Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear (Part 4)

Strokes of Obsession

One morning, Naresh’s phone buzzed, jolting him awake. Seeing Geeta’s name on the screen sent a ripple of unease through him. The previous night, like many others, he’d had one too many drinks and returned home late. He would have loved to stay in bed, but Geeta’s increasing control over him made ignoring the call impossible. He hesitated, his pulse quickening, as though her voice already carried a weight he couldn’t resist.

“Good morning, artist!” she said with a practiced cheerfulness, her voice coated in a sweetness that felt almost rehearsed.

“Artist? What do you mean?” Naresh chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Don’t play dumb. You need a hobby—something creative, like painting. Remember how we used to sketch in school? You were awful, but that’s why I’m here—to help you improve!”

Naresh shook his head. “Geeta, I can barely draw a straight line.”

“You will. I’ve already arranged it. Choudhary Sir is coming to teach you and is excited to see his old student. Classes start tomorrow.”

Naresh froze. Choudhary Sir? The name triggered a whirlwind of emotions—respect, dread, and grudging amusement. The legendary art teacher was a master of contradictions: his razor-sharp sarcasm delivered with a smirk beneath a funny cap that covered his semi-bald pate. His trademark cap was fondly nicknamed the "monkey cap" by students, it was a nod to his favorite way of addressing errant pupils as "monkeys." His scoldings were as precise as they were stinging, yet often so laced with humor they left you laughing despite the sting. Naresh could still hear his cutting remarks echoing through the classroom, his wit both terrifying and captivating. He hadn’t seen him in years, but memories of critiques sharp enough to slice through egos, alongside rare, glowing praise, resurfaced. The idea of seeing him again filled Naresh with an unsettling mix of curiosity and unease.

Before he could protest, Geeta’s voice softened. “Naresh, I need this. It’s not just for you—it’s for me too.” Her tone wavered, teetering between vulnerability and manipulation, leaving Naresh unsure of her true intentions. For a moment, her words bypassed his defenses entirely, embedding themselves in his mind as though they had always been there.

Her words wrapped around him like an enchantment, each syllable embedding itself into his mind until they felt like his own. The idea of refusal never crossed his mind. Her voice crushed any resistance within him. He muttered a faint acknowledgment, his breath shallow and robotic. It wasn’t agreement—it was surrender, inevitable and complete, as though his will had been overwritten before he even realized it.

His three dogs, sleeping on the floor beside his bed, suddenly perked up, their ears twitching as they stared at him with unease. For a moment, their alertness felt almost ominous, as though they sensed something he couldn’t. Eventually, they settled back down, and so did Naresh, though a lingering tension remained in the air.

The Master’s Arrival

The next evening, Choudhary Sir arrived in a sleek, chauffeured car, its polished exterior glinting under the dim evening lights. As the door opened, he stepped out, his thin frame casting an elongated shadow. With a quick adjustment to his coat and his signature cap, he scanned the surroundings, his sharp eyes taking in everything with a detached precision. He turned to Naresh, his gaze piercing yet strangely hollow, as though his presence lingered more in form than in spirit.

"It’s been years, Naresh. Good to see you," he said, his smile precise yet oddly mechanical, punctuated by a pat on the shoulder that felt heavier than it should.

Awestruck by his former teacher, Naresh momentarily forgot the customary 'Namaste' but quickly recovered, his gesture met with a curt nod from Choudhary Sir, who wasted no time diving into his passion—art.

Geeta descended from her penthouse suite and joined them. To Naresh’s surprise, she and Choudhary Sir interacted with a familiarity that hinted at prior meetings or frequent communication. He assumed she must have discussed the painting lessons extensively with him. Without much explanation, Geeta led them to the makeshift art studio.

Choudhary Sir entered the makeshift studio, his sharp eyes scanning the neatly arranged art supplies. He moved slowly, his movements deliberate, as though assessing the weight of each item’s significance. When his fingers grazed a paintbrush, he hesitated, pulling back abruptly, as if recoiling from something unseen and unsettling.

The lessons took place in the hotel’s conference room, transformed by Geeta into a detailed art studio. Easels stood like watchful sentries, their shadows stretching across the walls under dim, flickering light, adding to the room’s unnerving stillness. The air carried a faint mix of turpentine, drying paint, and incense that Geeta often lit before sessions. The setup—brushes, paints, and sketchpads—felt less like an artist’s workspace and more like a ceremonial altar. Geeta’s gaze followed Naresh’s every stroke with an intensity that felt predatory. She rarely spoke, but when she did, her comments were sharp and deliberate. Her fingers would linger on the sketches’ edges, her touch unsettling, as though binding Naresh to her will through the art itself.

Naresh struggled at first—his lines were shaky, his sketches lifeless. Every stroke felt hesitant, as though an unseen weight anchored his hand. Frustration boiled within him, gnawing self-doubt amplifying each mistake. His breath quickened, and his fingers trembled slightly, as if resisting his own efforts. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and an oppressive heaviness seemed to settle on his shoulders, making the simple act of holding the brush feel like lifting a boulder. At times, his fingers twitched involuntarily, leaving erratic marks on the paper. Hours blurred together, his mind foggy and his sense of time slipping. Often, he snapped out of a trance, unsure how long he had been working. Through it all, Choudhary Sir remained patient, his calm, firm voice guiding Naresh’s hand and correcting strokes with an almost mechanical precision.

Within days, Naresh’s progress felt almost supernatural. His hands moved with uncanny precision, producing strokes that startled even him. Hours disappeared in a trance-like haze, and he would snap out of it to find paintings completed, as though by another hand. The sketches were unnervingly perfect—figures so lifelike their eyes seemed to follow him. While his confidence grew, it was shadowed by an unsettling sense that he was no longer the artist but a vessel for something beyond his control.

The Artist’s Cage

Geeta’s presence during the lessons was suffocating, filling every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. Her gaze lingered too long on the paintings, as though searching for secrets hidden in the strokes. She hovered close, her fingers brushing the sketches with deliberate care, like someone handling a sacred relic. Her admiration for the art felt possessive, almost reverent, as if she saw herself emerging from the canvas in ways even Naresh couldn’t comprehend. Though she praised his progress, her eyes betrayed a deeper, almost predatory hunger.

“Look at you,” she said one evening, her voice low and weighted with meaning. “You’re not just learning.” Her gaze lingered on the sketches, as if seeing something Naresh couldn’t. Her eyes gleamed with an almost reverent light, and a faint, knowing smile curved her lips. “You’re transforming.” A chill ran down Naresh’s spine. He couldn’t tell if her words were a compliment or a warning.

That evening, after Geeta and Choudhary Sir had left, Naresh lingered in the conference room, staring at the sketches. A chill crawled up his spine as his fingers hovered over the lines, each stroke feeling alien, as though drawn by a hand he didn’t recognize. The air felt heavy, shadows stretching unnaturally in the dim light. The sketches seemed to stare back at him, not passively but expectantly, as if waiting for something. The thought of transformation unsettled him—it didn’t feel like growth but surrender, as though his identity was being erased and replaced, layer by layer. Faces, bodies, and eyes stared from the paper—vivid, too lifelike, almost alive. Doubt gnawed at him. Was it his skill, or was something else guiding his hand? The eyes seemed to follow him, unblinking and aware, piercing through him as if reading thoughts he dared not admit. His breath quickened, and a shiver ran through him, leaving him unable to shake the sense that the sketches weren’t just observing—they were penetrating his very being.

A Portrait of Desire

Two weeks into the lessons, Naresh’s gaze often lingered on Geeta, searching for answers he no longer dared to voice. Her presence had grown heavier—commanding and suffocating—as if she were pulling him deeper into something inescapable. A fleeting thought of questioning her stirred unease in his chest, but it vanished as quickly as it came, buried under the oppressive weight of her dominance. This wasn’t agreement; it was surrender—silent, inevitable, and complete, as though her will had infiltrated his own. His fingers twitched slightly, not from curiosity, but as if awaiting instructions he was already resigned to follow. His breath quickened, sweat slicking his palms, though he couldn’t explain why.

Geeta entered the studio, her figure draped in a deep red saree that clung to her curves, the silk shimmering faintly under the dim light. The color evoked blood and fire—danger laced with desire. Naresh stood at the billiards table, rolling a cue ball between his fingers, its cool surface grounding him despite the tension rising in his chest. His gaze flicked to Geeta, unable to hold steady, betraying a mix of intrigue and unease. She leaned over the billiards table, her breath warm against his skin, the scent of jasmine wrapping around him like an invisible tether. Naresh froze, his pulse hammering as her nearness blurred the line between allure and dominance. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her body leaning just enough to command attention, the saree’s fabric shifting to reveal flashes of her smooth skin. Her gaze locked onto his, unyielding and hypnotic, daring him to look away. When she spoke, her low, husky voice curled through the air like smoke, an intoxicating mix of command and seduction. Each word felt like a challenge, drawing him into a space he already knew he couldn’t escape.

Geeta leaned in closer, her saree’s pallu slipping further to expose a full view of her ample cleavage, commanding Naresh’s full attention. Her breath was warm against his skin, her scent of jasmine intoxicating, and her every movement seemed calculated to disarm. Her lips curved into a smile—part teasing, part predatory—as she let her words linger between them, heavy with intent.

“I need you to paint me,” she said, her voice a velvet command, seductive yet unrelenting, every word pressing against his crumbling resolve.

Naresh’s throat tightened, his mind grappling with the audacity of her words. “Paint you?” he stammered, his voice faltering under her steady, piercing gaze.

“Not just any painting,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips were just inches from his ear. “I want a nude portrait.”

The words hit him like a thunderclap, reverberating in the charged silence that followed. Her gaze held his, unyielding and dark, a challenge glinting in her eyes. She was daring him, testing him, and he knew resistance was futile.

“And I’ll pose for it,” she continued, her voice dropping further, each word deliberate and unshakable. “And you will capture every inch of me—raw, unhidden, exactly as I’m meant to be seen.”

She straightened, her movements slow and deliberate, her exposed skin glowing under the soft light. The tension in the room thickened, the unspoken promise in her words leaving Naresh’s breath shallow and uneven. It wasn’t just a request; it was an act of seduction, power, and dominance, leaving no room for refusal.

Naresh’s lips parted, but no words came. A lump rose in his throat, and his palms grew damp, his body reacting to a force his mind couldn’t yet comprehend. Her unyielding gaze bore into him, stripping away every shred of defiance he might have had. Refusal didn’t even form—it wasn’t a choice but a pull, primal and inescapable, as if his will had already dissolved into hers. He nodded, not with agreement but with the inevitability of surrender. His fingers trembled, a faint shiver running through him, yet he couldn’t resist. This wasn’t consent; it was capitulation, hollow and complete, as though a deeper part of him had been quietly stolen.

Echoes of the Ritual

Geeta insisted the portrait be painted on the terrace of the Gulladmath bungalow, a place steeped in childhood fears and chilling legends. Whispers of curses, shadows gliding behind closed windows, and ghostly voices echoing at night made it a site few dared to approach after dark. Tales of Tantric rituals and rumors of unclaimed bodies buried in its foundation only deepened its eerie reputation.

"I want it done at midnight," she said, her voice steady yet laced with an ominous undertone. "On a full moon night. That’s when the energy will peak. The stars and moon will align, opening pathways—blurring time and space, letting the energy flow freely. It must be then."

Naresh’s throat tightened, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple as a heavy, invisible force pressed against his chest, leaving him frozen and unable to respond.

When Jayanti and Choudhary Sir learned the nude painting session would take place at the Gulladmath bungalow on a full moon night, Jayanti’s eyes lit up with excitement, a predatory glint betraying her eagerness, as though she relished the power and mystery of the moment. Choudhary Sir, on the other hand, gave a solemn nod, his demeanor detached and ritualistic, as if fulfilling a role he had practiced countless times. His gaze lingered on Naresh, cool and unreadable, leaving an ominous sense of unease in its wake.

As Geeta's words hung in the air, shadows flickered and shifted along the walls, and the trembling light seemed to waver with uncertainty. The atmosphere thickened, pressing down like invisible hands, suffusing the room with unspoken dread. The idea felt disturbingly perfect, choreographed for something sinister.

No one knew what strings Geeta had pulled or how much she spent, but she secured exclusive access to the Gulladmath bungalow for weeks. Geeta, Jayanti, and Choudhary Sir made frequent trips there, meticulously preparing for the event. Naresh followed without hesitation, his movements mechanical, as if an unseen force compelled him to assist, unquestioning and automatic.

The painting materials—canvases, brushes, and paints—were stored in the bungalow's basement, along with brass bowls, incense sticks, and red silk cloths that resembled ritual artifacts more than art supplies. Each item exuded foreboding, hinting at a purpose far beyond painting. The bowls gleamed ominously, the incense emitted a heavy, suffocating aroma, and the red silk cloths draped ceremoniously as though for an ancient rite. The air carried sandalwood and a metallic tang. The sharp scent unsettled Naresh.

On the terrace, they arranged the items—easel, supplies, and ceremonial objects—like an altar. The brass bowls glinted under dim light, and the silk cloths seemed to pulse with unspoken meaning. Incense smoke spiraled, adding an otherworldly air. Every adjustment felt deliberate, as though guided by unseen hands. Their conversations took on a ritualistic cadence, more invocation than planning. Jayanti murmured soft chants, tracing patterns on the silk, while Geeta meticulously adjusted bowls and incense. Their rhythmic words thickened the air with tension so palpable it made Naresh’s skin crawl.

Everything seemed to fall into place perfectly. Yet, an unshakable tension hung in the air, as if the room itself braced for the unseen to erupt.

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear (Part 3)

 

The Crimson Invitation

Naresh stood outside the grand hotel, sweat trickling down his neck despite the cool night breeze. He loosened his collar, his fingers trembling. The towering building reflected the moonlight like unblinking eyes, leaving him exposed and uneasy. The entrance lights flickered, and the marble floor glistened unnaturally, though there had been no rain. He glanced at his watch: 10:30 PM.

Geeta had invited him to a private birthday dinner—just the two of them. She’d suggested drinks and casual conversation to set the mood, but Naresh had begged off, claiming errands and needing space to think. She didn’t argue, just laughed softly and said, "Don’t be late, Naresh. Tonight is important."

Her car dropped him at the hotel at exactly 10:30 PM. Standing outside, Naresh couldn’t ignore the unease creeping over him. The late dinner felt deliberate, tied to something unspoken—something ominous. He shook off the thought. After all, it was just a friend’s birthday.

The lobby was eerily silent, far too quiet for a hotel of this grandeur. The faint hum of the air conditioning droned unnaturally loud. The receptionist greeted him with a peculiar half-smile, handing over a key card without a word.

“Penthouse suite, sir. Madam awaits you.”

He stepped into the elevator, its motor humming louder than it should. The air felt stifling, pressing against him. He checked his phone—no signal.

The Penthouse Ritual

The penthouse doors opened to dim lighting and a heavy scent of incense and jasmine. Naresh stopped cold. This wasn’t a festive setup—it was a ritual. Candles lined the walls, their flames quivering as if stirred by invisible hands. Mirrors of odd shapes reflected the light, distorting it into eerie, shifting patterns. A red silk cloth with intricate Tantric patterns draped the center table, and the air hung thick with the mingling scents of incense and burning oil, suffocating and oppressive.

Geeta stepped from the balcony, her crimson sari glinting like blood under the candlelight. Gold bangles chimed softly, and a heavy nose ring gleamed against her sharp features. Her kohl-lined eyes, piercing and predatory, were framed by a crimson bindi, lending her an unsettling regality. Her hair, braided and adorned with jasmine, flowed down her back like silk, framing her face with a regal elegance. Each movement drew attention to her elegant neck and the mesmerizing sway of the braid, amplifying her hypnotic aura.

Her jewelry—bangles, anklets, and the unfamiliar nose ring—caught the flickering candlelight as she moved with an eerie, fluid grace. Her gaze burned with an unnatural gleam, sending an icy chill through Naresh’s spine.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice softer, almost velvety.

Naresh swallowed hard. “Happy birthday, Geeta. You look... striking.”

Her smile curved slowly, but her eyes stayed distant, glinting with something unreadable. “Tonight is important, Naresh. Not just a birthday—a transformation. The end of one path and the beginning of another.”

Shadows and Symbols

As they sat down, Geeta poured wine into his glass, her bracelets jingling softly. Naresh’s eyes darted to the walls where shadows twisted unnaturally, stretching like skeletal fingers clawing at the edges of the room. Flickering shapes danced at the corners of his vision—too deliberate, too alive to be tricks of the light—sending a shiver through him.

“This feels like more than a birthday. Is it a rebirth?” he asked, forcing a casual tone.

Geeta leaned in, her voice a hushed caress. "Tonight is about unearthing what's hidden—turning fear into power."

Her words sounded rehearsed, deliberate. Naresh’s eyes shifted to the symbols on the cloth—coiled serpents, tridents, fire motifs. His stomach turned. An icy knot of fear gripped him—it felt like forbidden territory. Was it fear or curiosity anchoring him to his seat? He couldn’t decide.

“Why all this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the room, his voice tinged with unease.

Geeta sipped her wine, her eyes gleaming. "This isn’t decoration, Naresh. It’s preparation. You’ll understand soon enough."

Naresh stared at the wine in Geeta’s glass. The deep red liquid seemed too thick, too dark to be wine. It looked like blood. His stomach churned as the thought seized him. Why did it seem like blood? He shook his head, trying to dismiss the absurd notion, but the idea gripped him tightly. Blood. The very thought that Geeta could be sipping it sent icy tendrils crawling up his spine.

The ritualistic setup—the symbols, the flickering candles—added weight to his fears, though his mind refused to fully connect the dots. He shivered, forcing his eyes away, and took another sip of his own wine, desperate to push the chilling thought aside.

The Binding Ceremony

Midnight struck. Geeta rose and approached a brass plate holding vermilion, turmeric, and oil lamps. The flames flickered violently, their shadows leaping and writhing across the walls like living things. The air thickened with the sharp scent of turmeric and burning oil, oppressive and stifling. She turned to Naresh, her expression unreadable, and motioned for him to stand.

“Come,” she commanded, her voice low and firm, each word laced with an urgency that sent a chill through him. “I need your help to finish this.”

“What’s going on, Geeta?”

She held his gaze, her sharp, commanding eyes drilling into him. "Trust me."

Naresh’s legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot by an unseen force. A cold tingling crept up his spine as his breath turned shallow and frantic. The air felt alive, heavy, pressing against him like an invisible weight. Fear clawed at him, but dark curiosity pulled him closer. Was it the ritual’s mystery or Geeta’s overpowering presence driving him? He didn’t know. Slowly, he stepped forward, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Geeta drew symbols on his forehead with vermillion, her chant low and guttural, rising and falling in an alien rhythm. The sound vibrated through the air, pressing against his chest and making his skin crawl. The atmosphere grew heavier, suffocating.

He tried to step back, to ask questions—but he couldn’t. Her words gripped him like invisible chains, forcing his body to obey.

The Point of No Return

The candles flared violently, shadows leaping across the room. The mirrors shook, and a sudden gust of wind whipped through, defying the closed windows. The symbols on the cloth twisted, the serpents seeming to come alive. A strange shimmer pulsed over the patterns, the air crackling with energy and radiating an oppressive heat.

“Geeta!” His voice cracked with panic. “Stop this madness!”

She didn’t stop. A low, guttural chant spilled from her lips as she swayed, lost in a trance. Her movements were sharp and unnatural, jerking with a predator’s precision. Her limbs bent and shifted in ways that defied reason, sending a sick twist through Naresh’s stomach. Shadows stretched toward him, alive and closing in.

The dogs’ howls pierced the air, rising with the chant’s intensity as if they sensed the sinister shift. Their sharp, mournful cries sliced through the oppressive silence, eerie warnings from the unseen.

“Geeta, stop!” he yelled, stumbling back. Her eyes opened, ancient and predatory, freezing him in place.

No Way Out

Naresh lunged at the door, yanking the handle and pounding his fists. It wouldn’t budge. He threw his shoulder into it, panic surging as sweat dripped down his face. The door rattled but held firm, unyielding as stone. His breath came in ragged gasps, palms slipping on the handle. He pounded harder, fists aching, but the resistance felt alive, as if the door itself was conspiring to trap him.

Behind him, Geeta’s bangles jingled, sharp and metallic, like chains dragging through the dark.

“Don’t run, Naresh,” she whispered, her voice laced with haunting echoes. “It’s too late—it’s already begun.”

The candles flared one last time before the lights vanished, plunging the room into pitch-black silence. Naresh collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Geeta’s lips curved into a satisfied smile—he was hers now. The ritual had worked. She raised the glass of crimson liquid, what Naresh had feared was blood, and drained it in one gulp. Thick streaks smeared her face, twisting her features into a monstrous mask. Naresh lay motionless, unaware of the nightmare consuming him.

Naresh remembered little of what happened next. A car from Geeta's hotel dropped him home late at night. His dogs didn’t recognize him at first, barking furiously, their fur bristling as if he were a stranger. Then, suddenly, they grew unnaturally submissive, cowering and disappearing into the shadows.

Their frantic barking woke his father, who opened the door to see Naresh stumbling toward the cottage, his gait unsteady, his eyes vacant. Shaking his head, the old man muttered about Naresh drinking too much and moved to shut the door. But before he could, the dogs reappeared, clawing and whining desperately, begging to be let inside as if something hunted them. Troubled, his father let them in, bolted the door, and turned off the lights. Outside, the dim light in Naresh’s cottage flickered ominously, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to move on their own.

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear (Part 2)

Geeta’s Growing Influence

Naresh’s days felt heavier after Geeta’s visit. His dogs, Gappi, Sandy, and Coco, refused to go near the outhouse, sticking close to the main house instead. Even coaxing and cajoling failed to calm them. Their sudden fear gnawed at him. They paced nervously, tails tucked and ears pinned back, occasionally letting out low growls as if warding off something unseen. Their anxious whimpers lingered, echoing in Naresh’s mind long after the silence returned.

Geeta, on the other hand, became a recurring presence. She called often, her voice warm yet oddly persistent—too persistent. Naresh couldn’t decide whether her interest in him felt comforting or vaguely manipulative. One morning, she joined Naresh unannounced during his walk in the university campus, her sudden appearance leaving him momentarily off-balance.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, surprised.

“I like early walks too. Clears my head,” she replied, falling into step beside him.

She wore jogging shoes and a sleek tracksuit, her athletic figure perfectly accentuated. Her long, lustrous hair was swept into a high ponytail, baring the smooth, graceful curve of her neck—a line so striking it seemed to invite both admiration and longing. The expensive pair of sunglasses perched atop her hair only added to her allure, framing her face with a touch of effortless sensuality. Naresh couldn’t help but stare, something deep and instinctive stirring within him as her striking beauty seemed to awaken a raw, unspoken desire.

Catching Naresh’s lingering gaze, she met his eyes and winked, a silent, playful question about her appearance in the gesture. Naresh nodded an awkward appreciation, though unease lingered beneath his admiration. How had she transformed so completely from the awkward, skinny girl he remembered from their school days?

Naresh glanced at her again. Her eyes gleamed with a sharp, almost predatory focus, and her movements carried an unnerving fluidity, as though she glided rather than walked. He couldn’t shake the thought that the Geeta he once knew had vanished, replaced by someone entirely different, someone he wasn’t sure he could trust.

They continued their walk, lost in conversation, when Naresh stopped abruptly. His breath caught as he realized where they were—the infamous Gulladmath bungalow. A chill ran down his spine. How had they ended up here? This wasn’t on his usual route. He racked his brain, but the last stretch of their walk felt like a blur. Had their conversation led them here without thinking? Or had something unseen guided their steps to this haunted place? The thought gripped him as he stared at the towering structure, its dark windows seeming to watch him back. It felt as if some unseen force had transported them here, and the realization left him both awed and unnerved.

“You remember the Gulladmath bungalow?” she asked, stopping deliberately in front of it. Geeta lingered, her gaze fixed on the towering structure with a focus that made Naresh uneasy. She closed her eyes and deeply inhaled, as if drawing in something from the air around them, a strange satisfaction washing over her face. Naresh shifted uncomfortably, irritated by the pause in their walk and her fascination with the bungalow. He didn’t understand her interest in the place he preferred to avoid. This wasn’t just idle curiosity—it felt like a connection he couldn’t quite grasp, and it left him more puzzled than afraid.

Naresh nodded. The Gulladmath bungalow loomed large in local lore, its name spoken in hushed tones. Stories of eerie whispers and shadowy figures glimpsed through its windows sent shivers down spines. Locals swore they’d heard strange noises—low moans, sudden thuds—emanating from within its walls on moonless nights. Even now, as a museum, it bore the weight of its haunted history, its dark past etched into every creak and shadow. Generations had grown up fearing the place, its sinister aura unshaken by time.

“Hard to forget. Even now, it feels like it’s hiding secrets no one dares uncover,” Naresh muttered.

Geeta stopped, her gaze fixed on the bungalow. “Ever feel like places hold energy? Memories of things that happened there?”

He chuckled nervously. “I try not to think too much about that.”

“Maybe you should.” Her voice was soft, but something about it sent a chill through him.

A Growing Bond—and Unease

In the following days, Geeta began to occupy more of Naresh’s time. She joined him for morning walks and dropped by in the evenings, always calling in advance, yet somehow ensuring he could never say no for evening chats over chai and samosas. She even coaxed him into drinks at the hotel bar where she was staying. Though he found her charming, her intensity unsettled him. It felt deliberate, as if every word and gesture was carefully chosen. He couldn’t decide if it was curiosity or calculation driving her attention, but it left him restless, like prey sensing a predator nearby.

One night, they sat in the dimly lit bar, Geeta swirling her wine glass lazily.

“You’ve changed,” she said, studying him. “Less guarded than in school.”

“Time does that.” Naresh smiled. “And you? You’re completely different.”

She leaned closer. “Sometimes, starting over isn’t a choice—it’s survival. You shed the skin of who you were, piece by piece, until no one recognizes you. Not even yourself.”

Naresh met her dark, unwavering gaze. For a moment, he felt laid bare, as though she could see right through him. A chill ran down his spine, and his fingers gripped the edge of the table instinctively, as if to steady himself against an invisible force. He diverted the conversation quickly, but the unease lingered, a quiet tension gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Signs and Shadows

The unease deepened at home. One evening, Naresh’s father, a devout old man, paused mid-pooja, his hands trembling as he held the diya. The heavy scent of burning incense mixed with the faint crackle of the flame. Shadows flickered on the walls, shifting unnaturally in the dim light. His father’s lips moved in prayer, the words barely audible, his voice faltering as the diya’s flame flickered wildly in the still air.

“Something’s not right,” he muttered under his breath.

Naresh brushed it off as his father’s age catching up with him, though a small voice in his mind wondered if something more—something unseen—had been sensed. He dismissed the thought, blaming it on fatigue. Meanwhile, the dogs’ behavior worsened. They avoided the outhouse entirely, barking at seemingly nothing. Naresh himself began to feel an oppressive weight in the air when alone, pressing against his chest like the room was closing in. Occasionally, he caught faint whispers at the edge of his hearing, but whenever he strained to listen, the sounds vanished into an eerie silence.

And then there were the shadows. Twice, he thought he saw something shift near the compound wall, a fleeting motion that vanished before he could focus. Once, he swore he saw Geeta’s son—silent, unnervingly still—standing at a distance, watching him. His heart raced as he called out, but the figure dissolved into the darkness, leaving only an oppressive silence in its wake.

Sleep became elusive. Naresh dreamed of footsteps echoing through empty halls, disembodied whispers speaking words just beyond comprehension. Each time he woke, drenched in sweat, the sharp barking of dogs echoed in the distance, their cries laced with an urgency he couldn’t ignore.

An Invitation

Geeta’s calls became more frequent. She wanted to meet again, this time for a private dinner in her suite.

“It’s my 40th birthday, Naresh. I want you to come,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

Naresh hesitated. Her tone carried an urgency—almost desperation—that tugged at something deep within him. It felt as though she needed him there for more than just company, an unspoken plea he couldn’t quite decipher. Yet, curiosity and habit overpowered the flicker of doubt. After all, what harm could a birthday dinner do?

As he hung up, the shadows outside seemed alive, stretching and twisting like silent watchers biding their time. The dogs’ howls shattered the stillness, sharp and frantic, their cries warning of something unseen lurking in the growing darkness.

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear (Part 1)

 

Naresh Returns to Dharwad

Naresh stepped off the rickety auto in front of his two-storied house in Dharwad. The iron gate gleamed with fresh paint, its brass latch polished to a shine. Jasmine creepers adorned the boundary walls, adding a serene charm. The dark windows stared back at him, empty and unblinking. The familiar scent of damp earth after the morning drizzle tugged at his memories—childhood evenings chasing dragonflies and hearing whispered tales of spirits roaming after dark. Trees lined the road, their roots breaking through the old stone pavements. Life here moved slower, wrapped in the lazy hum of ceiling fans and the distant clang of temple bells. Yet, the stillness felt too perfect, almost unnatural, like the calm before a storm. Leaves rustled faintly, like soft whispers, and a distant door creaked, making him glance over his shoulder.

At 40, Naresh returned to the home he had left over two decades ago to chase his dreams. Now, standing at the gate, he was ready to embrace early retirement. His gaze fell on the outhouse—his cherished cottage—visible beyond the main house. It looked unchanged: simple, cozy, its sunlit walls dappled with shadows from the trees. He paused to take it in, memories flooding back—childhood days spent reading, dreaming, and losing himself in fantasies. This wasn’t just a building; it was a sanctuary, a piece of his soul. Warm nostalgia swept over him, as though the cottage had been waiting patiently, ready to welcome him home.

The trill of a koel snapped Naresh from his thoughts. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, as if waking from a dream. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of jasmine from the garden. Picking up his suitcase, he stepped inside, the gate creaking softly as it shut behind him. A smile tugged at his lips—soon, he would see his parents' familiar, welcoming faces.

Settling Back into Routine

Days quickly settled into a routine. Mornings were spent walking through the sprawling Karnataka University (KUD) campus. Banyan trees stretched their long shadows over cracked pathways. Naresh often paused near the old burial ground at the campus edge, drawn to its eerie silence. Crooked tombstones, tilted and cracked, cast jagged shadows on the uneven ground. The earth seemed weary, sagging under the weight of its buried secrets. Every visit brought a faint chill, as though unseen eyes watched from beneath the soil.

Afternoons in the outhouse cottage, his cherished retreat, were spent immersed in books, savoring coffee, and crafting witty blog posts. Evenings brought spirited reunions with Darshan and Karim, where they drank late into the night, their laughter echoing over playful banter and jokes that made them feel young again.

Their drinking sessions often stretched past midnight, with Darshan dropping Naresh home in the dead of night. At 2 a.m., the streets lay eerily silent, dim streetlights casting long, distorted shadows. Naresh gazed out the window, his muddled thoughts following the shifting darkness. One night, he caught a glimpse of a figure darting behind a tree—a fleeting silhouette, gone before he could be sure. Another time, as they passed the Gulladmath bungalow, its imposing facade drew his gaze. Now a historical museum, the bungalow still carried whispers of its dark past. Locals spoke of shadows flitting behind its curtains and faint voices echoing in the stillness of night. Its high walls and narrow windows seemed to guard deeply buried secrets.

As a child, Naresh had often felt the oppressive chill of the bungalow, its tales of curses and spirits seared into his memory. Now, staring at its looming silhouette, he thought he saw the curtains twitch. He blinked, but the window stared back—empty. A cold shiver ran down his spine, cutting through the car’s warmth. He exhaled sharply, trying to dismiss the unease, but it clung to him. Perhaps he’d had one drink too many, he thought, leaning back as the night blurred into a foggy haze.

The Call That Changed Everything

One morning, Naresh’s phone rang. It was Jayanti, a school friend who had stayed back in Dharwad. Her cheerful voice brought a moment of comfort. Naresh had wanted to meet her since his return, but their plans always fell through for one reason or another. Despite their frequent phone calls, the meeting remained elusive, leaving Naresh wondering why it never seemed to work out.

“Guess who’s coming to town? Geeta! Remember her?” Jayanti said with her usual cheerful ease, the same lighthearted charm that made her beloved by everyone.

Naresh frowned. “Geeta? The veterinary doctor? Thin as a stick? Too tall for a girl? Double-decker? Coconut tree? Matchstick? Carrom board?” He chuckled, recalling how the boys teased her endlessly. She was nicknamed 'haddi' and 'plain dosa,' ridiculed for her bony frame and lack of curves. Her pale complexion earned her nicknames like 'milk bottle' and 'ghost girl.' Even her slightly nasal, hurried voice became a joke. Back then, the teasing felt like harmless school banter. But now, Naresh wondered if those names had left deeper scars than they realized. Did Geeta still carry those wounds beneath the success she had built over the years?

“You boys and your nicknames! Always picking on girls like her. Do you even realize how mean you were back then?” Jayanti said with a light chuckle. “Poor girl! We used to tell her to ignore you idiots and focus on her studies. And look at her now, having the last laugh. She’s coming back after twenty years, settled in Denmark, and making it big in veterinary research and business.”

Naresh burst out laughing, his voice warm and teasing through the phone. “And you, Jayanti? Teased? Never! The boys couldn’t stop admiring you. You had that effortless charm—the kind that made heads turn the moment you walked by. Sure, there were other pretty girls, but you? You had this magic about you. Those curves, that smile, the way you carried yourself—it drove us all crazy. If only I had the courage back then to say what I’m saying now!”

Jayanti’s laughter rang out, rich and musical. “You boys were impossible back then,” she teased, her voice turning low and almost breathy. “But thank you, Naresh. No one’s reminded me of those days—or how I was back then—in such a long time. You’ve made me blush in ways I’d forgotten I could.” 

They laughed heartily, sharing old memories and playful banter. Before hanging up, Jayanti teased Naresh for being as incorrigible as ever. He promised to meet her soon, though thoughts of Geeta began to stir faintly in his mind.

Naresh agreed to meet Geeta, her name stirring no particular emotion. To him, she was just another face from school—or so he believed.

Strange First Meeting

Days later, a sleek black car glided to a halt in front of Naresh's house. A smartly uniformed chauffeur stepped out, opening the rear doors with precision. From one side, Jayanti emerged, her face lighting up with a vibrant smile as she waved enthusiastically.

"Naresh! Look at you! Same old clueless look," she teased, her voice brimming with warmth. She strode toward him, extending her arms for an embrace.

"And now, meet Geeta," she announced with a dramatic flourish.

From the other door, Geeta stepped out, her movements deliberate, almost regal. Her silk saree shimmered under the sunlight, flowing around her like liquid gold. She stood tall, her sharp, piercing gaze locking onto Naresh, stripping away his composure. It wasn’t just a look—it was a command, a quiet assertion of dominance. The tension was palpable until Jayanti’s cheerful energy broke through, her radiant presence cutting the atmosphere like a beam of light through storm clouds.

“Naresh, you haven’t changed a bit! Still the same dreamer,” she teased with a knowing smile. “Bet you didn’t expect to see Geeta like this, did you?”

Naresh took a hesitant step forward, his eyes locked on Geeta as though struggling to connect the awkward, skinny girl from school to the poised, magnetic woman before him. Her elegance was captivating, her presence commanding, almost as if she were a different person entirely. He marveled at the transformation—it was extraordinary, almost unreal, leaving him both amazed and unsettled.

Geeta extended her hand, her smile polite but guarded. “It’s been a long time, Naresh.”

Naresh shook her hand, noticing the firmness of her grip. “Twenty-five years, give or take,” he said lightly, though her presence weighed heavier than he expected.

A boy of about ten trailed behind her, eyes downcast, clutching a toy elephant. He glanced up briefly, his gaze unsettlingly blank, before retreating behind Geeta’s flowing saree. Naresh tried to make small talk, but the boy remained silent. To Naresh's surprise, neither Geeta nor Jayanti made any effort to cajole him into introducing himself or greeting 'Naresh uncle,' something usually expected of boys his age in such situations.

Naresh paused as Geeta stepped closer, her sharp eyes tracing his face, searching for remnants of the boy she once knew.

Jayanti broke the silence with a playful grin. “Naresh, you’re looking great! School days haven’t left much of a mark on you,” she quipped. Geeta smiled faintly, but her eyes remained distant, unreadable.

“You’ve aged well, Naresh,” Geeta said, her tone polite but distant. Naresh forced a laugh, his unease masked behind a smile.

“Oh, don’t let him fool you, Geeta,” Jayanti cut in with a laugh. “He acts clueless, but he always had a way of saying just the right thing to keep everyone guessing.”

Just then, Naresh’s dogs, usually friendly, growled the moment they saw her. Their ears flattened, tails stiff, and teeth bared, as though sensing something invisible yet menacing.

“Geeta, meet my gang,” Naresh said, gesturing to Gappi, Sandy, and Coco.

Geeta crouched with effortless grace, her calm smile steady. “Shhh... good girls,” she murmured, her voice soft and melodic. The dogs froze mid-growl, their bodies stiff as if held by an invisible grip. Moments later, they whimpered and retreated, tails tucked and ears pinned back, slinking to the far end of the compound. It felt as though an unseen force had subdued them, leaving Naresh uneasy as he silently observed the strange scene.

Naresh forced a laugh, but his eyes stayed on the dogs. Their behavior was unrecognizable, almost primal. "They’ve never acted like this before," he muttered, his voice faltering. A chilling thought crept in—what if they saw something he couldn’t?

"Animals sense things we don’t," Geeta said, her soft voice carrying a strange finality. The sentence seemed to hang in the air, heavier than it should have, as if daring him to question it. Naresh shivered, his instincts urging him to break the silence, but no words came.

The words seemed to linger unnaturally, filling the space with an oppressive stillness. Naresh shivered slightly, the air around him feeling colder than it should have. Forcing a laugh to dispel the unease, his eyes remained fixed on Geeta. Her tone—measured, almost unnervingly assured—carried a weight that unsettled him deeply.

They talked for hours, laughter ringing through the room as snacks and tea flowed non-stop, courtesy of Naresh’s household staff. Memories of school pranks, mutual friends, and life since parting kept the conversation alive, breaking any lingering awkwardness and pulling them back to their carefree youth.

Geeta spoke evenly about her life in Denmark—her thriving veterinary practice, her marriage to a busy surgeon, and her daughter staying back to finish school. Her tone was steady, almost too practiced, as if these details had been recited countless times before. Yet, her gaze lingered on Naresh, not with warmth, but with a probing intensity, as though she were gauging his every reaction rather than sharing her story. Meanwhile, Naresh couldn’t help but notice her son’s unsettling stillness. He sat rigid, fists clenched, staring blankly at the wall. His wide, unblinking eyes seemed fixed on something invisible, something no one else could see. The boy’s unnatural demeanor sent a chill through Naresh, and for a fleeting moment, he questioned whether the child truly belonged to this world.

When they left, Naresh’s dogs rushed back, barking wildly, their tails stiff and ears alert. They circled the house, sniffing and whining at the door as if to ensure the intruder was truly gone. Even after retreating, their nervous eyes darted about, and low growls rumbled deep in their throats, as though the air still carried the trace of something unnatural.

Later that night, as Naresh lay in bed, shadows stretched across the walls like searching fingers, their movement too deliberate for his comfort. Each time he shifted, the darkness seemed to shift with him, as though it had a will of its own. His pulse quickened. Was it just the breeze—or something watching from within the room? Once or twice, he thought he saw a figure shift in the corner, but when he looked, it was gone—only the faint creak of wood settling broke the stillness. He tried convincing himself it was just the breeze rustling the curtains. Sleep eluded him. Somewhere, a dog howled, its mournful cry blurring the line between the world outside and the unease within his mind.

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear is a novella (mini-novel) I recently completed, blending supernatural suspense, psychological intrigue, and cultural depth. 

The story will be serialized over the next 10 weeks, starting February 11th, as a weekly blog post, offering readers a thrilling journey into mystery and fear.

A brief synopsis is provided below.

If you find the story captivating and can’t wait for the full 10 weeks to unravel its secrets, feel free to send me an email (maheshuh AT gmail DOT com). I’ll send you the complete novella right away.

Dive into the shadows—your next obsession awaits!

Synopsis: 

When Naresh, a retired IT professional, returns to his ancestral home in Dharwad, he hopes to find peace in the slow rhythm of the town and the nostalgic comfort of his childhood memories. But the familiar streets and the sprawling Gulladmath bungalow seem different now—darker, heavier, as if steeped in whispers of stories untold. The once-idyllic town holds its breath, concealing secrets that stir beneath its quiet surface.

Among the shadows of his past emerges Geeta, a childhood friend transformed into a commanding and enigmatic woman. Her presence is magnetic, unsettling, and impossible to ignore. Beneath her flawless composure lies an aura of mystery, her intentions masked by a mix of charm and an unsettling edge. Naresh’s initial curiosity soon turns into something deeper, as Geeta pulls him into a world where reality bends, art becomes a vessel for power, and the past refuses to remain buried.

The Gulladmath bungalow, with its fort-like ramparts and terrace overlooking the town, looms large over the story. Its walls echo with rumors of dark rituals, unspeakable acts, and spirits that never left. The bungalow becomes a character of its own—ominous, foreboding, and central to the tale’s chilling events.

As Naresh reconnects with Geeta, he finds himself drawn into her orbit, compelled by forces he cannot comprehend. A simple request to paint her portrait spirals into something far more sinister. Each brushstroke seems to carry a weight beyond his understanding, and the art he creates begins to reflect truths he never intended to reveal. The boundaries between creation and possession blur, and Naresh feels his grip on his identity slipping.

Supernatural occurrences multiply—dogs howl without reason, shadows stretch unnaturally long, and whispers seem to echo from nowhere. The terrace of the bungalow becomes the stage for an unfolding ritual, where fear, desire, and ancient power collide. The air hums with tension, and Naresh realizes that he may be just a pawn in a much larger, darker game.

In this atmospheric tale of obsession, manipulation, and the supernatural, Geeta’s transformation holds the key—but to what end? Is she a victim of forces beyond her control, or is she their master? And what price will Naresh pay as he edges closer to the truth?

Steeped in Indian folklore and laced with psychological tension, this gripping novella masterfully intertwines mystery, sensuality, and terror. It is a story of shadows—of what we see, what we think we see, and the darkness that lies beyond. As Naresh learns, some doors should never be opened. But once they are, can they ever be closed again?