet crosses.
A group of teenagers gathered on a driveway; their laughter tinged with an edge of nervous excitement as they stared into their phones.
The houses were larger, with meticulously manicured lawns and large four-wheel trucks and SUVs parked in driveways. This was the domain of a tight-knit community of Christian populists known for their fervent sermons and rigid interpretation of scripture.
Across the tracks, the houses were smaller, more diverse. There was a modest bungalow with a Star of David hanging in the window, a vibrant red Hindu prayer flag snapping in the breeze beside a house with a crescent moon decal. This was the “Other Side,” a melting pot of moderate Christians, a Hindu family, and a few Muslim families who had all found peace in Palldez Hills’ quiet embrace.
A teenager's eyes lingered on the “Naale Baa” message on the Muslim family’s door. A young Sarah, no older than eight, peeked out from behind the lace curtains, her large brown eyes wide with a terror that belied her innocence. On Sarah’s hand, the coral nail polish now chipped, revealing a raw bite mark. Behind her, a framed photo of a smiling family lay shattered on the floor.
Suddenly, a deafening screech shattered the suburban symphony. A rusty freight train, a leviathan of rust and decay, lurched down the abandoned tracks, its horn a banshee wail that echoed through the streets. As it passed, the train’s flickering light revealed another message scrawled near the tracks: “They Come Tomorrow.”
It has been years since a train had used those tracks. The faces of all residents' confident smiles faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease. Across the tracks, fear bloomed in the eyes of the “Other Siders.” A young Muslim man clutched his wife’s hand, his gaze darted nervously between the “Naale Baa” message and the approaching twilight.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, ominous shadows across Palldez Hills. The idyllic veneer had cracked, revealing a simmering tension, a primal fear that transcended religious and cultural divides. The question hung heavy in the darkening air: Who would be left when tomorrow came? And what did “Naale Baa” mean? The answer, whatever it was, promised a night of terror that would forever shatter the peace of Palldez Hills.
The air vibrated with the clatter of dishes, snippets of conversation, and the rhythmic whoosh of the mall air conditioning. Sunlight streamed through the high overhead windows, casting dappled patterns across the polished linoleum floor. At a brightly colored table near the entrance, five young women huddled over steaming cups of coffee and plates of half-eaten lunch.
The aroma of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries hung heavy in the air, competing with the noise of conversation and clinking mugs. Sunlight streamed through oversized windows, casting warm squares on the worn wooden tables of the trendy coffee shop. Laughter erupted, drawing the attention of several patrons.
