Warning! This chapter mentions child death and people being brutally murdered. Please read on with caution!

Her laughter rolled through the vast, shadowy room—a deep, wheezing sound that bounced off every wall. The air was thick with dampness, swirling with the bittersweet edge of frankincense and something burning, as if the past itself had caught fire. 🌫️🕯️

Silhouette: "Closer… Come even closer… Just as a mother worries about her child, I worry about you…"

The voice soaked through the darkness, velvety and deep, as if it seeped from every crack in the room. Yet the source was unmistakable: a woman’s silhouette stood right in front of me, hair wild and untamed as a storm.

Silhouette: "Is this sanity or insanity? Is this deception or truth? So many questions… but only one answer is needed. Time…"

She broke into laughter again, even louder. Her long, unruly hair began to move—snaking, growing, unfurling like midnight vines. It curled and spiraled until it flooded the space, a living shadow reaching every corner. The darkness swelled, swallowing the hall whole, and just like that, the world disappeared beneath her laughter.

Me: "?!"

I jolted awake, heart racing. The morning sun blasted into the room like a blinding spotlight, making me wince and clamp my eyes shut again.

Me (thinking): There’s definitely something wrong with my head—what's with these ridiculous nightmares?! 🤦♀️🛏️

Me (thinking): That dream… It left me unsettled, but oddly, I wish I could’ve lingered in that strange, shadowy world a bit longer. Creepy and mysterious, yes—but I wanted to hear what she had to say. Who knew nightmares could be such a siren song? 🕯️💭

I woke up a bit clammy from all the midnight dramatics, so I started my day with a cold shower to banish the enchantress and her tendrils of darkness for good. Morning routine complete, I wandered down for breakfast, where I found only Mrs. Chauhan at the table. Aryan and Sana were already off—my loyal breakfast had been artfully arranged for me in my usual spot.

Priyanka: "Good morning, Amala! Come, take a seat and eat."

Me: "Good morning."

I melted into the chair, already feeling the last shadows of the nightmare begin to fade.

Priyanka: "Aryan left for work early, and I sent Sana shopping. Just the two of us this morning."

She looked… well, not her usual sparkling self. Melancholy clung to her shoulders like a heavy shawl, and she kept sighing into her tea as if she were communicating with it telepathically.

Priyanka: "How soon will your brother Kiran arrive?"

Me: "As soon as his school holidays start—so, a couple of weeks."

Priyanka: "You must miss him. You’re like a mother to him now, aren’t you?"

I pressed my lips together, thinking.

Me: "Honestly, I don’t think he sees me as a mother. But we’re very close, and yes—I miss him."

Priyanka: "I wish I had a child too. You’ve probably asked yourself this already…"

Me: "Which question?"

Priyanka: "Why Aryan and I never had children, even though we’re of the age to have grandchildren by now."

Me: "I assumed it was your choice. But that’s private. I’d never pry into something so personal."

Priyanka gave me a pained little smile, pushing her plate aside.

Priyanka: "It’s not a secret. We tried for years, but nothing. I wanted so much to be a mother—to turn the love Aryan and I share into something real. Something you could hold, cuddle… something with a soul. Aryan could have left me. People gossiped: ‘Why keep a wife who can’t give you a son?’ But he stuck by my side. He loves me, you know…"

She smiled again, but it just deepened the sadness in her eyes.

Priyanka: "That only makes it harder. I wanted to give him more happiness. I couldn’t—and I still can’t." 😔

I wanted to just hug her right then. Infertility wasn’t just a social tragedy here; for Priyanka, it was a quiet heartbreak.

Me (thinking): It isn’t about society for her—it’s the simple, aching want to be a mother.

Me: "It’s wonderful Mr. Chauhan loves you so much. I’m sure, just having you by his side is happiness enough."

She tried for a grateful smile.

Priyanka: "God rewarded me with a husband like Aryan. In a thousand lives, I’d always want him as my partner."

Me: "That’s what happiness is—a love that lasts."

Priyanka: "Yes, but the price was high… a life without children."

Me (thinking): No wonder she’s so happy about Kiran visiting…

Me: "Sana is like a daughter to you, isn’t she?"

Priyanka: "You could say that."

Me: "So why rush the wedding? Don’t you want to enjoy her company a little longer?"

Priyanka: "That’s just how it is, Amala. The wedding can’t be postponed anymore. She’s at that age…"

Sensing this wasn’t my decision to make, I bit my tongue and turned to my breakfast. Just then, the phone shrieked up on the second floor.

Priyanka: "That’s probably for you. Go ahead—answer it."

I jogged up and grabbed the receiver.

Me: "This is Amala Khan speaking."

Mr. Rose: "Good morning, Miss Khan! Just wanted to let you know, we’ve got access to the police records."

Me: "That’s brilliant news! When and where do I need to go?"

Mr. Rose: "Actually, you don’t need to come in. Mr. Vaish will handle everything today. Go ahead and take the day off."

Me: "But—"

Mr. Rose: "Good talk!"

The phone line went dead, leaving me staring at it in disbelief.

Me: "?!"

Me (internally): I’ll make him regret this. If he’s got a problem with me but is too afraid to say it straight, he’s picked the wrong person to mess with. He’ll regret every bit of it. 😤

Priyanka: "Amala?"

I spun around, masking every ounce of irritation. There was Mrs. Chauhan, hovering on the staircase, her face radiating pure concern.

Me: "Everything’s fine… My team leader just gave me a day off."

Priyanka: "How wonderful! We can take a walk around Calcutta!"

Me: "I’m still going to go to work."

She flung her hands in the air with the dramatic flourish only a disappointed auntie could master.

Priyanka: "Oh, what kind of girl are you? You’re told to rest, but you just want to work! Come with me, let’s take a walk. Help me pick jewellery for Sana’s wedding—people-watching, window-shopping, and in that sari I gave you yesterday, you’ll stop traffic!"

I shook my head, world-weary and a little drained.

Me: "Mrs. Chauhan… I need to be there."

Priyanka (not missing a beat): "Come on, take a walk with me. If you change your mind, you can always go to work later!"

Reluctance was futile; the universe (and a determined Mrs. Chauhan) had spoken. Maybe she was right—a little unwinding wouldn’t hurt after all the library drama. Still, I could only hope they wouldn’t discover the missing book and hang Manu out to dry. Please let him forgive me if things go south. 🤞

With a resigned sigh, I got ready to hit the city center with Priyanka.

An hour later and we were weaving through a kaleidoscope of market stalls: jewellery sparkling under the sun, pungent spices, colourful crafts ricocheting off every corner. My mind wandered to how I’d ended up here—first meeting Amir, fainting from heatstroke, and, as if life came cinematically full circle, the terrifying vision of a dead man in the library.

Me (thinking): Only in Calcutta does sunstroke one day turn into a midnight haunted murder investigation the next…

Priyanka: "There’s so much here! You could spend all day browsing and bargaining."

Me: "I feel like a kid in a candy store." 🍬

Priyanka: "Why don’t you pick out wedding earrings for Sana? I’ll go see if I can bargain for Kashmiri saffron. Our cook? Never haggles—always pays sticker price!"

We chuckled, and she scurried off, battle-ready for the ultimate saffron showdown. I strolled, eyes darting over jewellery and fabrics, but my thoughts tangoed with worries about Kiran, my case, and the stolen book burning a metaphorical hole in my bag.

Suddenly, I caught snatches of a conversation at a nearby stall:

Man: "…They cleaned the alley recently. Did you hear what happened before that?"

Woman: "My husband said someone was stabbed and beheaded there…"

A chill zipped up my spine as I pretended to admire a length of silk.

Man: "Oh Great Ones, keep us clear of such horrors…"

Woman: "Do you know Rama? His brother works for the police."

Man: "I do. He helped me out once."

Woman: "His brother said they’re working on that case—the British visitors, you know."

Man: "Those bastards! Always nosing around where they don’t belong!"

I held my breath, camouflaged behind a wall of threads and gold trinkets. The woman’s voice rose, bristling with anger.

Woman: "That’s what I said! What are they thinking? Nothing good will come of this!"

I picked out a pair of fancy earrings, picturing Sana’s face lighting up.

Me (thinking): I just want Sana to be happy. Maybe every time she wears them, she’ll remember me… 💖

After checking earrings off my list, I wrapped up my shopping and set off to track down Priyanka. As I navigated through the maze of stalls, a familiar face popped up—Lakshman, the police officer from the crime scene. There he was, quietly browsing through pendants, looking every bit the undercover mystery man… if you ignore the fact that he looked hopelessly lost in the world of women’s jewelry.

Me (internally): That’s Lakshman! What’s he doing here? Shopping on the clock, officer?

I sidled up, pretending to examine a necklace, just as he glanced over and recognized me, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

Lakshman: "Miss… Miss… Khan, right?"

I put on my best "Oh! What a surprise!" face, as if this sort of thing didn’t happen to me every other week in Calcutta.

Me: "Oh, right, we do know each other, don’t we? Lakshman? Are you working?"

Lakshman: "No, just looking for a gift for my wife."

A sheepish silence hung between us, the vendor eyeing us both with curiosity. Lakshman stepped a few paces away, motioning for me to follow.

Lakshman: "I wanted to tell you something…"

Me: "Sure—what’s up?"

Lakshman: "Thank you, Miss Khan."

Me: "For what?"

Lakshman: "For not giving me away. There were rumors someone from our side leaked information about the ritual murder case to the British—and that’s why your team got access to our records. If they’d figured out it was me… well, I’d be out on the street. But they never found me out. So, now I know you can be trusted. Thank you—again."

Me: Ah. That explains a lot…

Me: "Lakshman, could you help me out one more time?"

Lakshman: "Maybe…"

Me: "My team is at your police department today, right?"

Lakshman: "Yes. You should have seen the faces of my colleagues…"

Me: "Could you please take me there?"

He grinned, nodding.

Lakshman: "Sure, I was headed there anyway."

Me: "Thank you, you’re a lifesaver! Meet me at the east entrance in ten minutes?"

Lakshman: "Sure."

With a plan in place, I zigzagged through the market, handed Priyanka the earrings—she absolutely swooned—and mentally mapped my next steps.

Me (thinking): Should I duck into a local shop and change? Working in a sari is like trying to do yoga in a ball gown—elegant, but disaster-prone. I need something more practical if I’m heading to the police archive. 👗➡️👖

Not wanting to waste precious minutes, I found the nearest shop selling everyday clothing. Time to trade silk for stealth.

I bought an exquisite yet comfortable outfit: a maroon collared shirt with puffed full sleeves and a sleek black bodycon skirt with just the right amount of slit.

Me (thinking): If I’m diving into police records, at least I’ll look like a boss. But hair up, so I don’t end up eating it while fighting with folders.

I braided my hair—practical and sharp. With a hidden smile, I set out, ready for whatever might come.

Me (internally): Thank goodness for Lakshman. If I had to hunt for this archive alone, I’d still be questioning street vendors by sunset.

At the east entrance, there he was—just as solid and unflappable as ever.

Lakshman (raising an eyebrow, with a half-smirk): "You’ve changed."

Me: "I’ll be more comfortable working in these clothes." (Giving him a quick twirl for effect.)

Lakshman: "Good. Let’s get to the police station then. Calcutta waits for no one."

We caught a taxi, dodging through city traffic like pros. The police station hit me with a wave of stale coffee and that damp, bureaucratic blend of humidity and paperwork. Inside, men in light uniforms milled about: one loudly slurped his lunch in the corner, another gossiped by the window, and a third scowled so hard at his files he looked ready to ignite them with sheer will.

The receptionist clocked me immediately—eye narrowing, lips pursed. The infamous British task force. With a grudging flick of the wrist, she pointed me toward the archive, returning to her magazines as if I were merely a passing thunderstorm.

Killian (voice dripping with his usual British irony): "…And what did you expect? Red carpet service for foreign meddlers?"

Lima (fanning herself with a file, every syllable radiating Scandinavian frost): "These are not proper work conditions! It’s like breathing soup in here."

Ratan (dry, practical, ever the diplomat): "This isn’t London, Miss Berg. You can’t expect luxury in every cupboard."

I slipped inside, met by flickering fluorescent lights and the whiff of dust. The archive was little more than a glorified closet stacked high with battered boxes.

Lima was perched uncomfortably on a wobbly stool, muttering under her breath about “third-world humidity.” Killian had commandeered a spot on the floor beside her, elbows on knees, flipping through folders as if they might bite. Ratan leaned against a shelf, arms crossed, looking like he’d already mentally filed an incident report about the state of this room.

Me: "Hello, everyone." (Chirpy, with just a sprinkle of sarcasm.)

Three pairs of eyes shot up, startled.

Ratan (with genuine warmth): "Amala, you’re here. Good."

Lima (groaning in delight): "But… how? Rose said you had to stay behind!"

Killian (deadpan): "Your stubbornness knows no boundaries, Amala. I’m almost impressed."

Me: "As if his ‘no’ was ever going to be the last word. Looks like you’re deep in detective brainstorm."

Lima (waving her arms dramatically): "More like desperate flailing. We’ve got no water, less oxygen, and this stool is a medieval torture device."

Me: "Honestly, nobody wants us here. They probably hope we’ll give up and disappear."

Ratan (shrugging): "You are outsiders—technically. But duty’s duty."

Killian (with a satisfied sigh): "Despite the odds, we’re making steady progress. Just an average day in paradise."

At that moment, Mr. Rose strode in, arms laden with water bottles. He froze like someone who just saw their lost luggage come rolling down the airport carousel.

Mr. Rose (tight smile, voice carefully neutral): "Miss… Khan. What a pleasant surprise."

Me (cheeky): "You sound thrilled. Should we get on with the real work, or is there more red tape to navigate?"

Mr. Rose (smiling thinly): "I have no idea what you mean."

Me: "Sure you do. Let me spell it out—"

The rest of the team watched eagerly, sensing drama on the horizon. Killian’s eyes twinkled, Lima leaned forward, Ratan just smirked, waiting for chaos.

Me (locking eyes with Rose): "You’ve made it obvious you don’t like me. Instead of keeping it private, you let everyone see it. And now your personal feelings are slowing down our investigation. I suggest you get past it—because I’m not going anywhere." 😏

Me (voice tight, but ice-cold): “Your behaviour is inexcusable. Stop giving me the runaround, grow a pair, and say it straight.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward—it echoed. Mr. Rose’s jaw twitched.

Mr. Rose (curt, angry): “Fine. I’ll speak freely. Let’s take this outside the archive.”

Tension slithered into the air like heat off sunbaked concrete. Ratan, Killian, and Lima exchanged glances, visibly uncomfortable.

Me (clipped): “No problem. After you.”

The four of us stepped out into the corridor. Killian lingered behind us, his voice steady but cautious.

Killian (trying for reason): “Maybe let’s all take a breath here? Now’s not the time to hash this out—”

Mr. Rose (snapping): “Be quiet, Captain Lightwood.”

He turned to face me, eyes hard.

Mr. Rose (voice sharp, steady): “You showed up out of nowhere—like some bloody natural disaster. Instead of assigning a seasoned Indologist, they dumped you on me. An untested, arrogant child who thinks being loud equals being clever. You speak out of turn, you dig where you shouldn’t, and you act like you're the bloody authority after reading a handful of Sanskrit footnotes.”

He narrowed his eyes.

Mr. Rose: “It infuriates me that someone pulled strings to get you here. You didn’t earn this job. You don’t deserve it.”

My breath caught in my throat.

Me (shocked): “What are you talking about?! I don’t have any connections. I didn’t even want to come to India in the first place!”

Mr. Rose (calling my bluff): “That’s a brilliant act. But I’ve been doing this long enough to spot a plant when I see one.”

I turned, expecting at least silent support. But Lima looked down, stunned. Ratan frowned, awkward and unsure. Even Killian said nothing—as if he knew something they didn’t… and of course, he did.

Me (thinking): Killian knew all along. He was the one who told me someone vouched for me. And now? I’m being cornered and hung for it… 😶🌫️

Me (internally): I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t pull strings. Why am I being blamed for a decision I didn’t even make*?*

Me (cool, measured): “You’re being unprofessional, Mr. Rose. Blaming me for something I had zero control over? That’s not leadership — that’s deflection. You’re slowing us down with your tantrums. Constantly complaining instead of actually doing the work. At least I’m trying — digging, asking questions, connecting dots. I don’t know everything, but what I lack in experience, I make up for in persistence. And let’s be honest… you, on the other hand? You just talk. You sulk when things don’t work out your way. It’s frankly ridiculous — that kind of naïveté at your age.”

I took a breath — still calm, still sharp.

Me: “So pull yourself together. Use what you do have. Or don’t be surprised if people start to see you as the weakest link. And no, I’m not going to stay silent just to keep the peace. I will not let you humiliate me.” 💥

For a long moment, no one said anything. My words hung in the corridor like thick fog. My colleagues didn’t meet my eyes right away — but I saw it: a flicker of admiration. Respect, maybe. I’d held my ground, without crossing the line.

Lima (clearing her throat, trying to steer us out of the storm): “Okay, everyone… can we please move on?”

But Mr. Rose wasn’t done, not even close.

Mr. Rose (with venom): “Well then, Miss Khan — get on with your work… at least until you ruin something. And you will. Trust me. Then we’ll talk.”

Me (smiling like a cobra): “Of course, Mr. Rose. You just sit tight and wait. We’ve got all the time in the world.” 🐍

The silence that followed was thick, brittle, and deeply uncomfortable. Even the nearby officers turned their heads slightly, pretending not to listen — but absolutely listening. Mr. Rose dropped the water bottles at his feet with a dull thump and stormed out like a sulking schoolteacher.

Lima (quietly, resigned): “Well then.”

Killian (straightening his shirt, businesslike): “Let’s not lose focus over… one unfortunate exchange.”

The door shut behind Rose, and the tension snapped like an old wire. We turned back toward the archive without another word.

Inside, Ratan was exactly where we left him — leaning against a shelf, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face. His eyes tracked us as we entered.

Ratan (mildly amused): “You certainly know how to stand up for yourself.”

Me (dry): “You heard everything?”

Ratan (nodding, then sighing): “Unfortunately.”

Killian and Lima quietly went back to digging through files. I handed each of them a bottle of water. Ratan refused with a shake of his head — ever the stoic.

Me: “So… have you found anything while we were gone? How can I help?”

Lima (focused, but still a little breathless from earlier): “We’ve been reviewing reports from the past twelve months. It’s taking time — mostly because only Ratan can read the handwritten Hindi in the case notes. Killian and I just stare at crime scene photos and hope they whisper secrets.”

Me: “And what did they whisper?”

Lima (grim): “Apparently, there were two more victims before our merchant, Amir.”

Me (stiffening): “Two?” 😳

Killian (leaning back, voice low and deliberate): “Yes, they were killed in the same way — sun and crescent moon symbol painted at each scene. Have you pinned down what it means yet?”

Me (matter-of-fact, but a spark in my eyes): “Still working on it. But it’s tied to Shaivism or Shaktism. I’m digging into the darker branches of Hinduism next.”

Killian (small nod): “Sounds like a good idea.”

Ratan (calm, almost formal): “Mr. Rose shouldn’t complain about you. You’re good at your job.”

Me (softening a bit): “Thank you… Can you give me the case files for the other two murders?”

Killian slid one folder across without a word. Lima passed me the other, her expression tight.

Lima (grim): “The first victim was a woman — headless, naked. The other…” pauses, exhales “…a child.”

Me (quiet): “That’s… horrifying.”

Killian (jaw tightening): “Whoever did this has no heart. No conscience.”

Me: “And the child was also—?”

Lima (cutting in): “Yes. Exactly the same way.”

Me: “Oh…” 😔

I looked down at the thin, lifeless reports in my hands.

Me (thinking): I’ll read everything — maybe there’s something they’ve missed…

Killian (businesslike): “We still haven’t finished the last month’s reports. But likely nothing — the killer’s pattern is about one every month and a half.”

Lima (shaking her head, sharp tone): “Intervals shrink with people like this. The more they kill, the faster they need the blood.”

I tuned them out, letting their voices fade as I sank into the pages — birth dates, terrain details, angles of the body, the same painted symbol… and the photos.

Me (thinking): Photo of the child… can’t… (flips page) Wait. What’s this?

The medical examiner’s notes made me sit straighter.

Me (blurting out): “The boy was terminally ill.”

Killian (blinking, caught off guard): “I beg your pardon?”

Me: “Autopsy says advanced idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. Serious lung disease. And… he was from Varanasi.”

Lima (frowning): “So… he could have died any day?”

Me: “Maybe not instantly, but he was in a late stage. And Varanasi’s… well… funeral pyres burn there 24/7.”

Killian (putting down his pen, sharp): “Mr. Vaish, why didn’t you translate that?”

Ratan (measured, slightly apologetic): “I thought you only wanted the essentials.”

Lima (coolly): “Captain Lightwood, you didn’t ask him for a word-for-word reading.”

Killian (ignoring her): “Amala, check the other case.”

I flipped through the woman’s file, homing in on the medical report. Healthy. Normal life. Married. Employed. And then…

Me (eyes widening): “Oh.”

The words on the page hit me like a punch.

Me (flat, disgusted): “She was a child murderer.”

Lima (quick, sharp): “What?”

Me: “Convicted of killing her newborn — smothered the baby. She ran afterwards. Police couldn’t find her for years. By the time they did… they couldn’t prosecute.”

Killian (cold): “And then they found her decapitated at the ritual site?”

Me: “Yes. Probably why local police didn’t link it to our case — maybe they saw it as revenge.”

Lima (nodding slowly): “That’s… very possible.”

We all fell into silence, each walking our own mental path through the tangled mess.

Me (thinking): Maybe… maybe I just figured something out. 🤔

Me (leaning forward, tapping one of the folders): “Clearly, there’s a connection here.”

I pushed the files aside and looked my teammates straight in the eyes.

Me: “Think about it — one victim accused of killing her own child, the other a terminally ill boy. That’s way too specific to be a coincidence. There’s probably something about the merchant too…”

Killian (curious, tilting his head like a patient schoolteacher): “You think they were chosen deliberately?”

Me: “Yes. 100%.”

Lima (snapping her fingers in agreement): “Exactly. Otherwise it’s… what? Some bizarre cosmic joke? No. Both victims were already in dark places.”

Ratan (measured tone, hands clasped): “I agree with Miss Khan. If we want more on the merchant, talk to other market vendors. Merchants talk. You’ll hear if there’s been trouble or… irregularities.”

Our ever-composed guide looked a little worn, his thoughts somewhere far away.

Me: “Ratan… what do you personally think?”

Ratan (locks eyes with me — voice low, deliberate): “This is not the work of a typical serial killer. The symbolism, the execution… they speak of something else.”

Me: “You mean… these murders are religiously motivated.”

Ratan (with the kind of warning that crawls up your spine): “Be careful, Amala. Kolkata is… complicated. The tiger protects the forest, and the forest hides the tiger. Catching this killer may be harder than you imagine.”

His gaze hit me with that uncanny Ratan intensity — the one that could either strip you bare or freeze your heart like a block of ice.

Me (thinking): Well… thanks for the chills, Mr. Vaish. ❄️

I looked away, fighting the shiver.

Killian (clapping his hands like a schoolmaster ending class): “Right. Wrap it up for today. Tomorrow, we talk to the bazaar vendors. Mr. Vaish, please check if our merchant had any criminal history.”

Ratan: “Understood.”

Killian: “Good. Go home and rest, everyone.”

Two minutes later, after wrangling papers back into their rightful boxes, Killian, Lima, and I were bouncing along in a taxi. Ratan stayed behind to dig into the merchant’s past.

The house was eerily quiet. I climbed to the second floor — nobody there either. Out of the corner of my eye, something flickered.

Sana was on the balcony, curled on a bench at the far end. Her gaze was fixed on something in the distance. The hinges groaned as I eased the door open; she turned, startled.

Sana (soft, polite): “Miss Khan.”

Me (smiling): “Hi! Out here by yourself?”

Sana: “Yes. I had a moment, so I thought I’d breathe a little. The wedding preparations… they eat all my time.”

I sat beside her, the city breeze brushing over us.

Me: “So… are you happy about the wedding?”

Sana (looking down, a small, conflicted laugh escaping): “I… don’t know.” 😶

Here’s your scene rebuilt with personality, suspense, wry humour, and that grounded sensibility we’ve been threading through — each moment keeping the drama alive while letting the narration have its own voice.

***

Me (firm, leaning in): “You can always say no, Sana. No one holds the keys to your life but you. You don’t have to ruin it just to satisfy other people’s opinions. Your happiness should always come first.”

Sana (sad smile, shaking her head): “Oh, Miss… if only it were that easy. I owe so much to Mrs. Chauhan… and I have no family, no home. Where would I even go?”

A shiver ran through her, like she’d just been grazed by an invisible draft.

Sana: “Everything’s moving so fast… it shouldn’t be like this. Is this my destiny… or my punishment? At the behest of Muktakeshi, I’m suddenly being matched. For helping a lost sheep…”

Her voice faded, her eyes glazing over. She wasn’t looking at me anymore — she was speaking to the dark.

Sana (muttering): “God is merciful… only in words, not deeds. Muktakeshi will punish me for disobeying… she will definitely punish me…”

Her soft, eerie rambling sent an involuntary ripple up my spine. And then — headlights sliced through the shadows. A car pulled up.

Sana shot to her feet, heartbeat written across her face.

Sana: “The masters have arrived! And the table isn’t set! Miss — dinner in fifteen!”

Just like that, she was gone, clattering down the stairs in a panic.

Me (thinking): Well… that was unsettling. Who’s ‘Muktakeshi’? In Hindi, that’s something like… ‘dishevelled hair’? 🤔

—

Dinner was pleasant enough, but my mind wasn’t on the food. Back in my room, I could barely wait to pull out that borrowed treasure from under my suitcase.

Me (thinking): Finally. Peace. Time to dig in. 📖

I sprawled across the bed, turning pages, scanning lines until a certain section made my eyebrows shoot up.

Me (reading aloud like I’d discovered the Holy Grail of bad dinner conversation): “*Panchatattva: a secret ritual, accessible only to initiates.*”

I skimmed the list like it was a grocery haul from hell:

- Madya — wine 🍷

- Mamsa — meat 🍖

- Matsya — fish 🐟

- Mudra — roasted grains 🌾

- Maithuna — ritual intercourse 😳

In this context, man = Shiva, woman = Shakti… cosmic unity, sacred energy exchange. And all within Vamachara — the Left-Hand Path.

Me (wrinkling my nose): “Yeah… this doesn’t look anything like what we found in the alley.”

Flipping another page:

> He who worships Chandika without drinking wine, eating meat, and intercourse with a woman will find only suffering at every step.

Me: “Chandika?”

I backtracked — fourth section — more Kaula Shaktism. Shakti in her fiercest form: Kali. The Dark Mother, Mother of Time, Chandika… Muktakeshi.

> Naked, with dishevelled hair; she is the fire of truth, stripped of the robes of ignorance. As all colours vanish into black, all names and forms dissolve into her.

Me: Sana… she was talking about… Kali?

The dots on my mental corkboard started to connect themselves.

Me (thinking): Time… ‘kala’ in Sanskrit…

Then a memory crashed in — Kiran’s voice from our last call.

Kiran (in my head): “…something about time, conflict, dark tantras… I can’t really understand.”

I stood so fast the book slid off my lap and thudded onto the floor.

Me (breathless): “How did I miss this? Time. Conflict. Dark. ‘Kala’… or Kali…” 🖤

Pacing, it all lined up — festivals, symbols, crescent moon for Kali (and sun for strength), ancient stories of her defeating the undefeatable. Every thread led back to her — to Kaula Shaktism.

And then the dream. That maddening voice.

Dream-Silhouette: “So many questions… but only one answer is needed. Time.”

Me (shivering): “Tousled hair… Muktakeshi… The woman from my dream.”

It hit like an electric shock: the ritual murder had to be in honour of Kali. But how many in Calcutta practiced Kaula Shaktism?

I scooped the book off the floor and headed for the hallway to find Sana — my fingers trembling so hard the tome slipped again.

Bending to pick it up, I straightened slowly… and froze.

The house wasn’t the same. The corridor shimmered — bathed in an unnatural green haze. The air was thick, smelling of incense with an undercurrent of… rot.

Me (deadpan, to no one): “Okay. It’s happening again.”

No running. No cowering in a corner this time.

Me (thinking): One gets used to everything… even to madness. 😐🔥

Me (internally, steadying my breath): I’ll stay right here. Not going to fake bravery… but not folding into a trembling heap either. 💪😬

I didn’t move — just kept my eyes locked on the strange, shifting murk ahead.

That’s when a silhouette began to form in the far corner of the room — dark and hazy, but horribly familiar.

Me (squinting): “A… Amir?”

The light shifted, catching her face. My stomach dropped.

Not Amir. A woman. And not the kind of woman you’d greet with tea and biscuits — an ugly scar curled jaggedly along her neck, and her eyes… empty. Completely lifeless.

Figure (voice like a funeral bell, deep and deliberate): “The path to the Dark Mother is full of thorns… A dance in the dark draws the gaze of those who dwell in it… and you, little dancer, step brightly… fearlessly… as if blind to the cost.”

Me (dry, because my brain defaults to sarcasm when in mortal danger): “And you are…?”

Honestly, I didn’t know what I expected that question to do — in hindsight, maybe not the smartest move with a ghost-woman in murder-chic.

Figure (tilting her head slowly, voice rasping): “I am… an offering to the Goddess on the eighth lunar day. Chosen for a terrible death. Punished by the Dark Mother… for infanticide.”

My brain rang the alarm bell — offering = sacrifice. My mouth blurted before my nerves could stop it:

Me (staring, almost whispering): “Asha Chatterjee…?”

I stepped back instinctively — the name felt like a match dropped in dry brush.

Asha (hoarse growl, teeth flashing): “From now on, I… have no name. I belong only to Her.”

Her voice was gravel, all menace. And those eyes — glowing red in the green haze — had no pupils at all. No one home. Yet I could feel the stare drilling into me like a spotlight. She cast no shadow. Neither had Amir.

Asha (intoning words like a twisted hymn): “This whole universe was born by you… You created this world… and in the end… you devour it…”

She glided forward — but wrong. Her feet didn’t touch the ground. She hovered, lips curled in some reverent fury.

Asha: “You manifest as a force of destruction… To fall to you is an honor, oh Dark Mother. Mother of Strife. Mother of Time… grrrrrrr…”

Her face pulled into a frown, baring long, yellowed teeth. The sound was half growl, half threat.

Me (thinking, alarm bells blaring): Yep. Creepy undead lady is going to try and strangle me now. 😳

Her gray, skeletal fingers curled like she was testing the fit of my throat in her imagination… and she looked really eager to make it a reality.

Me (thinking, steady but ready to throw down): Okay, I’ve got to do something! No backing down now.

I dropped into a fighting stance like a pro preparing for a very weird shadowboxing match.

Me (thinking): If she even thinks about taking one step closer, I’ll scratch her face to the Stone Age. 😤✋

Asha (low, guttural growl): “Hhhrrr... Girl… don’t get your hopes up. Darkness always takes what it’s meant to have. I’m just a shadow of your madness… and I will kill you.”

Me (smirking despite myself): “First, you’ll lose your head. Just try to get closer, hellspawn.”

Asha (laughing, a sound equal parts eerie and deranged): “Haaaa… haha!”

Then she lunged, faster than I expected. Gripping the heavy tome I’d swiped like my life depended on it, I slammed it full force into her face.

Me (shocked): “Wait, what?! How are you so light? You weigh less than a puff of dandruff!” 😳📚

Asha shattered away like a ghost in a stiff breeze, landing in a shadowy corner, eyes burning with pure rage.

Asha (seething, venomous): “Brave… strong… reckless… desperately protecting your soul. You are worth the effort. Hot blood… even sweeter.” 🔥👿

Like a rabid beast, she charged again.

Next thing I know, I'm flat on the floor—classic Amala, grace not included.

Me (gasping): “Get off me! I have places to be and books to read!”

Her icy fingers—like frozen snakes—curl around my throat, sending involuntary goosebumps that my warm blood desperately wishes weren’t there. 😂❄️

Me (panicking, flailing verbally): “No, no, no, noooo!”

Her closer now, mouth parted, dripping with... well, seriously disgusting rancid saliva. Like a horror movie monster who forgot to brush her teeth.

Me (heart pounding like a techno drum): If this is how I go, at least it’ll be memorable.

P.S. Oh, my fearless night wanderers, did you think the shadows were done dancing? Ha! This chapter serves you sizzling secrets with a side of ghostly growls and a sprinkle of “don’t try this at home, darling.” That spectral sass? That’s just the warm-up. Asha’s otherworldly menace—and our stubborn heroine’s razor-sharp comebacks—are proof that darkness fears a woman who claws back. 😈📚🔥

Tell me, which bite or blast had you clutching your pearls or gasping like a dear caught in spotlights? And now I’m curious—would you stand your ground or bolt like your sari’s on fire? Drop your bravest (or most fabulously terrified) thoughts below… The Mistress of Midnight Masala is always listening, hunting, and ready to stir the midnight pot. 🕯️💋✨

—Your Mistress of Midnight Masala 💋✨🕯️