The fire began like a whisper…thin, trembling, almost shy…before it rose and swallowed the night.
Indore’s old Rao Haveli had been
empty for years, a crumbling palace of peeled paint, collapsed corridors, and stories
that locals spoke of only during power cuts. Stray dogs slept in its courtyard.
Drifters sheltered under its rotting beams. No one cared for it anymore…until
the flames pushed the sky apart that night.
The fire brigade arrived to the
sight of a young woman standing barefoot at the gate, her nurse’s uniform
smeared with soot, her face lit orange by the inferno behind her. She didn’t
run. She didn’t hide. She didn’t cry.
She simply watched the haveli burn.
Two charred bodies would later be
found inside…squatters who never made it out. And the young woman…Ananya Khare,
24 years old, trainee nurse at Shaligram Memorial Hospital…would calmly hand
herself over to the police.
When they asked her why she had done
it, she gave a single sentence, her voice steady, as if repeating a line she
had rehearsed again and again:
“A voice told me… Fire purifies.”
The inspector leaned forward.
“Whose voice?”
Ananya blinked once…slow, heavy.
“I don’t know his name,” she said.
“But it was the same voice that told me to save the dying child last week… the
same voice that woke me at 3 a.m. and warned me about the gas leak in the ward…
the same voice that told me someone in the haveli needed release.”
She paused, eyes hollow, as if
replaying memories only she could see.
“I think…” She swallowed. “…it was
the voice of a good man. A righteous man. Someone who only wants to cleanse the
world.”
And yet…her hands trembled.
Because deep inside, beneath the
layers of obedience and fear, she wasn’t sure if that voice belonged to
righteousness…or something far darker. Something that had chosen her. Something
that was still whispering.
§
The interrogation room was silent
except for the faint buzzing of the ceiling fan. Ananya sat with her hands
folded neatly on her lap, as if she were waiting for a nursing class to begin.
Her calmness unsettled the officers more than the fire itself.
Inspector Raghav Sharma studied her
for a moment. She didn’t look like an arsonist; she looked like someone who
apologized if her footsteps were too loud. Yet two men were dead, and she had
walked into the police station on her own.
“Ananya,” he said gently, “voices
don’t come from nowhere. Did you recognize him? Was it someone you know?”
She shook her head.
“It didn’t feel like someone outside
me,” she whispered. “It felt… inside. But not part of me.”
Raghav leaned back. *Possession?
Trauma? A delusion? Or something else entirely?*
Ananya continued before he could ask
another question.
“The first time I heard him was ten
days ago. I was on night duty. One of the newborns had an apnea episode…stopped
breathing. No alarms went off. Nothing. I was walking past the ward when I
heard him say, clearly: Run. To the last
crib.”
Her fingers tightened.
“I sprinted. And he was right. The
baby would’ve died.”
She exhaled, the memory weighing
heavily on her chest.
“Then three nights later, he woke me
at 3:07 a.m. ‘The gas valve is leaking.’ I checked.
It was true.”
Raghav wrote quickly. “So you
trusted the voice.”
“It saved lives,” she said simply.
“I thought… maybe it was a guardian. A protector.”
“And the haveli?”
Her face went pale.
“The voice was different that
night,” she said slowly. “Softer. Sad. Like someone begging. They are suffering. Set them free.” She
clenched her jaw.
“When I struck the match, it wasn’t
like lighting a fire… it felt like completing a duty he assigned. Like he was
guiding my hand.”
Raghav exchanged a glance with his
subordinate.
“Ananya… this man’s voice…does he
call you by name?”
Her eyes lowered.
“Yes.”
“What does he say?”
She swallowed hard.
“He calls me… **nurse**.”
Raghav’s heartbeat quickened. There
had been a case…years ago…still unsolved. A man who believed death was a form
of healing. A man who targeted the weak, the suffering, the forgotten.
A man known only by what he called
his victims. And in every case…he addressed the one helping him by a special
title.
If Ananya was telling the truth,
then the voice she heard wasn’t random. It belonged to someone who had walked
this path before. Someone who might not be dead at all.
§
Inspector Raghav closed the file
slowly, as if the past itself might leap out of it. Ananya watched him,
confused by the sudden tension in his posture.
“Sir?” she asked softly. “Did I… say
something wrong?”
Raghav didn’t answer immediately. He
was remembering a crime scene from five years ago…his first major case as a
sub-inspector. A dingy one-room flat on the outskirts of Dewas. A man in his
forties found dead on a mattress, no struggle marks, no sign of forced entry. A
bottle of expired sedatives nearby. Two candles burning at the foot of the bed.
And a single line carved into the
wall with surgical precision:
“Pain is a disease. I am the cure.”
The man had been a nurse once. A
gifted one. Then fired. Then missing. No suspect was ever found.
No
voice ever traced.
But another detail from that case
returned to him now. Something only a few officers knew.
The dead man had left an audio diary…rambling,
fragmented recordings where he spoke to an unseen companion.
He referred to them by a single
word. “Nurse.”
Exactly as Ananya described. Raghav’s
throat tightened.
“Ananya,” he said quietly, “this
voice… does it sound young or old?”
She closed her eyes, searching the
memory. “Old. Or… tired. Like someone who has seen too much.”
Raghav scribbled something, his pen
trembling slightly. “Does he ever… praise you? Guide you? Make you feel
chosen?”
A faint, embarrassed nod. “Yes. He
says I understand suffering. He says I can help him cleanse pain from the
world.”
Raghav’s pulse spiked. This was too
close…too familiar. “Tell me exactly what he said before you lit the fire.”
Ananya hesitated. A flicker of guilt
crossed her face, “He said…” She lowered her voice, imitating the whisper that
had taken root inside her, “Nurse…some
lives ache so loudly that only flames can silence them.”
She opened her eyes again, wide,
trembling, “I thought he meant mercy.”
Raghav stood, pushing his chair
back.
“Stay here,” he said firmly. “Don’t
talk to anyone. Don’t listen to anything.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
He didn’t answer. He left the room
with urgent steps, signaling his constable to follow. In the corridor, his
voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
“Get me the Dewas case records. Now.
The recordings. The psychiatric notes. Everything.”
“Sir,” the constable asked, pale,
“you think it’s him?”
Raghav stared through the glass at
Ananya sitting alone inside the room, her eyes drifting to a corner…listening
to something no one else could hear.
“I think…” he said slowly, dread
creeping up his spine, “…the voice that guided her didn’t stop after the Dewas
death. It just found a new nurse.”
§
The Dewas case files arrived in a
torn cardboard box, the kind that had been dragged between too many desks over
too many years. Constable Pathak placed it on the metal table with a thud.
“Sir… these files haven’t been
touched in a long time.”
Raghav didn’t respond. He tore the
tape open and began digging through the dust-coated paperwork. Photographs of the
old flat. Autopsy notes. Psychiatric evaluations. But he wasn’t looking for any
of that.
He wanted the recordings.
And finally…beneath a stack of
brittle forms…he found a plastic envelope with a single label:
AUDIO
EVIDENCE - 17 FILES
“Recovered
from victim’s phone.”
He swallowed. Victim.
That word always bothered him. Even
back then, the investigation team couldn’t decide whether the man had killed
himself… or someone had “helped” him cross over. The room’s eerie setup
suggested ritual, not suicide. But nothing ever proved it.
Raghav slid the files into the old
USB player and clicked the first recording.
A man’s voice filled the small
office. Hoarse. Breathless. Unstable. But controlled.
“Pain is a teacher. The world does not listen. Only the dying tell the
truth.”
Pathak’s skin prickled. “Sir…this is…this
is creepy.”
“Quiet,” Raghav whispered. He played
the next file. “…suffering builds
pressure. A nurse must release it. A nurse must see what others refuse to see…”
Raghav froze.
The
same word. Nurse. Used
with the same reverence… and the same authority. Almost like a title.
He clicked another:
“…my hands fail now. I need another. A listener. Someone who hears the
whisper beneath the noise. Someone pure…”
Raghav shut off the player
immediately. Because in that moment, he understood something they had all
missed years ago.
The Dewas man hadn’t been
confessing. He had been searching. Calling out to someone. Recruiting.
Pathak hesitated. “Sir… you think
Ananya…”
“No,” Raghav cut him sharply. “Not
recruited. Not visited. She’s too young. She would’ve been a teenager back
then.”
“Then how is she hearing him?”
Raghav stared at the frosted glass
of the interrogation room down the hall. Ananya was still sitting alone, still still,
still too quiet.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Either
she’s channeling someone who’s alive…”
He exhaled slowly: “…or she’s
hearing someone who never needed a body to begin with.”
Before Pathak could speak, a scream
tore through the corridor. Not from a criminal. Not from an officer. From
inside the interrogation room.
Raghav sprinted toward the sound.
When he flung the door open, he saw
Ananya on her knees, hands pressed against her ears, tears carving lines
through the soot on her face.
“Make him stop!” she sobbed. “Please…make
him stop!”
Raghav knelt beside her, gripping
her shoulders, “What is he saying?”
Her voice came out broken, trembling…a
child lost in a storm.
“He… he says…” She looked up, eyes
wide with terror.
“He says you’re too late, Inspector. He has already found the next nurse.”
And before Raghav could ask another
question, Ananya whispered the final blow:
“He says you’ve met her.”
§
For a heartbeat, the room fell
utterly still.
Raghav felt the words settle inside
him like a cold weight, heavy enough to crush air. You’ve met her. Not someone,
not somewhere…her. A specific person. A woman whose face he had already seen.
“Ananya,” he said, trying to steady
his voice, “who is he talking about? Who have I met?”
She shook her head desperately, “He
won’t show me. He only laughs. He says he doesn’t need me anymore.”
That terrified Raghav more than
anything else that night.
Because manipulators…human or
otherwise…never discard someone unless they already had a replacement. Someone
more obedient. More useful. More dangerous.
He helped Ananya to a chair. Her
sobbing eased, but her fingers kept twitching, as though invisible hands tugged
at them. Pathak hovered at the door, pale as plaster.
“Sir… should I call for a
psychiatrist? Or backup?”
“No,” Raghav muttered. “Not yet.”
Because if the voice could reach
another person, another “nurse,” then calling in half the district wouldn’t
matter. This wasn’t an ordinary threat.
It was moving. Choosing. Escalating.
He stepped out into the corridor to
breathe, but halfway through his exhale, something clicked in his memory…sharp
and sudden.
Her.
The woman he’d spoken
to that very morning. The one who found the burnt bodies’ identities before the
forensics team. The volunteer who “just happened” to be near the haveli when
the fire broke out.
Raina
Solanki. Social worker.
Counselor for abandoned children. Soft-spoken, polite, visibly shaken by the
tragedy.
He had chalked her presence up to
coincidence.
But now…now every detail felt wrong.
Her answers had been too smooth. Her
concern too rehearsed. Her eyes too steady while staring at the ashes of the
dead.
He didn’t want to believe it…but a
pattern had formed:
The Dewas man had sought a
successor.
Ananya had heard the voice
briefly…guided, then discarded.
And
someone else had stepped in, quietly, efficiently.
Raghav rushed back into the
interrogation room.
“Ananya,” he said urgently. “Listen
carefully. Does the voice ever mention a name? A place? Anything that might
lead us to…”
She interrupted him with a whisper
so faint it barely existed: “Lotus.”
Raghav stiffened, “Lotus what?”
“I don’t know… he keeps repeating
it. ‘Lotus… Lotus… Lotus.’ Over and over.”
Pathak frowned. “A flower? A symbol?
A location?”
Raghav’s jaw clenched.
Lotus.
There was only one thing in Indore that used that name. A rehabilitation
shelter. Government-run. Recently taken over by a private NGO.
He grabbed his phone, scrolling
through his logs. He found it.
Raina
Solanki…Project Coordinator, Lotus Healing Home.
Raghav’s breath caught. “She works
there,” he whispered. He stared through the glass at Ananya, trembling, broken,
discarded by the voice. Which meant Raina wasn’t just someone he had met. She
might be the one the voice had chosen.
Pathak swallowed. “Sir… what do we
do?”
Raghav picked up his coat, his
badge, and the old Dewas file.
“We go to Lotus,” he said. “Right
now.”
He took three steps toward the door
when his phone buzzed. A new message. From an unknown number. Just two words.
“Welcome, Inspector.” And beneath it…a
photo. Raina Solanki smiling softly…holding a matchbox.
§
The morning sun hadn’t fully risen,
but the city was already awake…honking, grinding, pulsing with indifferent
life. Inspector Raghav didn’t notice any of it. His jeep sliced through
Indore’s traffic as if the road owed him answers.
Beside him, Constable Pathak
clutched the Dewas file like it might explode.
“Sir,” he said finally, “shouldn’t
we call for backup? At least inform the DCP?”
Raghav shook his head. “If I tell
anyone now, they’ll shut this down, call it paranoia, drag me into meetings.
Meanwhile, she’ll vanish.”
He didn’t need to name her. Pathak
already knew.
Raina Solanki. The woman with the
soft voice and steady eyes. The one now holding a matchbox in the photo sent to
Raghav’s phone.
The jeep turned down a narrow lane,
and the signboard appeared ahead:
LOTUS
HEALING HOME
A
rehabilitation & counseling centre
Except today, something felt wrong
the moment Raghav stepped out. The gate was unlocked. The security guard’s
chair was empty. A faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air like a warning.
Pathak whispered, “Sir… no staff?”
Raghav motioned for silence. They
entered. The reception area was neat…too neat. Files stacked, chairs tucked in,
cups washed and inverted on the counter. No human noise. Only the distant hum
of a water purifier.
Then Raghav noticed something on the
wall. A framed poster. A white lotus painted over a pale blue background. And
beneath it, a quote:
“Healing begins when suffering ends.”
“A motivational line?” Pathak asked.
“No,” Raghav muttered, stepping
closer. “Listen to the wording carefully.”
Pathak’s face drained. It echoed the
Dewas recordings.
“Pain is a disease. I am the cure. A nurse must release suffering.”
The same philosophy. The same
twisted mercy. They moved deeper into the building.
Halfway down the hall, Raghav
paused. A faint sound echoed from one of the therapy rooms. Not a scream. Not
crying.
Someone humming. A slow, gentle tune…like
a lullaby meant for dying children.
Raghav drew his gun. He pushed the
therapy room door open.
Inside sat Raina Solanki. Alone.
Calm. Composed. Her hair was tied neatly. Her dupatta draped perfectly. The
matchbox from the photo rested lightly on her palm. She didn’t look surprised
to see him.
“Good morning, Inspector,” she said
softly. “You came faster than he expected.”
Raghav’s blood iced over.
“He?” he asked.
Raina smiled…serene, almost angelic.
“The one who understands suffering.
The one who chooses nurses.”
She lifted her gaze, eyes glowing
with a quiet devotion that chilled the room.
“You asked if I heard the voice,”
she whispered. “But I didn’t just hear him…”
She touched her chest. “I felt him.”
Raghav stepped forward slowly.
“Where are the staff? What have you done?”
“They’re safe,” she said calmly. “He
didn’t want them here today. This morning is meant for just the two of us.”
Pathak flinched. “Why us?”
She looked at Raghav like a teacher
gently correcting a child.
“No, constable. Not you.”
Her eyes softened, “Just him.”
Raghav stiffened. Raina leaned back
slightly, her voice turning almost reverent, “He chose you long before you
realized it, Inspector.” A pause. “He has been waiting for you.”
Raghav’s grip tightened on his gun.
“Waiting for me to do what?”
Raina’s answer came like a soft
blade sliding under the skin:
“To finish what he started.”
The room seemed to shrink around
him. Raghav Mehra…rational, grounded, disciplined…felt something twist deep in
his stomach. Because Raina wasn’t bluffing. She wasn’t unstable. She wasn’t
guessing. She was certain. As if she already knew the path he would walk. As if
she’d seen it…or been shown it.
She leaned forward, voice gentle,
inviting:
“Shall I tell you what he whispered
about you?”
Raghav could barely speak. “What?”
Raina smiled. “That you would become
his final nurse.”
§
For a long, suffocating moment, no
one moved. Raina’s words hung in the room like smoke…thin, poisonous,
impossible to ignore.
“His final nurse.”
Raghav felt the floor tilt, not
physically, but inside him…somewhere deep where fear and instinct met. Pathak
shifted behind him, gripping his baton tighter, unsure whether to step back or
forward. Raina kept smiling, that calm, devotional smile that didn’t belong in
a room with a gun pointed at her.
“Raina,” Raghav said, his voice low
but steady, “whatever you think you’ve heard, whatever you believe…”
She interrupted without raising her
voice, “You think I’m delusional.”
Raghav held her gaze. “Yes.”
“I’m not.”
Her tone didn’t defend itself; it
simply stated a fact, like telling someone the sky was blue. She opened the
matchbox, sliding a single matchstick out with the tenderness of someone
handling a newborn.
“This is only a symbol, Inspector,”
she said. “I’m not here to burn anything today.”
“Drop it,” Raghav commanded.
She placed the matchstick gently on
the table. Then she looked up at him…directly, piercingly.
“He chose me first,” she continued.
“Months ago. I resisted him.” A soft, almost sad laugh. “People always imagine
the chosen ones surrender immediately. They don’t. I fought. I begged him to
choose someone else.”
Her expression changed…pride and
sorrow tangled together.
“But when the suffering grew louder,
when the dying cried for release… I understood. I accepted.”
Raghav felt Pathak’s breath hitch
behind him.
“Why me?” Raghav asked. “Why tell me
all this?”
“Because he wants you to stop
pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“That you don’t hear him.”
Raghav went cold. Raina tilted her
head, studying the shift in his eyes.
“There it is,” she whispered. “That
flicker. That moment of truth.”
“I don’t hear any voice,” Raghav
snapped.
But Raina only smiled deeper.
“You lie better than Ananya. She was
frightened. You’re only confused.”
She stood slowly…hands visible,
movements gentle…like she didn’t fear the gun at all. Then she walked toward
him with unhurried steps.
Pathak raised his baton. “Ma’am,
stop!”
Raina didn’t stop. She sighed
softly, almost pitying.
“I thought you would understand
faster, Inspector. After all…”
She stepped close enough for him to
see the faint dusting of ash on her sleeve. “…you were the first person he
tested.”
Raghav blinked, “What?”
Raina leaned in, voice dropping to a
whisper meant only for him, “The night you found that girl near the railway
tracks. The one you swear you heard crying for help…”
Raghav’s breath faltered.
“…even though she was already dead.”
The room spun for a moment. Raghav
stepped back involuntarily. His mind…normally
clear, sharp …flooded with a memory he had buried, the one case he could never
logically explain. A night years ago. A voice that wasn’t a voice. A feeling
that pulled him to a corpse before anyone else knew she was there.
Raina watched his face change,
watched the doubt crack into understanding.
“Now you see,” she whispered. “He
chose you long ago. He spoke to you first. I was only the bridge.”
Raghav forced the gun steadier.
“Stop. Don’t take another step.”
But Raina didn’t fear death. She
didn’t fear anything. She smiled with quiet certainty.
“He wants you to listen today.”
And before Raghav could react, Raina
lifted her hand and pressed something into his palm. A small, cold object. A dictaphone.
“Press play,” she said softly. “He
recorded this… for you.”
Raghav stared at the device.
Pathak’s voice trembled. “Sir…
don’t.”
Raina whispered:
“It’s his greeting.”
Raghav exhaled slowly, thumb
hovering unwillingly over the button. Then…He pressed PLAY. A crackle. Then a
voice. Not Raina’s. Not Ananya’s. Not human. A rasped whisper, ancient and
intimate:
“Hello, Raghav.”
The detective’s heart stopped. Because
the voice knew his name. Because it sounded like it had been waiting. And
because…in the deepest part of his mind…he had heard it once before.
§
The police jeep rolled through the
narrow Indore lanes as dawn finally gathered strength behind the rooftops. The
city was waking up…vendors unlocking shutters, stray dogs circling tea stalls,
scooters coughing to life…but inside the jeep, a colder stillness lived.
Inspector Satish kept glancing at
Radhika in the backseat.
She sat stiff, wrists cuffed, the
faintest tremor moving through her fingers whenever the jeep hit a bump. Her
eyes were open, alert, but not here.
They were following something only she could see.
Arjun watched her carefully. He
wasn’t looking for fear. He was looking for reaction…for the shift in her face
whenever she felt that unseen presence again.
They were taking her back to the
haveli she had burned.
“Sir,” Satish muttered, “I still
don’t understand why we’re doing this. She’s unstable. What if she reacts
again?”
Arjun replied calmly, “Because
trauma doesn't stay at home when you arrest someone. It follows her. If she’s
really hearing a voice, it will try to speak to her where it first appeared.”
Only Radhika looked up at that. Her
lips parted…slowly…as if the sentence struck something deep.
“It will speak again,” she whispered.
The jeep fell silent. Satish tightened his grip on his notebook.
Arjun kept his gaze steady on her, not blinking.
“Who?” he asked softly, “Who will
speak again, Radhika?”
Her throat moved. She looked at the
floor, then at the window, then at the rising sun as if it was no sun at all.
And then…softly, shakily…she formed
the words:
“The man in the mirror.”
Arjun straightened.
“Mirror?” he pressed. “Where did you
see a mirror in an abandoned mansion?”
She shook her head, “No… not there.”
A pause. Her voice thinned, “I saw him in the hospital. In the medicine room.
In the window glass. In the steel tray. In the IV bottle. Wherever a reflection
was… he appeared.”
Satish’s pen froze mid-air.
Arjun leaned a little closer, his
body steady, mind racing, “Describe him.”
Radhika blinked… once… twice… each
blink slower than the last. Then she whispered, “He has no face. Just a mouth. And
the mouth never opens…but I still hear him.”
Arjun felt a cold pinprick behind
his spine. The jeep reached the broken main gate of the haveli. As they rolled
inside, the sun slipped behind the clouds and the whole courtyard dimmed…as if
the mansion exhaled and swallowed the light.
Arjun stepped out first. Radhika
didn’t move. She was staring into the jeep’s side window…at her reflection…not
blinking, not breathing. Arjun circled to her side.
“Radhika,” he said gently, “step
out.”
She didn’t respond. He followed her
gaze. Her reflection in the glass was still… but the mouth in the reflection…was
smiling. And Radhika’s real mouth wasn’t. Arjun’s jaw locked. He reached
forward and turned her face away from the window, breaking the reflection. Only
then she inhaled sharply, as if pulled up from underwater.
“Sir,” Satish whispered from behind,
voice shaking, “did you see…”
Arjun raised a hand, “Not now.”
He looked at the blackened doorway
of the mansion, “Let’s go inside.”
Radhika’s voice drifted behind him,
fragile as ash, “He’s already inside…He
came before us.”
Inside the burnt haveli, the air
felt heavier than it should. Charcoal smell. Wet soot. Silence. Arjun stepped
ahead with measured caution, but Satish lingered at the entrance, staring at
the blackened walls as if they were about to come alive. This wasn’t an
ordinary crime scene anymore…and he knew it.
“Sir…” Satish called out, voice
lower than usual. “Before we go in deeper, I need to tell you something.”
Arjun turned. Satish didn’t look
frightened. He looked conflicted…like a man fighting between logic and
something he couldn’t explain away.
“What is it?” Arjun asked.
Satish wiped his palms on his
trousers and pointed toward the staircase leading to the first floor…a
staircase half burned, half standing like a spine stripped of flesh.
“I was the first officer to arrive
here the morning of the fire.” He paused, “And I saw something… that I didn’t
write in the report.”
Arjun’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“Because it made no sense then.” He
took a step closer, “But after hearing what she”…he tilted his head toward
Radhika…“said in the jeep… I think I should tell you.”
Arjun nodded for him to continue.
Satish took a deep breath, “When I
reached that staircase,” he said, pointing again, “there was a mirror lying on
the second step.”
Arjun frowned, “A mirror? In an
abandoned haveli?”
“Yes, sir. A small rectangular
piece. Looked like it was broken off from a dressing table. It was clean…
untouched by fire. Even though everything around it was scorched black, that
piece of mirror was shining like it had been wiped seconds ago.”
Radhika, standing behind them in
cuffs, let out a tiny gasp. Arjun didn’t break eye contact with Satish.
“What happened then?” he asked.
Satish swallowed, “I bent to pick it
up. But before I touched it…” He hesitated…a rare thing for a man who had seen dead
bodies, riots, and six years of violent crime scenes…“I felt someone breathing
behind me.”
Arjun’s jaw tightened.
“And when I looked into the mirror…”
Satish continued, voice trembling now, “…I didn’t see myself.”
Silence collapsed around them. Radhika’s
eyes widened.
She whispered, “You saw him…”
Arjun stepped forward, “What did you
see, Satish?”
Satish’s breath hitched, as if the
memory itself had weight.
“A man,” he said quietly, “Tall.
Shoulders slightly bent. But no face. Just… a mouth. Curved. Stretched wider
than normal. Like it wanted to speak, but someone had sewn it shut.”
Arjun’s spine stiffened.
“And the worst part,” Satish added
in a shaking whisper, “the mouth was moving… even though it was closed.”
Radhika covered her ears. Arjun
inhaled slowly. He was piecing a pattern.
“And where is this mirror now?” he
asked.
Satish’s expression changed…guilt
mixing with dread, “That’s the part I never told anyone.” He pointed to the
burnt staircase again, “Sir… when I dropped it in fear, it didn’t fall on the
steps.” A pause. “It slid upward. As if someone pulled it.”
Arjun felt a wave of cold move
across the room.
Satish finally stepped inside fully,
his voice firmer now…a man finally admitting the truth he had been shutting
down for days.
“Sir,” he said, “whatever voice she
is hearing…it wasn’t just hers.”
He glanced around the ruined haveli,
his hand automatically resting on his holster.
“It’s still here.”
The three of them stood at the
bottom of the staircase…Arjun in front, Satish a step behind him, Radhika
clutching her cuffed hands to her chest. The corridor stretched ahead like a
blackened throat, its walls eaten by fire, its old wooden beams twisted and
charred.
This was where the flames had burned
the hottest. Arjun clicked on his flashlight. The beam cut through drifting
dust, sparks of ash floating like dead fireflies.
“Stay close,” he said quietly.
Satish nodded, but he was already
scanning every reflective surface…burnt tiles, shattered glass, even the glossy
patches of melted paint…anything that could hold a reflection. Radhika followed
in cautious steps, her ankles trembling with every crunch of burnt debris
beneath her shoes. The deeper they moved, the more the temperature dropped. Not
rise…drop.
Radhika felt it first.
“It’s… cold,” she whispered, “Colder
than before.”
Satish rubbed his arms. “Sir, this
makes no sense. A burnt corridor should be warm, not…”
CLINK.
A metallic sound rang from ahead.
All three froze. Arjun aimed his flashlight forward. A small steel bowl…maybe
from the haveli’s old kitchen…rolled slowly across the floor. It spun once,
then fell still.
Satish swallowed. “Something touched
it.”
Radhika’s voice thinned, barely
audible, “No… someone dragged it.”
Arjun moved closer, eyes sharp,
scanning the floor. The corridor widened at the end, opening into a partially
collapsed hall. And there…against the far wall…stood something Arjun hadn’t
expected.
A steel almirah. Half-burnt. Door
hanging open. Its inner panel lined with reflective metal. A perfect mirror
substitute. Satish stepped forward, panic creeping into his words.
“Sir… that wasn’t here when I
searched the place last time.”
Arjun moved cautiously toward it. Radhika
stayed where she was, breathing fast.
“Sir,” Satish whispered urgently,
“don’t stand in front of it…”
But Arjun was already facing the
almirah. He wasn’t looking at himself. He was looking at what else might
appear. The reflective surface was warped from the heat, bending shapes,
sucking in shadows… but Arjun could still see three faint outlines. Himself. Satish.
Radhika. And then…A fourth. A tall, crooked silhouette, standing behind
Radhika. Arjun’s breath stilled in his chest. He didn’t turn immediately. He
knew better than to react suddenly. His voice came slow, controlled.
“Radhika… don’t move.”
Radhika froze. Her eyes widened. She
felt something warm on the back of her neck…warm, despite the cold. Satish saw
Arjun’s face drain of color.
“Sir… what… what do you see?” Satish
whispered.
Arjun didn’t blink.
“Radhika,” he said, voice low and
steady, “whatever you do, do *not* look behind you.”
Radhika whispered, “Is he… here?”
Arjun tightened his grip on the
flashlight.
“He’s standing right behind you.”
The steel bowl on the floor
trembled. Somewhere in the corridor, debris crackled softly. And then…
in
the almirah’s reflection…the faceless silhouette slowly leaned forward, its
stitched mouth stretching in an unnatural curve…As if preparing to whisper
something.
Arjun’s pulse hammered. “Satish,” he
murmured, “get her away. Slowly.”
Satish reached for Radhika’s arm. But
before he could touch her…The stitched mouth in the reflection opened. Wide.
Too wide. Arjun stepped back instinctively. A voice…not loud, not shouted, but
sharp as a blade’s whisper…cut through the air:
“Fire… purifies.”
Radhika screamed. The almirah door
slammed shut on its own. The steel bowl shot across the floor.
And
the cold shifted instantly into burning heat. Arjun grabbed Radhika and pulled
her back toward the corridor.
Satish shouted, “MOVE!”
The hall behind them erupted in a
sudden flare…not fire…light, like a furnace flash. Arjun dragged them into the
corridor as the air vibrated with a sound like cracking bone. And then…silence
again. Except for Radhika’s soft sobbing. Arjun steadied his breath. His jaw
was set. This was no hallucination. No delusion. No psychological projection.
Someone…or something…was here. And
it wanted her.
Radhika’s sobs softened into
shivers. She clung to Arjun’s sleeve like a child clings to a doorway during a
nightmare. Satish kept his gun out now…not because bullets would help, but
because fear needs something to hold.
The corridor behind them had gone
utterly still. No heat. No cold. Just a dead silence that felt thicker than
smoke. Arjun took a slow breath. He needed to see what had changed.
He turned to Satish, “We go back.”
Satish’s eyes widened. “Sir, that
thing…”
“If it wanted to kill us,” Arjun
said quietly, “we’d already be dead.”
Radhika trembled. “He doesn’t kill,”
she whispered, “He purifies.”
Arjun ignored the line for now and
stepped forward, flashlight steady, moving back toward the hall. The almirah
stood exactly where it had been…except the metal surface was no longer
reflecting anything. It was pitch-black. As if someone had painted the inner
panel with ink. Arjun crouched slowly. Satish kept scanning the shadows,
breathing heavy.
“Sir… should I call for backup?
Extra personnel?”
Arjun shook his head, “No. The more
people here, the more this thing reacts.”
Radhika nodded mechanically, “He
doesn’t like… crowds.”
That chilled Satish more than the
fire or the cold. Arjun stood up and shifted the flashlight to the wall beside
the almirah. That’s when he saw it. A mark. Blackened. Charcoal-like. Fresh. Not
burned by the original fire…the edges were warm, as if drawn moments ago. A
symbol. Three vertical lines. Each line ending in a downward curve. A mouth
shape beneath them…stretched wide.
Satish stiffened, “Sir… is that…?”
“Yes,” Arjun said quietly, “It’s the
same shape as the reflection.”
Radhika’s voice quivered from
behind, “It’s his face…or whatever is left of it.”
Arjun moved his fingers close to the
mark…not touching, but close enough to feel the faint heat radiating from it. Like
the wall itself was breathing.
“Sir…” Satish whispered. “What is
this thing? A spirit? A hallucination? A—”
“No.” Arjun’s tone turned clinical,
sharp, “This isn’t supernatural. Not in the classic sense.”
He stepped back, analyzing.
“When hallucinations repeat across
individuals, when symbols appear, when there’s intelligent reaction to
movement… it suggests something else.”
Satish frowned, “Something living?”
Arjun shook his head, “Something that lives… inside the mind. Something
that doesn’t have a form until a reflective surface gives it one.”
Radhika squeezed her eyes shut, “He
said he likes mirrors because minds and mirrors… both reflect truth.”
Arjun turned sharply toward her, “What
truth did he show you, Radhika?”
Her eyes fluttered. She looked away,
body curling inward. “I can’t say it.” Her voice cracked, “If I say it… he’ll
come again.”
Arjun crouched beside her, “He’s
already here. And if you don’t tell us, he’ll keep coming.”
Radhika’s lips quivered. Tears slid
down.
Satish softened his tone, “Radhika…
we’re with you. Tell us what he said.”
She swallowed hard. Then whispered…not
to Arjun, not to Satish…but to the air, “He said the fire wasn’t the
beginning.”
Arjun’s eyes narrowed, “Then what
was?”
Radhika looked up, trembling
violently now. Her next words came out like a confession she had held for
years, “He told me…I’ve burned before.”
Satish blinked, “What? Burned what?”
Radhika pressed her cuffed hands to
her mouth, horror spreading across her face as if memory itself had been lit up
with flames. Arjun leaned in, voice steady, piercing.
“Radhika… what did you burn before
this haveli?”
Her answer came in a broken whisper,
“Someone.”
The corridor seemed to exhale. Silent.
Heavy.
Arjun’s pulse hammered…not because
of the confession, but because the symbol on the wall behind him began to
change. One of the curved lines at the bottom…the “mouth” shape…slowly widened.
On its own. As if responding to her words. As if smiling.
The curved mouth on the wall widened
another fraction…just enough to make Satish step back with a muttered curse.
Arjun didn’t move. He watched the
symbol shift with the stillness of a surgeon watching a heartbeat falter.
“Radhika,” he said quietly, “look at
me. Not the wall.”
She lowered her trembling hands. Her
eyes were red, swollen, frightened not of Arjun or Satish…but of her own
memory.
“What did you burn?” Arjun repeated
softly.
Radhika sucked in a sharp breath. “I
didn’t mean to,” she murmured. The tears came harder now,
“I
was… I was only twelve.”
Satish froze. Arjun didn’t.
“Where?” he asked.
“In Dhar district,” she whispered, “In
my uncle’s house. I used to live there after my parents died.”
Arjun exchanged a quick glance with
Satish. “And you set a fire there?”
Radhika nodded slowly, “I… I used to
sleep in the store room. There were kerosene bottles stacked in the corner. My
uncle told everyone I knocked one over.” She shut her eyes. “But he was lying.
I remember. I struck the match. I lit it.”
“Why?” Arjun asked gently.
Her voice broke. “My cousin… he used
to…” Her throat locked up. She couldn’t say it. But Arjun understood. Satish
looked sick.
“He hurt you,” Arjun said, finishing
the sentence for her.
Radhika nodded once…a quick, painful
movement.
“I didn’t want to kill him,” she
whispered, “I only wanted to destroy the room… the place where he…” She
flinched, unable to continue.
Arjun didn’t push.
Satish exhaled shakily. “Your uncle
saved you?”
“No,” she said, voice hollow, “He
saved himself. He took me out and told the police it was an accident. No one
questioned anything.”
Arjun stayed silent for a moment…letting
her breathe, letting the truth settle.
“Radhika,” he said finally, “why
didn’t you remember this until now?”
“I did,” she admitted, “I just
never… faced it.” Her eyes lifted…slowly…toward the symbol on the wall. “And
he…” She swallowed, “…he knew.”
Arjun felt a chill ripple up his
arms, “The voice?”
Radhika nodded, “When he first
appeared in the hospital… he didn’t threaten me. He didn’t scare me. He just
said one thing.”
“What?” Satish asked.
Her answer came like falling shards,
“‘I remember the first fire. Do you?’”
Arjun’s pulse raced, “And that made
you go to the haveli?”
“No.” She shook her head. “He didn’t
tell me to burn the mansion. He didn’t tell me anything about this place.”
Arjun narrowed his eyes, “Then why
did you come here?”
Radhika looked at him helplessly, “I
don’t know, sir. I woke up at 3 AM. Got dressed. Walked out of the hostel. Got
an auto. And I came here like… like someone had already written the script.”
Satish muttered under his breath,
“Possession…”
Arjun shot him a sharp look, “No.
Not possession. Something else.”
Radhika whispered, “He said mirrors
replay memories. But minds… replay wounds.”
Arjun turned toward the twisted
almirah door, “And he wanted you in a place already charred… to recreate the
memory.”
Radhika nodded weakly, “And to make
me burn again.”
Satish frowned, “But why this
mansion? What connection did this place have with your past?”
Radhika shook her head, wiping her
nose against her shoulder, “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.”
Arjun stepped closer, “Then someone
brought you here for a reason.”
He pointed at the symbol, “This
thing didn’t choose randomly.”
Satish exhaled. “Then who did?”
Radhika wasn’t looking at them
anymore. She was staring at the wall…where the charcoal mouth had now shifted
into a wider, sharper curve. Her voice came out flat, as if the thought had
just risen inside her like smoke:
“Maybe this wasn’t the first house I
burned.”
Arjun turned to her sharply, “Radhika…”
She interrupted him with a whisper
that chilled both men to the bone:
“Maybe I’ve burned others too…and I
don’t remember.”
The corridor behind them groaned,
the walls creaking as if reacting to her revelation.
And the curved mouth on the wall
widened one last time…so wide it looked like it was laughing.
The laughter-shaped mark on the wall
froze in its final grotesque curve. Radhika stepped back instinctively, as if
the wall itself had leaned toward her. Arjun raised a hand, keeping Satish
behind him.
“Radhika,” he said gently but
firmly, “listen to me. Before this haveli… before the fire in Dhar… what else
do you remember?”
Her eyes stayed fixed on the symbol,
but her voice drifted out hollow, distant. “I remember heat,” she whispered, “And
the colour orange behind my eyelids when I sleep.”
Satish shifted uneasily, “She’s
talking like she’s…”
“Having flash fragments,” Arjun
finished, “Trauma memories.”
Radhika slowly touched her temple
with her cuffed wrists. “They come like flashes… tiny pieces. A window. A
curtain. A staircase. Fire climbing it like an animal…”
Satish looked confused, “But whose
house was it?”
Radhika didn’t answer.
Arjun stepped closer, still calm,
still controlled, “Describe the house you see in your dreams.”
Her breathing trembled, “It’s not a
mansion. Smaller. Yellow walls. One big neem tree outside. Dingy windows. A
roof with metal sheets that clattered at night.”
Arjun stiffened.
Satish turned to him, “Sir? You
recognize it?”
Arjun didn’t answer. He stared at
Radhika instead.
“How many rooms?” he asked quietly.
“Two,” she whispered, “And a small
store room… locked from outside.”
Satish froze. Arjun inhaled sharply.
His voice turned colder, tighter.
“Radhika… why do you remember a
house like that?”
Her lips parted. She looked suddenly
lost, as if a curtain inside her mind had been lifted and she was seeing
something for the first time. “I don’t know,” she murmured, “I’ve never lived
in a house like that… at least… I don’t think I have.”
Satish whispered, “Sir, this is
going in circles…”
“No,” Arjun said, “It’s linear. But
the line is buried.”
He turned to Radhika.
“Think. That house…the one with
yellow walls…what happens in your memories?”
Radhika swallowed. “The fire starts
from the floor,” she said slowly, “From the kerosene trail. Someone poured it
carefully… long lines on the floor. Not random.”
Arjun’s eyes darkened, “And do you
see yourself pouring it?”
She shook her head violently, “No. No,
I don’t. That’s not me. I… I didn’t do that.”
Arjun stepped closer, “Then who did
you see?”
Radhika breathed faster, clutching
her hands, “I don’t see him clearly. Just his outline. But he’s tall.
His
shoulders are bent forward. And his…”.
She stopped. Her voice broke, “And
his mouth… even in memory… is stitched.”
Satish’s jaw dropped. Arjun felt a
cold certainty settle in his chest.
“That silhouette,” he said, “isn’t
the creature. It’s a memory of a real man.”
Radhika looked shaken, “No… no he
can’t be real. No one looks like that. No one…”
“Trauma distorts shapes,” Arjun
said, “Especially at night, through fear, through heat, through tears.”
Radhika blinked rapidly as if trying
to fight off a merging of past and present, “So that man… the one I see in
every mirror…”
Arjun finished the thought, “…might
be someone from your childhood. Someone who burned a house while you were
inside.”
Radhika’s legs nearly gave way. Satish
grabbed her shoulder gently, “Sir… if she was in a burning house as a child and
doesn’t remember…”
“She does remember,” Arjun said, “But
only in splinters. Because someone made sure she forgot the rest.”
Radhika whispered, “Who would do
that to me?”
Arjun answered quietly, “Someone who
didn’t want the world to know what he did.”
A long silence followed.
Then Radhika’s voice came, barely
audible, “Is that why he comes in reflections? Because that’s where memories
hide?”
Arjun didn’t reply.
Because behind Radhika, the charred
symbol on the wall began to darken… as if something behind it was pushing to come
through.
Satish saw it and stepped back fast,
“Sir… the wall…”
Arjun turned sharply. A faint sound
leaked through the charcoal lines. Not a whisper. Not a voice.
A
breath. A long, slow, deliberate breath…as if something on the other side of
the wall was waking up.
Radhika went still.
“He’s remembering too,” she
whispered.
Arjun clenched his jaw. This wasn’t
just Radhika’s past resurfacing.
Someone…or something connected to a
real person…was trying to come back.
And the wall between memory and
presence was thinning.
The breath behind the charred symbol
deepened…slow, heavy, like lungs awakening after years underwater. Arjun
stepped forward, raising a hand to stop Satish from dragging Radhika back.
“Don’t move,” Arjun said quietly, “It’s
not the wall. It’s her memory projecting through it.”
Satish whispered, “Sir… memories
don’t breathe.”
Arjun didn’t answer immediately. His
eyes were fixed on the blackened curve of the symbol. Something in Radhika’s
fractured past was syncing with the environment, amplifying itself, shaping the
air around it. Trauma did that. Deep trauma did worse.
Radhika stared at the wall as if
hypnotised. The breath matched the tremble in her chest. Her eyes weren’t
looking at the wall anymore…they were looking through it. Into something older.
Into something she had tried not to remember for years.
“Radhika,” Arjun said softly,
stepping closer to her, “what is this place reminding you of?”
Her lips trembled. “The smell,” she
whispered. “It’s the same. Kerosene. Burnt cloth. The same smell from the small
yellow house…”
Arjun nodded slowly. “Good. Follow
that. What happens after the fire starts?”
Radhika closed her eyes. And the
breath behind the wall grew louder.
Satish flinched. “Sir, it’s reacting
to her.”
“Exactly,” Arjun murmured. “Her mind
is unlocking the chamber it sealed.”
Radhika’s voice trembled but kept
going, “The man… the tall man with bent shoulders… he’s dragging something. A
sack. Heavy. It hits the floor with a dull thump.”
Arjun leaned in. “What’s inside the
sack?”
She shook her head violently. “I
don’t want to see that. I don’t want to…”
The symbol on the wall shuddered, as
if the charcoal lines were expanding.
“Radhika,” Arjun said, firmer now,
“you saw it once. You can see it again. What was in the sack?”
Radhika’s eyes shot open. And the
breath behind the wall abruptly stopped. The silence turned thick, suffocating.
Then she whispered, “A child.”
Satish staggered back. “A… child?
Dead?”
“No,” she said. “Alive. Crying. I
can hear the crying. I always heard it in my dreams but I never knew what it
was.”
Arjun’s face tightened. Every piece
was falling into place…and it was darker than he expected.
“Radhika,” he said quietly, “was
that child you?”
Her eyes widened. A tear rolled down
her cheek.
“I think… I think he was trying to
burn me.”
Satish swore under his breath.
Arjun took a deep breath. “And he
stitched his mouth so you couldn’t hear his real voice. So you’d remember him
as something inhuman.”
Radhika clutched her head. “He kept
whispering something as he poured the kerosene. But his mouth shouldn’t move,
right? How could he whisper?”
Arjun replied slowly, “Not all
stitching is real. Trauma invents symbols when the original detail is too
painful.”
Radhika stared at the wall, her fear
rising again, “He said something. Every night in my dreams. Every time the fire
comes back.”
Satish asked, “What did he say?”
Radhika exhaled shakily. “He said… ‘Fire purifies. Fire hides. Fire resets.’”
Arjun felt his stomach sink. The
same words Poonam had hallucinated. Same rhythm. Same cadence.
This
wasn’t coincidence.
The man from Radhika’s childhood…the
man with the kerosene trail…had resurfaced in the nurse’s hallucinations. Which
meant he wasn’t a ghost. He was alive. Somewhere close. And he was already
influencing multiple minds.
Just then…The charred mark on the
wall split, a thin crack running through it, releasing a burst of cold air that
didn’t belong in a burnt room.
Radhika grabbed Arjun’s arm. “He’s
remembering me,” she whispered, “And he’s coming back.”
Arjun steadied her, “No. You’re
remembering him. And that means we can find him.”
Satish stepped backward, eyes on the
widening crack, “Sir… what do we do?”
Arjun looked at both of them, his
voice controlled but sharp, “We find the house with yellow walls. We find the
neem tree. We find the man whose voice survived the fire.”
He turned toward the exit, “And this
time… we burn his memory before he burns anyone else.”
The crack in the charred wall kept
widening behind them, but Arjun didn’t spare it another glance. He turned
sharply toward the exit, the pace in his steps forcing Satish and Radhika to
follow.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun hit
them like a slap…too bright after the suffocating air inside.
Satish exhaled. “Sir, we need
backup. That wall—whatever was happening inside—”
Arjun cut him off, “That wall isn’t
our enemy. Memory is. And right now, memory is breaking faster than the wall
is.”
Radhika pressed her palms against
her temples, trying to control the tremors, “Sir… that house… the yellow one…
where would it be?”
Arjun didn’t answer immediately. He
walked toward the police jeep, eyes fixed on the ground as if reading invisible
patterns.
“Radhika,” he finally said, “you
mentioned a neem tree outside the house. Tell me about it.”
Her voice was fragile. “It was huge…
older than the house. Its branches touched the roof sometimes. And… there were
threads tied to it. Red ones.”
Satish frowned. “Like people tying
wish threads?”
Radhika nodded. “Yes… dozens of
them. Different heights. Different lengths.”
Arjun’s eyes sharpened, “That
narrows it down.”
Satish blinked. “How?”
Arjun turned toward him, “In Indore
district and the surrounding villages, houses with neem trees are common. But
neem trees used for mannat…wish threads…are rare. Usually they’re outside old
shrines or informal goddess spots.”
Radhika murmured, “I remember
something else… the sound of bells. Not temple bells…tiny ones. Hanging from a
gate.”
Arjun nodded. “Good. That means
we’re looking for a private shrine, not a public temple.”
Satish pulled out his notepad. “Sir,
such shrines aren’t listed officially.”
“Exactly,” Arjun said. “Only the
villagers know them.”
Radhika suddenly flinched. A flash
hit her mind…sharp, blinding.
“A goat,” she whispered. “Tied
outside the house. A black goat. I remember the sound… crying… panicked.”
Arjun turned, his eyes narrowing, “That’s
important.”
Satish looked confused. “How?”
“Because in villages, black goats
tied near private shrines usually signify ritual cleansing practices.”
He
paused, “And some of those practices involve fire.”
Radhika’s breath hitched. “You
think… he used rituals?”
Arjun shook his head, “No. He hid behind
them.”
Satish stepped closer, voice low.
“Sir… do you believe this man knew he was creating trauma?”
Arjun’s answer was immediate, “Yes.”
He looked at Radhika gently, “He
didn’t stitch his mouth to hide it from you. He stitched it to become a nightmare
your mind would refuse to remember clearly.”
A long silence followed. Radhika
hugged herself, shivering despite the heat, “So where do we find this place?”
Arjun pointed toward the road
leading out of the city, “We go east. Toward the outskirts. Search every
settlement with old neem trees and private shrines. One of them will match your
memory.”
Satish nodded and hurried toward the
jeep. But before they entered, Arjun stopped.
“Wait.”
Radhika looked up, eyes questioning.
Arjun pointed at her.
“You’re not sitting in the back seat
today.”
She blinked. “Sir?”
“You’re sitting in the passenger
seat. Because the person who suffered in that yellow house as a child…” He
placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “…is the same person who will lead us to
it today.”
Radhika’s lips parted, emotion
rising like a wave.
Satish whispered, “Sir… is this safe
for her?”
Arjun didn’t look away from Radhika,
“No. It isn’t.” A beat. “But neither is hiding from her past.”
Radhika stepped forward slowly,
opened the passenger door, and took her seat. As Arjun turned the ignition,
Satish climbed in the back. The jeep roared to life.
Arjun said quietly, “Radhika, close
your eyes.”
She did.
“What do you see on the road to that
house?”
Her answer came like a trembling
breath, “A broken milestone… half-buried…with the number 7 on it.”
Arjun pressed the accelerator, “Then
we start counting from here.”
The jeep tore into the fading
sunlight. Somewhere ahead, past the forgotten shrines and silent trees, the
house with yellow walls waited…along with the man whose voice had survived
fire.
And tonight, they were going to find
him.
The sun dipped lower as the jeep
rolled down the broken village road. Radhika kept her eyes closed, following
the faint trail of memory that had finally opened after years.
“Slow down,” she whispered. Arjun
eased his foot off the accelerator.
“I can hear something… metal…
clinking…”
Satish leaned forward. “Like what?”
“Bells,” she murmured. “Small ones…
hanging from a gate.”
They turned the next corner…And
there it was.
An old neem tree, gigantic and
twisted with age, its branches dipping low, its bark covered with faded red
threads.
Beneath it stood a yellow house, walls cracked, roof
sagging, gate rusted…still carrying a dozen tiny rusted bells that chimed
weakly in the wind.
Radhika opened her eyes. Her breath
stopped, “This is it.”
Arjun parked a few metres away.
Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to. The house stood silent but not dead. Arjun
stepped forward first, his senses sharpened. Radhika followed, each step
heavier than the last. The front door was half-burnt, as if someone had tried
to erase evidence once…but not fully.
Satish pushed it gently. It creaked
open. Inside, dust floated like pale smoke. Scorch marks stained the floor in
thin, deliberate lines…lines that once carried kerosene.
Radhika froze, “Sir… this… this is
where he dragged the sack.” Her voice cracked.
Arjun placed his hand on her
shoulder, “You survived this house once. Today you reclaim it.”
They walked deeper. At the corner of
the main room, half-hidden under debris, sat a metal box…rusted, old, dented. Satish
lifted it and forced the latch open.
Inside were fragments: A long rusted
needle, black thread, a strip of burnt cloth, a child’s anklet and a
photograph, half-burnt
Radhika snatched the photograph with
trembling hands. Her breath broke. It showed a little girl… barely four…standing
under this very neem tree. Next to her stood a tall man. His shoulders were
hunched.
His
face was turned away.
Her hands shook violently, “Sir…
that girl… that’s me.”
Satish whispered, “Then who is the
man?”
Arjun looked at the burnt edge of
the photo…someone had deliberately destroyed the face. And then he saw
something else. Behind the photo, at the bottom of the box, lay a small slip of
paper, protected by metal. Arjun unfolded it slowly. A single sentence was
written in jagged handwriting:
“Fire purifies the past.”
Satish’s eyes widened. “Sir… it’s
the same line Poonam heard!”
Arjun nodded grimly, “This man
didn’t just survive. He continued. He changed victims. He refined the method.”
Radhika stepped back slowly, fear
tightening around her like a rope.
“But why me? Why did he burn this
house? Why did he want to erase my memories?”
Arjun looked at her, his voice
heavy, “Because you survived something you weren’t supposed to. And he knows
survivors remember eventually.”
The bells on the gate chimed suddenly
in the wind. Arjun turned toward the doorway.
“Satish,” he said softly, “we’re not
alone.”
Satish drew his weapon. Radhika
stiffened.
A shadow moved behind the neem tree…tall,
bent slightly forward, exactly as she remembered. Arjun stepped between Radhika
and the door.
“Get her inside,” he said calmly, “But
keep the door open.”
Satish pulled her back. Arjun stood
steady. The shadow didn’t run. It simply watched. As if recognising her. As if
waiting for this day.
A voice drifted through the dusk…soft,
raspy, human. Not stitched. Not supernatural.
“You grew up.”
Radhika’s heart dropped. Arjun’s
grip tightened on his gun…but he didn’t raise it. The shadow stepped back into
the fog.
“Sir!” Satish shouted.
But Arjun shook his head, “No. Let
him run tonight.”
Radhika stared at him, shocked, “Sir…
why?”
Arjun turned slowly toward her, “Because
now we know the truth. And because this time… he knows we’re coming.”
The shadow disappeared beyond the
neem tree. Arjun folded the burnt photograph carefully.
“This chapter ends here,” he said
quietly, “The house revealed itself. The past opened its door.
And
the man who burned memories… knows we found him.”
He stepped out of the house.
“And now begins with hunting the man who hunts minds.”
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