The General’s Vault: Power, Plunder, and Poison

Prologue: The Corpse in the Villa

The villa was silent.

The guards shifted uneasily.

Inside, Nigeria’s ruler was already dead.

General Sani Abacha sat slumped in his chair, eyes half-open, a faint trail of saliva on his lip. A glass of juice and a few scraps of fruit lay abandoned on the table. Two women — said to be foreign prostitutes — had vanished minutes earlier under orders from his security chief. 

No alarms. No shouting. No emergency convoy. Only whispers.

Doctors rushed in. They pounded his chest. They forced oxygen into his mouth. Nothing worked.

Abacha was packed into a plain shroud before sunset. No autopsy. No press conference. Only silence.

By dawn, rumors were exploding like gunfire: poison, betrayal, foreign intelligence agents, billions at stake.

The Rise: From Quiet Officer to Ruthless Kingmaker

Sani Abacha was not born a king.

He built himself into one, step by brutal step.

Born in 1943 in Kano, northern Nigeria, Abacha joined the army in his teens. He rose quietly, unnoticed, until the 1980s when Nigeria became a battlefield of coups and counter-coups. Abacha mastered the dark art of survival.

He played a key role in the 1983 coup that overthrew the civilian government. Again in 1985, he helped bring General Ibrahim Babangida to power.

But his most daring move came in 1993. After a messy election that should have ended military rule, Abacha staged a bloodless takeover. He shoved aside the transitional government of Ernest Shonekan and installed himself as the absolute ruler.

No shots fired. No votes counted. Only raw power.

The Reign: Blood, Oil, and Billions

Abacha ruled with an iron fist and a cold heart.

Political opponents vanished.

Journalists were jailed.

Pro-democracy activists were hanged, the most famous being Ken Saro-Wiwa in 1995.

Nigeria’s oil wealth — once a blessing — became Abacha’s private vault.

Investigators later uncovered that he and his family siphoned off over $4.3 billion through shell companies, fake contracts, and offshore accounts.

Some reports say the real figure could be even higher.

Every deal flowed through Abacha’s loyalists. Every rival was crushed without mercy. Fear hung over Nigeria like a permanent cloud. At night, families prayed not to hear a knock at the door.

To the outside world, Abacha smiled stiffly, wore crisp military uniforms, and promised democracy someday.

Inside Nigeria, he ruled like a mafia don, backed by guns, cash, and terror.

The Final Days: Sex, Secrets, and Shadows

In early June 1998, Abacha was preparing for another five years in power. He had forced five political parties to endorse him as the sole candidate.

But behind the palace walls, cracks were showing.

Whispers grew that powerful forces — foreign and local — were tired of the dictator.

On June 7, 1998, Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat visited Abuja. According to Major Hamza Al-Mustapha, Abacha’s trusted security chief, a member of Arafat’s entourage shook hands with Abacha. Minutes later, the General fell ill.

Others tell a different story.

They claim Abacha spent the night with two Indian prostitutes, fueled by large doses of Viagra. Some say the apple juice he drank was poisoned. Some insist he simply collapsed from a heart attack, a worn-out heart burdened by decades of greed and stress.

No autopsy was done.

No official cause of death was ever announced.

The truth died with him — and with those who were too scared to speak.

The Vault: Where Did the Money Go?

After Abacha’s death, the Nigerian government found itself staring at a financial black hole.

Billions had been hidden overseas.

Investigators uncovered a network of Swiss accounts, shell corporations, and secret trusts.

The Abacha family and their associates had moved money with surgical precision, using fake security contracts and bogus debts.

Over the next two decades, Nigeria clawed back more than $1.5 billion from Switzerland, Jersey, the U.S., and other jurisdictions.

But a vast chunk remains missing — lost in the global maze of financial secrecy.

Foreign governments quietly helped in recovery efforts. But some intelligence sources hint that Western agencies were furious with Abacha. His death, some say, cleared the way for easier negotiations over Nigeria’s future — and access to its oil.

The Aftermath: Who Benefited from His Death?

Abacha’s sudden death triggered a chain reaction.

Lieutenant General Abdulsalami Abubakar, a quieter figure, took power within hours.

Instead of clinging to dictatorship, Abubakar fast-tracked Nigeria toward civilian rule.

In 1999, Olusegun Obasanjo, a former military ruler turned democrat, was elected president.

The speed of transition raised eyebrows.

Some conspiracy theorists believe Abacha’s death was not an accident.

They argue that powerful interests — both inside Nigeria and abroad — decided he had become a liability.

Too much money.

Too much violence.

Too many enemies.

Better to remove the problem and broker a new, more manageable Nigeria.

Epilogue: Ghost of a General

Today, Sani Abacha’s name still sends shivers down Nigerian spines.

Billions of stolen dollars still trickle home in dusty legal battles.

Some praise him for stabilizing Nigeria’s economy.

Most remember the fear, the brutality, the greed.

No official ever confessed to killing him.

No investigation ever revealed the full truth.

He ruled Nigeria like a king.

He died alone, surrounded by lies, lust, and silence.

In the end, not even his billions could buy him another breath.

And somewhere — in hidden vaults and secret accounts — the ghost of Sani Abacha still guards his stolen treasure.

The Killing of Syed Modi: Fame. Betrayal. Silence

Chapter 1: Death at the Stadium

On the evening of July 28, 1988, Syed Modi walked out of the KD Singh Babu Stadium in Lucknow after finishing his badminton practice. The eight-time national champion, just twenty-six years old, was carrying his kit. He was calm, unaware, and unguarded.

He reached the parking lot and unlocked his white Maruti 800. The stadium behind him was still alive with fading footsteps and summer sweat. The city was moving as usual. There was no warning.

As Modi opened his car door, three bullets tore through him.

One struck his neck. One hit his chest. Another pierced his jaw. The shots rang out sharp and fast. They dropped him to the ground before he had a chance to turn or speak.

Blood spread on the pavement. His body lay half-in, half-out of the open door. People nearby heard the gunfire and rushed to the spot. A few seconds later, the attackers were gone.

Panic erupted. Passersby screamed. Someone called the police. Others stood frozen. In less than a minute, the champion lay dead outside the stadium that had shaped his career.

The murder weapon was a 9mm pistol. The shots were precise. There was no scuffle. No warning. It was a clean exit. A professional job.

By the time law enforcement arrived, the crowd had grown. Reporters followed. Cameramen climbed onto parked vehicles. Flashbulbs lit up the scene. The blood, the shattered glass, the silence around the body—it was all on film.

India had lost one of its finest athletes. A man who had once brought home gold from the Commonwealth Games was now a chalk outline on concrete.

No one knew yet why it had happened. But the whispers had already begun.

Chapter 2: Shadows of Love and Power

The police began their investigation within hours of Syed Modi’s murder. They questioned stadium staff, fellow players, and bystanders. No one had seen the shooters clearly. The bullets had come fast. The killers had vanished even faster.

The murder weapon, a 9mm pistol, suggested a professional job. It wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was stolen. There was no personal confrontation. It was a hit.

As the days passed, the case grew darker. Local police struggled. There was pressure from all sides. The case was handed over to the Central Bureau of Investigation.

The CBI began pulling at threads from Syed Modi’s personal life. What they found shocked the country.

There were signs of trouble in the marriage. Modi’s wife, Ameeta Kulkarni, was also a badminton player. They had been a star couple once. But letters, testimonies, and intercepted communications revealed distance and conflict. The CBI suspected a deeper link.

Investigators found that Ameeta had a close relationship with Sanjay Singh, a powerful Congress leader from Amethi. He was married at the time. He was known in political circles, with royal family roots and strong connections to Delhi.

The CBI claimed that Modi had grown suspicious. That he had confronted Ameeta. That there were tensions in the home. They claimed this personal tension may have led to something more sinister.

Based on their investigation, the CBI filed a chargesheet naming eight accused: Ameeta Modi, Sanjay Singh, Bhagwati Singh alias Pappu, Akhilesh Kumar Singh, Jitendra Singh Bhatia, Ramesh alias Tika Ram Trivedi, Ravindra Singh, and Balai Singh.

Before the case could gather full momentum, one of the accused was already dead.

Akhilesh Kumar Singh was killed in a police encounter shortly after Modi’s murder. The official version said he fired at officers. Critics said it was too convenient. He would never testify. He would never reveal what he knew. One of the case’s key links was gone.

Media picked up every detail. The murder had turned into a scandal. It wasn’t just about a champion’s death anymore. It had become a tale of betrayal, politics, and whispers that refused to die.

Every headline deepened the mystery. Every new fact blurred the line between personal tragedy and public spectacle.

India watched as a hero’s life unraveled in the aftermath of his death.

Chapter 3: The Courtroom Chessboard

The legal battle began in a charged atmosphere. The courtroom was packed. Journalists, politicians, and curious citizens showed up to watch. It was not just a murder trial. It had become a national obsession.

The charges were serious. Conspiracy. Murder. Criminal conspiracy under Section 120B. The accused included a sitting Member of Parliament and the widow of the victim.

The CBI presented its case. They submitted call records, intercepted letters, witness statements, and forensic reports. They claimed Syed Modi was murdered by hired shooters. They claimed it was a conspiracy rooted in personal betrayal.

The defense struck back hard. They challenged the admissibility of letters. They questioned the credibility of witnesses. They said the prosecution had no direct evidence. They said the case was built on assumptions and motive, not on proof.

Witnesses turned hostile. Some denied their earlier statements. Others said they were pressured. Important links in the chain of evidence broke in front of the judge.

Ameeta Modi and Sanjay Singh were granted bail. They remained under public scrutiny but out of custody. The case dragged for months.

In August 1990, the court dropped charges against them citing lack of evidence. The judge ruled that the material presented did not justify framing charges of conspiracy and murder. The prosecution did not appeal the decision.

Soon after, Sanjay and Ameeta married. That became another headline.

Other accused were either acquitted or died during the trial. Amar Bahadur Singh was murdered. Balai Singh died during proceedings. The courtroom slowly emptied. The crowd lost interest. The cameras moved on.

One man remained—Bhagwati Singh alias Pappu. His name stayed on the charge sheet. His trial continued. But the spotlight was gone.

The case that once captured the country’s attention had started to fade. But in the shadows, one man still waited for a verdict.

Chapter 4: The Lonely Conviction

Years passed. Most people forgot about the Syed Modi murder case. But one name stayed on the court docket—Bhagwati Singh alias Pappu.

He was the only surviving accused still facing trial. The others had been discharged, acquitted, or were dead.

The trial moved slowly. Hearings were delayed. Witnesses were missing. Files moved from one bench to another. But Pappu stayed in jail. He had no political backing. No public sympathy. He was the last man standing.

In 2009, the special sessions court in Lucknow pronounced its verdict. Pappu was found guilty of Syed Modi’s murder. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.

The court noted the role of the weapon, his link to the planning, and his involvement as part of the team that carried out the killing. It was a quiet judgment. There was no media frenzy. No breaking news.

Pappu appealed the decision.

In 2022, the Allahabad High Court upheld the conviction. The court ruled that the evidence against him was strong enough to support the life sentence. At the same time, it observed that there was not enough evidence against the others.

Pappu’s final appeal reached the Supreme Court in 2023. It was dismissed.

The case was now closed.

Syed Modi’s name lives on in stadiums and record books. But his murder remains a story half-told. His wife and her powerful partner walked free. One man was convicted. The rest were never proven guilty.

What remained was a shattered promise, a murdered champion, and a justice system that found closure—but not resolution.

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear (Full Novella)

Note: This novella was published in weekly blog posts over 10 weeks. Today, the final part is up. Here is the complete novella. Enjoy. 

You can download the PDF version here.

(P.S: If you're unable to download, just email me and I'll send the PDF as an attachment. On some mobile devices, it may ask for a Google account—you can use yours. Not sure why it happens on phones but not on Windows laptops.)

***

Terrace of Shadows - Where Art Meets Fear

A Novella 

By 

Mahesh Hegade

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Part 5

Shadows of Devotion

The appointed day arrived, and Geeta was occupied from early morning, skipping her usual jog—a detail she had mentioned to Naresh the day before. He didn’t know what she was doing, but her absence felt purposeful, as though she were preparing for something far beyond routine. Her secrecy had a ritualistic quality, each action imbued with unspoken intent. The mystery gnawed at Naresh, amplifying his unease.

For the first time in days, Naresh walked alone in the morning. Thoughts of Geeta lingered throughout, though he couldn’t tell if he missed her or if something deeper was unsettling him. After breakfast, the car Geeta sent arrived, and Naresh headed to her hotel.

Darshan, his closest friend, called again, but Naresh ignored it—his fourth or fifth missed call in recent days. His friends speculated about his odd behavior. Naresh, once cheerful and expressive, now avoided calls, skipped gatherings, and sat silently when he did show up. His laughter had faded into a hollow silence, leaving them to wonder why.

Geeta’s arrival unsettled Naresh, clouding his thoughts and altering his behavior. Her presence lingered in his mind, drowning reason and evoking an inexplicable devotion. Her words replayed endlessly, wrapping around his thoughts like commands rather than suggestions. Once lively and outgoing, Naresh now seemed distant and hollow.

Ritualistic Transformation

When Naresh entered Geeta’s suite, the air was thick with sandalwood and rose. She sat before a large mirror, a makeup artist flown in from Mumbai carefully working on her. The transformation was striking—a sharp contrast to her usual formal sarees or sleek tracksuits from her morning jogs. Naresh’s breath caught as he took in her mesmerizing presence.

The elegance he once admired now felt sacred and unsettling. She seemed to shed her worldly self, stepping into a realm of mystery. Her intricately braided hair, adorned with jasmine, radiated purity and tradition. The mingling scents of jasmine and sandalwood lent her an almost divine aura, as if she were preparing for something beyond mortal understanding. Every detail was deliberate, evoking a sense of sacred ritual rather than mere artistry.

A red thread tied around her wrist heightened the ritualistic atmosphere, making Naresh question if this preparation served a purpose far greater than art.

On her bed lay an array of exotic jewelry, scattered like ancient treasures. Each piece bore intricate symbols—serpents for rebirth, flames for purification. Together, they spoke of spiritual transformation, perfectly aligned with the ritual’s purpose. Naresh wanted to ask, but the question dissolved in his throat. An invisible weight bore down on him, clouding his thoughts and leaving him unsteady.

When Geeta locked eyes with him, her gaze seemed to unravel the unspoken questions buried in his mind.

"This jewelry has a special purpose for tonight," she said softly, her voice deliberate, each word heavy with meaning. Her fingers hovered over the jewelry, tracing its intricate patterns as though unlocking secrets hidden in the designs.

Uneasy Alliances

Downstairs, Naresh joined Choudhary Sir and Jayanti in the lobby. They sipped coffee and exchanged casual remarks—a stark contrast to the night’s ominous preparations. To an outsider, it might have seemed absurd: one friend preparing to pose nude, another tasked with painting her, and a former teacher silently observing it all.

Choudhary Sir, once a struggling art teacher, now exuded an unsettling calm, as if molded by the very forces he sought to control. The glint in his eyes spoke of a man who had stared into the abyss and embraced its secrets. His gaze lingered on Naresh too long, unblinking and charged with intent. Every movement was unnervingly deliberate, like a puppeteer guiding unseen strings in a practiced ritual.

They ate lunch in near silence, the air thick with tension. Geeta’s absence only heightened the unease. When Naresh rose to check on her, Jayanti stopped him, her tone firm but calm. She explained Geeta was busy with preparations and didn’t want to be disturbed.

Jayanti’s steady tone and firm gaze radiated authority, embodying Geeta’s will with quiet power. Her presence guided Naresh subtly but decisively, reinforcing his compliance without a word.

Naresh had the whole day to kill before the painting session, scheduled to begin around midnight. He spent some time practicing painting, wandered through the hotel garden, and eventually lazed and napped in the guest rooms Geeta had booked for them. Afternoon tea with Jayanti and Choudhary Sir passed in silence. Later, he tried watching a Hindi horror film in the hotel’s small theater, a genre he usually enjoyed for its mix of humor and exaggeration. But this time, Naresh walked out sweating—an unusual reaction for someone who normally laughed through such films.

Moonlit Portents

At 10 PM, a car arrived with a new driver—Rehman, a devout Muslim. Dressed in a crisp uniform with a henna-dyed beard and skull cap, he greeted them politely but hesitated before opening the door, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the keys. Was it the passengers he was about to ferry, or the ominous destination of the haunted Gulladmath bungalow, that gave him pause? The tension hung in the air, unspoken but palpable.

The night was eerily perfect—clear skies, a full moon, and unnatural stillness. The bright moonlight stretched shadows unnaturally long, alive with eerie energy.

The trip was uneventful and silent. Jayanti murmured something inaudible, while Choudhary Sir stared into the darkness outside. The car finally stopped in front of the Gulladmath bungalow. Bathed in the moon's eerie glow, the sprawling structure loomed like a slumbering beast, its hollow windows watching them. The whitewashed walls gleamed unnaturally—pale, cold, and lifeless, like drained flesh.

The bungalow stood deserted. As they unlocked the heavy mahogany door and stepped inside, an eerie stillness enveloped the expansive hall. When the light flicked on, two massive taxidermied tiger heads loomed on the walls, their glass eyes glinting menacingly, as if ready to spring to life. For a moment, fear gripped Naresh. Though he had visited the bungalow several times recently, something about those heads felt different and far more menacing that night.

Terrace of Symbols

They climbed to the terrace for a final check. The moonlight drenched the space, turning it into an ethereal stage. Additional lights encircled the easel, but the moon’s brilliance rendered them almost unnecessary, amplifying the surreal atmosphere.

Intricate patterns sprawled across the floor near the easel, their loops and jagged edges glowing eerily under the moonlight. Some resembled intertwined serpents, others spiraled inward like mazes, pulling the eye toward an unseen center. These ancient designs radiated an aura of power, as if carved from the memory of a forgotten civilization. Their meanings were cryptic, yet their ominous presence was unmistakable. Small brass bowls, filled with red powder and fragrant oils, were arranged in a precise circle, amplifying the ceremonial intensity.

After checking that everything was ready, Jayanti and Choudhary Sir headed downstairs to wait for Geeta. Naresh lingered, staring at the distant crescent atop a mosque, its studded lights blinking faintly. "It’s time to go," Jayanti said firmly, breaking his trance. Without protest, Naresh followed them down.

Ascent to the Unknown

Jayanti pulled out her phone and spoke to Geeta—or so it seemed. Without dialing or speaking, it felt like telepathy, the phone merely a prop. The silence around her made the moment feel otherworldly, as if the conversation existed beyond human perception.

Jayanti said, her voice low and deliberate, "Geeta will be here in 10 minutes. Naresh, she wants you upstairs to prepare. She’ll go straight to the terrace."

Her tone carried an eerie urgency, as though the words held a hidden significance. Though her voice was steady, a faint tremor betrayed unease. She avoided Naresh’s gaze, her words precise and almost mechanical, more like directives than suggestions.

Naresh rose and headed upstairs. Choudhary Sir hunched over a worn leather-bound book, its cracked cover embossed with strange symbols that shimmered faintly in the dim light, as if alive. Whispers surrounded its origins—ancient rituals and forbidden knowledge passed down through shadowy lineages. The book exuded an aura of dread, its pages rumored to hold secrets bridging the mortal and the divine. Choudhary Sir traced its edges with deliberate care, his fingers lingering reverently, as if unlocking hidden textures within its surface.

Naresh felt the book had chosen Choudhary Sir, making him its vessel. The line between faith and darkness tethered him, transforming him into a gatekeeper of otherworldly forces.

Part 6

The Artist's Possession

Naresh sat, his eyes fixed on the blank canvas. His hands trembled briefly, then steadied, as if guided by an invisible force. A chill ran down his spine, and his grip on the brush tightened until his knuckles turned white. Confidence surged through him, tinged with an unsettling dread. Was this feeling truly his, or had it been planted by something beyond his control? The silence around him felt heavy, amplifying the eerie sense that he was no longer in charge, merely a tool guided by invisible hands.

He didn’t know how many nude paintings he had to finish, but a strange confidence told him he could churn them out with machine-like precision. Where did this certainty come from? His hands worked perfectly, yet they felt disconnected, like tools controlled by another force. Was it talent, instinct, or something more sinister guiding him? The feeling was alien, as if his hands no longer belonged to him. It wasn’t a gift—it felt like a curse, invisible strings pulling him in ways he couldn’t resist.

A Stranger's Arrival

A car pulled into the portico below, out of sight from the terrace’s obscured vantage point. Tension gripped Naresh’s chest, his palms damp with sweat. An irrational urge tugged at him to approach the edge and look—but an invisible force rooted him in place, as though unseen eyes were already watching. He stood frozen, fighting the compulsion, as the heavy weight of the unseen pressed down on him.

The car didn’t head to the parking lot where Naresh and his team’s vehicle was parked. Instead, it paused, its headlights flickering briefly before rolling to a stop under the portico. The halt felt deliberate, almost eerie, as though guided by an invisible hand. A wave of unease rippled through Naresh—a lingering, inexplicable tension he couldn’t shake.

Naresh didn’t know Geeta had driven herself. She chose to leave the car at the portico after noticing Rehman, the devout Muslim driver, praying in the parking lot. A sudden chill swept through her, goosebumps prickling her arms as if an unseen force had brushed against her. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, and a bead of sweat slid down her temple despite the cool night air. Nervously, she glanced at the driver, her breath quickening, as if an invisible barrier had formed between them. Was it his aura that unsettled her, or something deeper? For the first time, doubt flickered in her eyes, a crack in her usual confidence. Leaving the car at the portico felt like an instinctive decision, driven by a wary sense that unseen energies were at play. It was as though the driver’s presence compelled her to rethink, avoiding a confrontation she feared might derail her plans.

Moonlit Temptation

Naresh heard a knock on the slightly open wooden door to the terrace. He checked his watch: 12:25 AM. Unease gripped him. The knock was slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic, as though announcing something far beyond an ordinary arrival. His heartbeat quickened as he turned toward the door, questioning why Geeta would knock instead of walking in.

The door creaked open, and there she stood, bathed in moonlight, her smile radiant and irresistibly alluring. She appeared otherworldly—an ethereal vision of grace and beauty. Draped in a saree that shimmered like liquid gold, every fold caught the moonlight, amplifying her luminous presence. Her transformation was breathtaking; she now looked like a celestial dancer from Indra’s divine court, her movements exuding a blend of elegance and quiet power. The faint chime of her anklets and the intoxicating scent of jasmine and sandalwood added to her mystique, making her seem untouchable yet dangerously close, a living embodiment of temptation.

Naresh was captivated by her transformation. Her saree shimmered like molten gold in the moonlight, each fold amplifying her radiant beauty. The gentle chime of anklets synchronized with her deliberate steps, and the delicate scent of jasmine and sandalwood clung to the air, intensifying her intoxicating presence. Yet, her beauty felt unnervingly precise, as though calculated to perfection. The atmosphere grew heavier, charged with a magnetic energy that quickened Naresh’s pulse. Awe battled unease within him. Was she a divine vision of grace—or something far more dangerous, a temptress cloaking dominance in allure? Her radiant smile held him captive as she approached, stopping beside the easel, every movement a mesmerizing blend of elegance and quiet menace, leaving him trapped between admiration and trepidation.

"Wow," Naresh murmured, his breath catching as his pulse quickened. Warmth surged in his chest, colliding with a sharp chill that prickled his spine. Conflicted, he hesitated—admire, question, or retreat? "Marvelous," he whispered at last, his voice barely his own.

The Weight of Being Seen

"Naresh, how do I look?" Geeta asked, her voice trembling before settling into a husky tone, practiced and deliberate, yet laden with raw vulnerability. Beneath her poised exterior lay a plea, aching and exposed. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was a yearning, the culmination of years spent unseen, now revealed in one fragile, haunting question.

Naresh stood transfixed, his breath quickening as he took in every detail of her radiant presence. A strange churn twisted within him—was it awe, compulsion, or something darker? Words poured from his mouth, unbidden and reverent, as if some unseen force compelled him. He compared her to celestial dancers—Rambha, Menaka, Tilottama—all embodied in her form, his voice trembling with admiration. He listed modern actresses, insisting none could rival her beauty, his words desperate and laden with urgency.

He had never praised any woman as fervently as he praised Geeta now. His palms were slick with sweat, his throat tight, yet the words kept spilling out. As he spoke, a small voice inside wondered if the words were his—or if something darker had seized control, using him as its tool.

Geeta closed her eyes, surrendering to his stream of praises, each word a balm to the wounds she had carried for years. Her body shook, her uneven breaths rising and falling as if the praise wrapped around her in waves of bliss. It wasn’t just flattery—it was salvation, filling an emptiness that had long consumed her, leaving her awash in a blissful, almost trance-like state.

When Naresh opened his eyes, he saw her seated on the chair meant for the nude model, her eyes half-closed, lost in a trance. She radiated an intoxicating mix of vulnerability and control, as if teetering on the edge of surrender and mastery.

Praises and Pain

"Naresh, please don’t stop. Please don’t stop praising me," she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. Her lips quivered, her breaths shallow and uneven, each word spilling out like a dam breaking.

"You don’t know what it’s like—to be called ugly, to be mocked for being skinny, too tall, and having no curves. They called me ‘the scarecrow,’ Naresh, mocking me with names like 'Manchester,' 'Carrom board,' always finding new ways to humiliate me. No one ever saw me. I was invisible, just a shadow in every room, someone meant to be ignored or ridiculed."

Her voice cracked, her eyes glistening and half-closed, on the verge of breaking. "In school, no boy looked at me. The girls pitied me. I craved attention—I ached for it." Her words trembled, raw and bare. "I dreamed of someone seeing me, like I mattered, like I was... beautiful." A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the moonlight like glass.

"Naresh, please," she murmured, her voice trembling with desperation, "Don’t stop seeing me. Don’t stop admiring me." Her body shook, years of rejection and buried sorrow threatening to break free. The room seemed to contract around them, her vulnerability pressing into every corner, overwhelming and inescapable.

Yet, even in her desperation, a shadow of control lingered—a deliberate thread woven through her vulnerability, as if she had learned to turn her insecurities into weapons. Her longing felt achingly real yet unnervingly rehearsed, a mix of raw need and calculated intent. Naresh was caught, unable to tell if he was offering comfort or being pulled deeper into her intricately spun web.

Naresh froze, her words crashing over him like a relentless tide. Every instinct screamed to run, yet he stood rooted, trapped by her raw vulnerability and the crushing weight of her presence.

Part 7

The Electric Allure

Naresh froze, his gaze locked on Geeta’s half-closed eyes. Her presence dominated the terrace, the air alive with an electric tension that made every shadow seem to lean closer. Moonlight bathed her in a glow that was both divine and menacing, a blend of goddess and temptress. A chill coursed through Naresh—not from the cool night but from the sheer force of her being. He couldn’t decide whether to worship her or flee from the weight of her presence.

"Naresh, don’t stop," she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation, teetering between longing and fear. "You’ve awakened something in me—something I’ve hidden, even from myself. Keep praising me. Make me feel alive. Make me real. Beautiful. Desired. Don’t stop, Naresh. Please." Her voice shook, filling the air with an electric charge, as though the terrace itself held its breath.

Her words hit Naresh like a spell, sending a shiver down his spine and tightening his chest, as if unseen tendrils were pulling him closer. His lips moved, words spilling out, not his own, yet impossible to hold back. He compared her beauty to Shakti incarnate, a queen commanding empires, and a celestial nymph sent to tempt mortal men. His voice carried a melodic cadence, blending poetry and longing, as if guided by a force he couldn’t comprehend.

A Hunger Beyond Desire

Geeta let out a low, rich moan, tilting her head back as a tremor rippled through her shoulders. Her body trembled with unspoken yearning, her skin flushed and glowing faintly, each pulse syncing with her quickened breath. It was more than desire—her entire being seemed charged with an otherworldly energy, a radiance that fed on Naresh’s words, rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Each compliment ignited her, making her eyes glisten and her body hum with life. Her lips parted, trembling as if craving more—not just words, but something deeper, something primal. The hunger she exuded felt boundless, almost supernatural in its intensity. Naresh couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. She wouldn’t let him. Yet, buried deep within him, a sliver of his mind screamed a warning: to pull away, to resist. But the pull was too strong—her presence too intoxicating, her need too overwhelming. He was ensnared, caught between raw desire and the shadow of something far more ominous, surrendering as though his soul had already been claimed.

For the first time, he felt like a vessel—hollow, his own essence drained, yet filled with words and emotions that were not his own. It was as if a foreign tide had swept into his soul, drowning his will and replacing it with a force both intoxicating and terrifying. His thoughts blurred, dissolving into a haze that clouded his mind like mist rolling in from a distant shore. The canvas before him faded into insignificance, slipping further away as he sank deeper into the dreamlike trance. Geeta’s gaze locked onto him, magnetic and overpowering, her need crashing over his senses like a tidal wave. It wasn’t just desire—it was a hunger boundless and primal, an energy that seemed to seep into his very bones, leaving him entranced yet trembling with unease.

"Naresh," she said, her voice deeper now, resonating with an almost otherworldly authority that sent a shiver through him. "I need you to see me—not just with your eyes, but with every part of your soul. All of me." Her tone softened, losing none of its command. "Are you ready to paint me? Will you capture this moment? Will you make me eternal?"

Naresh nodded weakly, his body detached from his will. He couldn’t resist her. Rising slowly, she let her saree slip from her shoulder, the fabric whispering as it fell, revealing the golden warmth of her skin. The faint rustle melded with the stillness of the night, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets. She watched his gaze trace her every movement, her lips curling in satisfaction as she absorbed his hunger, his awe, her dominance palpable in the charged silence.

"Shall I undress now, Naresh? Or do you need a moment to prepare?" she purred, her voice low and silken, wrapping around him like smoke. Each word lingered, teasing his senses and igniting a slow, relentless fire that spread through his veins."

Naresh fumbled for words, his mouth dry and heart pounding. "Whatever works for you," he mumbled, his voice cracking as his eyes darted helplessly over her. His thoughts spun in chaotic loops, torn between awe and an unsettling dread, as though the very ground beneath him had shifted and left him adrift.

Geeta’s expression tightened, displeasure flickering in her narrowed eyes. Something primal flashed within them—control or fear, Naresh couldn’t tell. She leaned closer, her warm breath brushing his cheek as she whispered, "Look at me, Naresh. Don’t look away. Don’t let the spell break." Her voice wavered briefly, trembling with both authority and vulnerability, leaving Naresh trapped between awe and unease. Was he staring at a goddess commanding worship or a woman clinging desperately to her power? The scent of jasmine, mixed with something earthy and musky, wrapped around him, intoxicating his senses and deepening the pull of her presence.

Naresh froze, a strange pull tightening in his chest, dragging him forward like an unseen hook. Geeta stepped back, her movements slow and deliberate, each step a calculated gesture that deepened the pull.

Undressing Divinity

She removed her jewelry one piece at a time, each falling with a soft chime that lingered in the still air. Her bangles slid down her wrists, brushing her skin before clinking to the floor, their sound echoing like temple bells. As she stepped closer, her anklets jingled softly, their rhythm marking her deliberate pace. She unclasped her earrings, her fingers grazing her neck and leaving faint red marks as if tracing lines of desire. The cool night air prickled her skin, a shiver passing through her body, impossible for Naresh to ignore. Every movement was sensual, deliberate—a performance meant solely for him, her bare skin glowing with an almost otherworldly radiance.

Then came the layers of fabric. She unwrapped the saree, letting it glide down her body like liquid silk, pooling at her feet. The moonlight caressed her skin, accentuating the curves of her full, rounded breasts and the gentle swell of her hips. Her long, toned legs seemed endless, glowing like polished marble under the flickering lamplight. As the saree slipped from her shoulders, Naresh couldn’t shake the sensation that the night itself leaned in closer, shadows twisting unnaturally as though drawn to her unveiling.

Her blouse slipped from her shoulders with deliberate grace, unveiling supple flesh that shimmered under the moonlight, like marble kissed by divine hands. Naresh’s breath hitched, his gaze tracing the soft glow of her skin, each curve drawing him deeper into an intoxicating trance. His chest tightened, his heart pounding as if caught between two worlds—one of unbridled longing and another burdened by a shadowy dread that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

She stood clad in the thinnest of panties, a wisp of fabric defying modesty. With deliberate, tantalizing slowness, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid them down her legs, her movements a symphony of grace and seduction. Her skin shimmered under the lamplight, its golden hue glowing as though blessed by the divine. She paused, holding the delicate garment aloft, her lips curling into a smile that balanced dominance and playful allure. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she cast it aside, the final veil vanishing. She stood now, radiant and unbound, a nude goddess come to life, her presence consuming the air with its raw, undeniable power and allure.

Kali Incarnate

She undid her intricate braid, and her lustrous hair cascaded like a river, flowing freely over her shoulders. The gentle breeze played with her tresses, framing her face with an ethereal allure. Her big red bindi contrasted strikingly against her dark hair, giving her the fierce presence of Kali incarnate. She divided her jet-black mane into two thick strands, bringing them forward to drape from her head to her waist like a dark waterfall. Standing tall, her legs apart, hands joined and raised above her head, she struck a yoga pose—a vision of power, sensuality, and divine grace.

She stood before him—tall, commanding, her presence radiating raw power. Her curves exuded both strength and sensuality, yet there was a divine grace in the way her body moved, as if sculpted by devotion itself. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, her hips swaying in deliberate, hypnotic rhythm. She moved like an enchantress, weaving a spell with each step, her body both a masterpiece and the brushstroke of desire itself. Yet, as Naresh’s eyes roamed over her, a flicker of doubt sparked within him. Was he gazing upon a goddess brought to life, or succumbing to something darker, something dangerous? Her eyes held his, daring him to look away, but he couldn’t. The sight of her, raw and unguarded, was both breathtaking and terrifying, a blend of beauty and dread that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Naresh’s heart raced, his breath uneven. He felt like a boy seeing beauty for the first time—raw, vulnerable, utterly captivated.

Make Me Eternal

"Now," Geeta whispered, standing fully exposed under the moonlight, her skin glowing like molten gold. "Tell me, Naresh. How do I look? Am I everything you ever imagined?"

Naresh swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "You’re... breathtaking," he managed, the words spilling out in a tremor of awe and surrender.

Geeta smiled, but her eyes burned with something deeper—hunger, possession, and a relentless thirst for validation that seemed to consume the very air around her.

“Then paint me,” she commanded, her voice dripping with authority, each word sinking into him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into her orbit. She lowered herself into the model's chair with deliberate grace, striking a pose that accentuated every curve of her body. "Make me immortal, Naresh. Make me unforgettable."

Naresh picked up his brush, his hands trembling under the weight of the spell’s grip. The brush met the canvas, heat surging through his arm. Each stroke felt alive, guided by an unseen force, carving ancient, eternal lines. A voice in the back of his mind whispered unease—this wasn’t just a portrait. He was capturing something far darker, sealing it within the strokes.

Part 8

The Calm Before the Chaos

Before Naresh began painting, an invisible force drew him to the edge of the terrace. The unnervingly still night gleamed under a bright, otherworldly moon. Below, Rehman, the Muslim driver, paced deliberately in the parking lot, murmuring prayers on his rosary. The soft whispers drifted upward, wrapping Naresh in what felt like a fragile sense of calm—an imagined lifeline to a reality that had already begun to slip through his grasp like sand.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, the suffocating weight over his free will eased. A flicker of clarity appeared, faint yet luminous, like dawn piercing a heavy fog. Rehman paused in his pacing, his gaze meeting Naresh’s with a solemn nod, as if silently offering strength. Naresh nodded back, a fragile energy rising within him, grounding him for a fleeting moment before he turned to the easel.

Naresh stood before the blank canvas, his brush trembling as he stared at Geeta, fully disrobed and seated on the model’s chair. The flickering oil lamp cast shadows that danced unnaturally, warping her flawless form into something both alluring and grotesque. For fleeting moments, the shadows stretched her features, twisting her beauty into a haunting blend of seduction and menace, as though supernatural forces pulsed through her. She radiated an unshakable confidence, her piercing eyes locking onto Naresh, daring him to defy her. The magnetic pull of her gaze froze him, caught between attraction and paralyzing dread.

He dipped the brush into the palette, but his hand trembled as he approached the canvas. It wasn’t resistance he felt—it was defiance, as though the canvas carried a will of its own. The air grew icy, numbing his fingers and slowing his every motion. Each stroke faltered, the colors fading into lifeless smears, the lines dissolving into chaos. A faint hum buzzed in his ears, low and insidious, mocking his every move. It wasn’t hesitation; it was as if the canvas was alive, twisting his intent into failure and leaving him paralyzed before its blank, accusing surface.

Geeta’s Wrath and Revelation

Geeta, seated with her eyes closed, seemed to sense a disturbance. Her eyes snapped open, locking first on the chaotic lines on the canvas, then on Naresh. Her voice sliced through the heavy silence like a blade. “Why did you stop?” she demanded, her tone trembling between anguish and fury. Her fists clenched at her sides, trembling as though barely containing an eruption of emotion. “Do you see nothing of what I’ve become? How can you still be so blind?” Her voice cracked, the suppressed rage within her breaking free like a storm unleashed.

Naresh’s hands shook as he stammered, “I… I don’t know. It feels… wrong.” His eyes flickered nervously to Geeta, caught between fear and guilt. Was it her presence, suffocating his will, or just the weight of her silent, accusing gaze that paralyzed him? The air thickened around her, pressing down on him, stealing his breath in shallow, desperate gasps.

She rose to her full height, towering close to six feet, her presence commanding and unrelenting. Her hand swept across her body, her voice shaking with fury and anguish.

“Look at me! I’ve made myself perfect! Every curve, every breath, every inch of me has been sculpted to this perfection—and yet you refuse to see me!”

Her tall frame trembled with raw emotion. “Do you remember? In school, they laughed at me for being skinny, awkward, and too tall. Do you know what it took to become this?”

She gestured fiercely at her long, toned legs, stepping closer with deliberate strides that demanded attention.

“These legs—even models would envy them. My body—flawless in every way, crafted beyond human perfection. But you refuse to admire me, Naresh! You refuse to cherish me, to make me eternal on that canvas!”

Her chest heaved, her trembling hands curling into fists as her rage erupted. “Why can’t you paint?” she roared, her voice rising to an unearthly pitch, her fury crashing over Naresh like a tidal wave. “What am I to you? Nothing?! A ghost?!”

Naresh stammered, his voice barely audible, "I... I don't know. Something feels wrong."

Her expression twisted, hardening into fury. She paced restlessly, her sharp, volatile movements barely containing the storm within. A vein pulsed at her temple, her hands trembling as they clenched into tight fists, brimming with suppressed rage.

“Wrong? Of course something’s wrong! You’ve never tried for me!” Her voice cracked, her buried resentment erupting like a dam bursting under unbearable pressure.

“You ignored me in school—me! I was the shy girl in the back row, invisible and unwanted, watching you laugh with everyone else, giving your attention to anyone but me!”

Her voice grew shrill, trembling with anguish and rage. “I stayed up at night imagining you looking at me, Naresh, seeing me. So many sleepless nights, yearning for just one look, one acknowledgment of my presence—let alone admiration. But you never did! Instead, you ignored me, or worse, joined others in mocking me. Mocking me for what? My looks? My awkwardness?!”

Tears glistened in her eyes but did not fall, her rage burning them away before they could betray her vulnerability.

She gestured violently at herself, her body trembling with raw emotion. "Do you see this?" she bellowed, her voice sharp and cutting. "I’ve changed everything! From the awkward, skinny girl you laughed at in school, I’ve transformed into this—a woman unmatched, beyond perfection. Every curve, every step, sculpted into something even dreams can’t create. These legs? Models would kill for them. This body? Flawless, divine, and yet, Naresh, you look through me like I’m nothing. You refuse to see me, to cherish me, to give me eternity on that canvas!"

Her words cut the air like a blade, dripping with rage and anguish. “What am I to you? Nothing?! A joke?! A ghost?!”

Naresh froze at the word "ghost" repeated with such venom. The word clung to him like icy tendrils, each syllable a harbinger of unspeakable horrors. His breath hitched, his heart pounding in terror as his mind spiraled, grasping for a way out of the nightmare unraveling before him. Every nerve in his body screamed to flee, but he remained rooted, paralyzed by the dread that her words promised something far worse to come.

The Transformation

Her breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, as her flawless curves rippled unnaturally, the symmetry of her form twisting into grotesque distortions. Cracks snaked across her skin, faint at first, like fractures in porcelain, but rapidly widened, glowing with a sickly, pulsing light. Her sculpted arms contorted, the elegance of her fingers elongating into jagged, claw-like talons. Her heaving chest, once a symbol of allure, collapsed inward before surging outward, exposing writhing tendrils beneath her flesh. Each crack emitted brittle, haunting sounds, like shattering glass under relentless force. Her long, graceful legs bent at impossible angles, bones snapping audibly as jagged protrusions burst from beneath her skin. The fissures glowed brighter, as though something malevolent within her fought to escape, warping her beauty into a living nightmare.

"I loved you, Naresh!" she shrieked, her voice cracking into a guttural, otherworldly wail. "You were my first crush, my first love. Do you even know what that means? All those years I kept it hidden, waiting for just one moment, one glance, one sign that you saw me! But no, you barely noticed me! And now—now, I've become everything you could ever dream of. Every curve, every breath, perfect beyond your imagination! And still, you look through me as if I don’t exist. As if I’m nothing!" Her voice climbed, trembling with anguish and fury, resonating with an unearthly power that vibrated through the terrace. "You never deserved me, Naresh! You never deserved this! All you gave me was emptiness, and now it will consume you!"

Naresh stumbled back, his breath catching as the terrace turned icy, frost forming in the air with each ragged gasp. His legs wobbled, threatening to give way under the crushing weight of his fear. “Geeta, please,” he gasped, his voice breaking with desperation. “This isn’t you. Please, come back to yourself! End this nightmare!” He clung to the faint, desperate hope that her monstrous form would fade, that the woman he once knew would return and bring this horror to an end. Silent prayers escaped his lips, fervent and pleading, as he stood trembling, his mind caught between terror and a fleeting glimmer of salvation.

The Specters Descend

She let out a laugh, hollow and chilling, reverberating like an echo from the abyss. “Too late,” she hissed, her voice descending into a guttural snarl that warped the air around her.

“You had your chances, Naresh. All your life, opportunities to see me, admire me, cherish me, worship me. And every time, you failed.” Her voice rose, trembling with conviction and fury. “It’s over now. There’s nothing left to save. You deserve what’s coming.”

Reality itself seemed to ripple, as though her words bent its fabric. The ground beneath Naresh’s feet shuddered, faint but foreboding, a grim prelude to the horrors unfolding. Her burning eyes, twin orbs of malice, flared brighter, casting a jagged, otherworldly glow that pierced the suffocating darkness.

“Sreejoy! Jayanti! Choudhary Sir! Finish him!” she roared, her words resonating like a death knell, slicing through the air and summoning the shadows into grotesque life.

Sreejoy! Amidst the chaos, Naresh froze at the sound of the unfamiliar name. It echoed with a weight that pierced through his terror. Who could it be? The question barely formed in his mind before the answer emerged in front of him, as if summoned by the sheer force of its utterance. Name the devil, and it appeared.

The air thickened with an unnatural chill, shadows writhing and coiling like serpents, their hissing whispers slicing through the silence. From the blackened edges of the terrace, figures emerged, each one more grotesque and terrifying than the last.

Naresh realized Sreejoy was none other than Geeta's reclusive son—the boy who had always lingered silently in the shadows, his gaze unsettling yet fleeting. Naresh had often caught glimpses of him, only for the boy to vanish the moment Naresh tried to confront him. Now, the same quiet child emerged, shrouded in a dense, swirling mist that pulsed with malevolence, coiling like a living, breathing entity. The mist pressed against Naresh’s senses, heavy and suffocating, carrying the weight of unspoken horrors. Sreejoy’s unblinking eyes locked onto Naresh, cold and accusatory, their silence more damning than any scream. Once quiet and aloof, the boy now radiated pure dread, his presence choking the air and sapping Naresh’s strength as though his very malice could crush him.

Jayanti followed, her translucent form flickering like a broken reflection in shattered glass. Her hollow eyes overflowed with despair so profound it seemed to drain the air itself. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, an endless void of anguish that pulled everything into its emptiness. Her skeletal hands trembled, clawing desperately at nothing, as if grasping for a salvation that would never come.

Choudhary Sir followed Jayanti, his movements stiff and unnatural, each joint creaking with a sound that grated against the silence. His limbs bent at impossible angles, as though manipulated by unseen strings. His head lolled unnaturally, swaying like a broken pendulum, while his lifeless eyes glowed faintly, locking onto Naresh with a predatory emptiness. The sight froze the blood in Naresh’s veins, every instinct urging him to flee as dread tightened its grip.

The specters moved as one, their malice choking the air and pressing down like a crushing weight. Shadows coiled tighter around Naresh, their icy tendrils searing his skin as frost formed on his trembling body. Jayanti’s flickering despair, Choudhary Sir’s grotesque malice, and Sreejoy’s oppressive silence merged into a singular force, a living nightmare that stripped Naresh of all hope. He staggered, gasping for breath, as the terrace seemed to groan under the weight of their wrath. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to move. Trapped and shaking, Naresh clung to the faint, desperate hope that he could survive the horror suffocating him.

“Hold him,” Geeta roared, her voice a guttural snarl that tore through the frigid air like a shockwave. The words reverberated unnaturally, layered with echoes that seemed to come from unseen, malevolent forces. “He will not escape. Not this time!”

Naresh’s instincts screamed for him to flee, to leap over the terrace edge and escape the nightmare, but his legs felt like lead, frozen by paralyzing fear. His chest heaved, panic flooding his veins, every nerve alive with terror. The apparitions advanced, their oppressive presence crushing the air around him, suffocating his every breath.

Jayanti’s skeletal fingers stretched toward him, frost crystallizing on his skin with each icy touch, stabbing his spine with searing chills.

Choudhary Sir’s empty, predatory gaze locked onto him, draining his resolve, as if his very willpower was being siphoned away into the abyss.

And then there was Sreejoy—the boy’s unblinking, silent stare pierced him like a dagger, its malice so intense it made the ground beneath Naresh tremble, threatening to collapse. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his mind spinning in chaos, caught between fight and flight. But his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot, consumed by terror that devoured every shred of hope.

“Finish the painting, Naresh,” Geeta thundered, her voice cutting through the frigid air like a blade. Each word hit with the force of countless unspoken horrors, her blazing eyes burning into him, twin orbs of fury and vengeance. “Pick up that brush! Paint! Or let the night consume you completely.” Her voice deepened, layered with an unnatural echo, a command that carried finality and doom.

Naresh froze, his mind racing as terror gripped him. How could he paint when Geeta stood before him in her ghastly form, her beauty twisted into something monstrous? The thought of her nude painting filled him with dread, the image now an impossible blur of horror and confusion. He stammered, his voice trembling, “Geeta… Jayanti… Choudhary Sir… What are you? Why are you doing this? Please, return to your normal selves. I’ll do anything you ask—just stop tormenting me. Even you, kiddo, please.”

The Final Command

Geeta's fury erupted like a storm. Naresh's desperate plea for their forgiveness and for them to return to their normal selves only pushed them further, shattering any last thread of mercy. For them, his fate was sealed. Her voice rang out, cold and commanding.

“Finish him,” she ordered, her tone like the tolling of a death knell. “Bring him to our world. Let’s see if he can serve us there. On this earth, his story ends.”

With that, she turned to Sreejoy, Jayanti, and Choudhary Sir, entrusting them to finish what she had started.

A Fight for Survival

Chaos erupted. Shadows coiled and hissed like serpents as the specters swarmed Naresh. They slammed him against the parapet wall, his head hitting the stone with a sickening thud. He flailed, desperate to break free, but their grip tightened, crushing him against the cold stone.

Jayanti’s skeletal fingers tore at his skin, icy claws leaving trails of frostbite that bit deep into his flesh, each scratch like fire and ice colliding in agony. Choudhary Sir jerked forward, his mechanical limbs creaking with every unnatural step. His talons lashed out in precise, brutal swipes, carving into the air as though preparing to tear the life from Naresh. Sreejoy’s unblinking eyes locked onto Naresh, their cold malice piercing straight to his soul. The mist surrounding the boy thickened, slithering like living tendrils, coiling tighter around Naresh, choking him with oppressive dread.

They clawed at his veins, as if trying to rip them open, each touch a chilling agony that seemed to freeze the blood in his body. Naresh gasped, his breath choking in the malevolent air, his mind spinning with desperation. His every attempt to fight back was futile—his hands thrashed, his legs kicked, but their spectral weight crushed him further into submission.

“Geeta, please!” he screamed, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Stop this! Let me go!” But his cries were swallowed by the night, leaving him to face the overwhelming force of his attackers as the darkness closed in.

Part 9

The Ghostly Grip

Naresh gasped as Jayanti and Choudhary Sir pinned him against the parapet wall, their grip cold and unyielding like iron. He thrashed, his muscles straining in vain, but their unnatural strength rendered him powerless. Geeta loomed closer, her grotesque face a mask of triumph and malice. Cracks across her skin split wider, oozing dark, viscous liquid that writhed as if alive, pulsating with malevolent energy.

Sreejoy’s small figure materialized beside her, his angelic features twisted by a sinister grin that froze Naresh in place. "You ignored me too," the boy whispered, his voice soft yet sharp, slicing through the chaos like a blade. His dark, unblinking eyes burned with a malice far beyond his years. "Now you’ll never forget us."

When he heard that, Naresh, even in his desperation, let out a roar of frustration. "You vile little brat! You're worse than your mother! The first time I met you, I tried to be kind, tried to talk to you. You ignored me! I even felt sorry for you, thought you might be struggling. But no—you’re just pure evil, a twisted, cruel kid! Damn you, Sreejoy!"

Naresh’s heart pounded as Sreejoy’s unnaturally strong hands joined Jayanti’s and Choudhary Sir’s, crushing him harder against the parapet. The boy’s touch was ice-cold and venomous, radiating a cruelty as twisted as his mother’s. Naresh shuddered, both from the pain and the sheer malevolence in the boy’s grip.

A Vengeful Goddess

Geeta leaned closer, her molten eyes searing into his soul. "Even after I transformed, after I became everything you could ever desire, you still refused to see me! I gave you chances—so many chances—to worship me, to bow before the goddess I’ve become! But you failed, Naresh. You threw away every opportunity to atone for your slights and adore me as I deserved."

Her claws darted for his neck, their razor-sharp tips grazing his skin. "Now, you’ll pay for it all. You’ll belong to me—forever," she snarled, her voice rising into a chilling wail. Naresh’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as the suffocating weight of her vengeance pressed down on him like a tidal wave.

Chaos Unleashed

The lamps flickered wildly, their flames twisting like ghostly fingers clawing at the night. A deafening roar of wind ripped through the terrace, hurling everything into chaos. Easels, brushes, and painting supplies shot into the air like deadly projectiles. A sharp-edged palette knife whizzed past Naresh’s face, striking the parapet with a metallic clang. He flinched, his breath catching as the storm’s relentless gusts pummeled him, each blow like a hammer driving him closer to despair.

The shadows twisted and writhed in the chaos, closing in like a tightening noose. Naresh’s chest burned, every breath a desperate gasp under the crushing weight pressing down on him. The symbols on the ground flared briefly, their glow swallowed by the howling gale, leaving behind an eerie void. Above the cacophony, Geeta’s guttural laughter echoed—a sound so full of malice it seemed to shatter the very air.

Jayanti, Sreejoy, and Choudhary Sir’s ghostly figures began a macabre dance around Naresh, their movements grotesque and otherworldly. Badly injured, Naresh slumped against the parapet wall, his head tilted back, eyes fixed on the moon as if searching for salvation. Geeta stood at the center, her voice rising above the howling wind as she commanded her crew to dance with frenzied intensity. With closed eyes and hands moving like a conductor, she directed the horrifying spectacle, their guttural humming reverberating through the air, a sound so chilling it felt like the night itself was alive with dread.

Rehman’s Divine Mission

With what little strength remained, Naresh turned his head slightly. Through the haze, he caught a glimpse of movement below—Rehman, the driver, standing by the car, his body stiff with tension. The fierce winds whipped around him, making his chauffeur uniform flap violently as if it might rip apart. He clutched his rosary tightly, his lips moving in frantic prayer, the words barely audible over the storm’s deafening roar. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, defying the biting cold, as if his very being sensed the evil looming above.

Rehman’s eyes scanned the bungalow, his expression shifting between terror and grim determination. The fierce winds whipped through the area, hurling brushes, palettes, and debris like deadly projectiles. The howling gusts slammed into walls, scattering objects in every direction. A palette knife struck the car hood with a sharp clang, making Rehman flinch. Though he saw no figures or shapes, the chaos carried an unexplainable darkness that pressed heavily on his chest, chilling him to the core.

As if guided by some divine instinct, Rehman looked up, his eyes locking on the terrace where Naresh struggled desperately against unseen forces. To Rehman, it seemed as though Naresh was battling the raging winds themselves, his shadow twisting and thrashing wildly as gusts tore across the terrace. Objects shot through the air like missiles—brushes, palettes, and shards of debris spinning dangerously close to Naresh. The distant howling of dogs pierced through the storm, their cries sharp and eerie, heightening the chaos.

Rehman’s heart raced as fear and confusion gripped him. The raging winds, the chaos, and the suffocating weight of the atmosphere pressed heavily on his chest. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but one thing was clear—Naresh was in grave danger, battling something beyond comprehension. It seemed Naresh was on the verge of giving up, his life hanging by a thread. Only one thought drove Rehman forward: he had to do something, anything, to save him. Tightening his grip on the rosary, he whispered desperate prayers, his words trembling with urgency.

"Help! Save me! Someone help!" Naresh cried out, his voice raw and desperate, slicing through the chaos like a final plea for life.

The Rosary’s Light

Rehman grabbed the rosary, his hands trembling as he clutched the beads tightly. Whispering a desperate prayer, his voice cracked, but he hurled it into the storm with all his strength. It tore through the chaos like a bolt of light, his voice echoing in a final, desperate cry to banish the darkness.

The rosary streaked through the air, glowing brighter with each moment, as though driven by an unseen force. It tore through the chaos of wind and shadows with unerring precision, its trajectory impossibly true. Before Naresh could react, it struck his chest, landing above his heart with a force both powerful and soothing, as if the universe itself had intervened. In that instant, amid the despair, a surge of hope flooded him—a deep certainty that salvation had arrived.

The moment the rosary touched him, a blinding light burst forth, as if the heavens had split open. The air vibrated with an unearthly force, shaking the terrace violently. A deafening roar drowned out the storm, freezing time and sound for an instant before everything shattered in a surge of light and energy.

The Fall of Shadows

Geeta let out a bone-chilling scream, staggering backward as black mist erupted from the cracks in her twisted form. The mist writhed and shrieked, spiraling upward as if ripped from her very soul, vanishing into the night like a curse broken by dawn. Her body convulsed violently, limbs twisting unnaturally, before shattering into a storm of ash that spun wildly in the roaring wind and disappeared into the void.

Jayanti let out a blood-curdling shriek, her translucent form flickering violently like a flame caught in a storm. Her skeletal hands clawed madly at her face, each swipe tearing away fragments of her being. The storm swallowed the pieces, scattering them into oblivion as her form disintegrated with a final, agonized wail.

Choudhary Sir’s grotesque figure convulsed violently, his joints snapping inward with a sickening crunch. His trademark monkey cap burst into flames, the fire spreading rapidly over his body as he let out a guttural, inhuman howl. The flames consumed him entirely, leaving behind nothing but a whirlwind of ashes that was swept away by the relentless winds.

Sreejoy’s small frame contorted violently, his sinister grin melting into wide-eyed terror. His shadowy form trembled, then imploded with a deafening crack, shattering into fragments of darkness that evaporated into the air. In his wake, an eerie silence descended, as if the night itself had exhaled in relief.

A Fragile Dawn

The terrace fell silent, the oppressive air lifting as though a massive weight had been torn away. Naresh collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, his chest heaving with jagged, desperate breaths. The suffocating malice that had gripped him was gone, replaced by an eerie, heavy stillness. Relief surged through him, but the horrors he had witnessed remained etched in his mind, leaving scars that would never fade.

Rehman ran toward the bungalow, his breaths short and ragged. He pushed the heavy door open with all his strength, the creaking hinges echoing his urgency. Stumbling into the dimly lit hallway, his heart pounded like a drum, the sound thundering in his ears. He bolted up the staircase, every step feeling endless, his legs burning with exertion.

When Rehman reached the terrace, he froze in horror. The scene was a battlefield of destruction—shattered objects littered the ground, and the air was heavy with an oppressive weight. His eyes locked on Naresh, slumped lifelessly against the parapet wall, his body crushed as if by an invisible force. Panic surged through Rehman, certain Naresh was dead. Then he saw it—the rosary faintly glowing on Naresh’s chest under the full moon, as if shielding him from the darkness encroaching all around.

Rehman’s legs moved before his mind could process the chaos. He raced to Naresh’s side, his heart pounding as he dropped to his knees. Relief surged through him as he spotted the faint rise and fall of Naresh’s chest. Blood streaked Naresh’s face, his body battered and trembling, claw marks visible through torn clothing. “Sir, get up!” Rehman pleaded, his voice shaking with urgency as he pressed the glowing rosary into Naresh’s unsteady hands. “Hold on—don’t let go of this!”

Naresh stirred, his eyes fluttering open with effort, the faint warmth of the rosary steadying him as its glow pushed back the shadows in his mind. Rehman’s voice broke the silence, firm and filled with gratitude. "It’s over," he said, his tone trembling with emotion. "Allah has blessed us, Sir. Only He could have saved you."

Naresh held the rosary close, its warmth steadying his trembling hands and soothing his battered soul. The air remained icy, carrying faint echoes of the horrors that had unfolded. The terrace was eerily still, the silence heavy, as if the darkness lingered at the edges, watching and waiting for its moment to return.

The Azan’s Promise

Then, from the distant mosque, came the azan—the morning call to prayer. The chant rose gently, piercing the stillness with its serene, divine beauty. Its echo seemed to cleanse the air, washing away the lingering dread and filling the terrace with a profound calm. Rehman’s lips moved in silent prayer, gratitude etched on his face, while Naresh closed his eyes, letting the sacred sound anchor him in the fragile promise of a new dawn.

As dawn broke, Rehman gently guided the injured Naresh down from the terrace, through the bungalow, and to the car. Once inside, he drove swiftly to the nearest hospital, urgency in every turn of the wheel. Naresh lay motionless in the back seat, his battered body finally at rest. For the first time since falling under Geeta’s spell, he drifted into a deep, soothing sleep.

Part 10

Awakening in Shadows

Naresh awoke in a hospital bed, the hum of machines surrounding him. A faint azan echoed in the distance, its melodic call threading through the oppressive silence, tethering him to a world he feared was slipping away. The sound sent a shiver down his spine—not of fear, but a mix of uneasy comfort and a fragile sense of protection.

The room flickered—just a trick of the light, he told himself. Then he heard it: a faint, familiar voice. "Naresh," it whispered, soft and coaxing. His heart raced. He turned sharply, but the chair beside him was empty. The voice faded into a low hum, clawing at the edges of his memory. A shadow moved across the wall, long and willowy, but when he blinked, it was gone. A chill settled over him as he gripped the bed rails, questioning whether the terror was real or imagined.

The rosary lay on the bedside table, its beads dull under the sterile light. Naresh reached for it, hoping for the familiar warmth, but the beads were cold and lifeless. The faint shimmer of divine power had faded entirely, leaving only a hollow, oppressive weight. He clutched it tightly, but the emptiness deepened, offering no protection against the darkness that seemed to close in around him.

Haunted by the Past

The events on the terrace of the Gulladmath bungalow felt distant, like fragments of a nightmare, but the bruises on his arms and neck were undeniable evidence of its reality. The icy grip of spectral hands lingered in his mind, each touch so vivid it felt as though they were still there. Every glance at the bruises brought the same haunting question: Was it truly over, or had they left a part of themselves behind?

Rehman, the driver who had admitted him to the hospital, sat nearby, his face lined with exhaustion yet calm. "You were lucky," he said softly. "Whatever it was... it’s gone now." Naresh, however, wasn’t convinced. The whispers lingered in the back of his mind, faint but unrelenting.

The Officer’s Grim Revelation

Later that evening, a police officer arrived to record Naresh’s statement. Sitting across from him, the officer’s questions carried a piercing scrutiny that made Naresh squirm.

"Can you describe what happened on the terrace again?" the officer asked, his tone clinical, his eyes skeptical.

Naresh hesitated, his words faltering as he tried to recount the nightmare. Did the officer think he was mad? The air seemed heavier, his chest tightening under the weight of judgment.

"I—It wasn’t just them… there was something else," he stammered.

The officer’s pen stopped mid-scribble, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward. "Wait—Geeta? Jayanti? Are you sure?" he pressed.

Naresh nodded, confusion swirling as the officer’s reaction made him question everything.

The officer flipped through his notebook, his expression a mix of pity and disbelief. "Jayanti died three months ago," he said slowly, as though speaking to someone who couldn’t grasp the truth. "She went on holiday with Geeta. They never returned. Geeta was piloting her personal plane when it crashed into the snow-clad mountains of Europe." He paused, his gaze hardening as if testing Naresh's grip on reality. "Geeta and her entire family perished in that crash."

The officer’s expression darkened. "And Choudhary Sir? He left Dharwad over twenty years ago after his retirement. No one has seen or heard from him since—he vanished without a trace."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Are you absolutely certain it was them? Because what you’re saying… it just doesn’t add up."

Naresh’s blood ran cold. "That’s impossible! I saw them! I—" His words faltered as a chilling realization gripped him. If they were already dead, who—or what—had stood before him on the terrace? His breath quickened, chest tightening as memories of their spectral forms clawed at his mind. Their distorted, broken faces flickered like a nightmare that refused to fade. Trembling, he gripped the edge of the bed and whispered, "It couldn’t have been... but it was them. I know it." The thought burrowed deep, an inescapable truth that sent shivers through his soul.

The officer shook his head. "Whatever you saw, it wasn’t them." He hesitated, fingers brushing his notebook, as if weighing whether to continue. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn photograph. "This was taken at their funeral," he said, sliding it toward Naresh. "It happened in Denmark. Jayanti’s family here in Dharwad needed confirmation, so we worked with Danish authorities. They sent us this and the death certificates."

The Ghosts of Truth

Naresh’s trembling hand gripped the photograph, his voice rising in desperation. "No, no, this can’t be true! Geeta, her son, Jayanti, Choudhary Sir—they were all there on the terrace. They attacked me! You have to believe me!"

The officer’s voice grew heavier, tinged with exasperation as he leaned forward, his patience clearly fraying. "Jayanti went to visit Geeta," he repeated, slower this time, his tone hammering the words like nails. "Geeta was piloting her private plane when it crashed into the snow-covered mountains of Europe. Everyone on board died." He paused, his gaze hardening as though willing Naresh to understand.

"The funeral was in Denmark," the officer continued, his voice deliberate, almost clipped. "Jayanti’s family here in Dharwad needed confirmation, so we contacted Danish authorities. They sent this photograph, Mr.Naresh," he said firmly, tapping the image, "along with all the official documents. Everything checks out. Everything."

The officer hesitated, his tone turning deliberate and firm. "Mr. Naresh, the photos, death certificates, newspaper reports—everything is clear. But these sightings? They defy logic." He leaned in, his eyes narrowing with frustration, his voice low and urgent. "Listen to me," he said, each word deliberate. "You need to understand—this doesn’t make sense. Everything we know, everything confirmed by authorities, says otherwise. Are you absolutely sure about what you saw? Because what you’re describing is beyond reason, beyond everything we know to be true."

Naresh stared at the image, his chest tightening as nausea churned in his stomach. Geeta looked nothing like the radiant woman he had spent the last few weeks with. Instead, she resembled a grown-up version of her awkward schoolgirl self—stick-thin, unnaturally tall, anemic complexion with graying and thinning hair and none of the allure he remembered. An ugly duckling grown up, stripped of all grace. In fact, she bore a haunting resemblance to her ghostly form before it shattered—fragile yet unsettling, as though death had not fully released its grip on her. This was the real Geeta. Jayanti, in contrast, had aged gracefully, her face still holding much of the charm from their school days.

What froze him was their clothing: both were dressed in the same exquisite saris they had worn during the nude painting ritual. His mind raced—why would anyone wear such elaborate saris while holidaying in Europe? While piloting a plane? Could they have been dressed this way for their funeral, part of a final rite to honor their spirits before crossing into the afterlife? But if the entire family had perished, who could have arranged it? The questions clawed at his sanity, relentless and unanswered, leaving only a suffocating dread in their wake.

The officer leaned closer, his voice low and edged with dread. "You’re not the first to see them," he said. "And you won’t be the last. Their shadows keep returning, haunting those who dare to look too closely."

Naresh blinked, his confusion deepening. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice trembling. The officer’s jaw tightened, and he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a careful, deliberate tone. "There have been... recent reports," he said. "People have described strange encounters—Geeta and Jayanti seen in ways that defy explanation, as if they never left. As if they’re still here." He paused, his tone darkening with unease. "And then there’s the painting—an incomplete work, yet brimming with something far more sinister than unfinished art."

The Painting’s Malevolent Power

Naresh’s stomach dropped. "The painting?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. The officer nodded grimly. "It’s been mentioned in reports—descriptions of it being alive, shifting, as if it holds something unnatural." He paused, watching Naresh’s reaction closely. "It was discovered in a corner of the Gulladmath compound during the police's spot inquiry after the incident. People say it carries a malevolent presence, but no one can explain it." He hesitated again, unease etched across his face. "Some questions are better left unanswered," he muttered, shutting his notebook with a snap.

He stood abruptly, leaving Naresh staring blankly at the rosary, his mind a storm of questions with no answers in sight. The unease hung heavy, a weight pressing down as though the room itself conspired to keep the truth hidden.

Shadows in the Cottage

Each day weighed heavier on Naresh as he tried to make sense of the horrors he had endured. Back in his cottage after a few days in the hospital, the air felt charged with Geeta’s presence, an oppressive stillness gripping every corner. Faint whispers floated through the room, impossible to ignore, their tones eerily familiar, as if carrying her voice—taunting, coaxing, lingering. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls, forming fleeting outlines of faces and figures that vanished the moment he turned to look. Icy drafts brushed against him, chilling his spine despite the sealed windows, each gust intensifying the suffocating dread.

At night, silence shattered with fleeting sounds—light footsteps, a stifled laugh, the faint rustle of fabric. Each noise sent Naresh’s pulse pounding, a chill creeping down his spine as though unseen eyes bore into him. It felt as if she lingered just out of sight, her presence woven into every shadow and breath of air.

The Sketchbook and the Canvas

One evening, unable to resist, Naresh opened an old sketchbook from his painting lessons with Choudhary Sir. As he turned the pages, a loose canvas slipped out, fluttering to the ground. He bent down, his hands trembling as he recognized it—a practice painting of Geeta, half-finished and eerily lifelike.

Her half-finished figure stared back at him, frozen in a sinister beauty that seemed to shift between allure and menace, as though the painting itself concealed unspeakable secrets. A cold sweat beaded on his brow as he leaned in closer, unable to tear his eyes away.

The painted eyes glowed unnervingly alive, tracking his every move. A faint shimmer pulsed, growing darker with every glance, pulling him deeper into its grasp.

The room grew colder, and Naresh heard a faint whisper, like a mantra twisted into something unnatural, echoing through his mind—a voice heavy with ancient curses. His pulse thundered as he stumbled back, the painted eyes unblinking, holding him captive, daring him to look away.

"It’s just a painting," he whispered, the words hollow. A faint rustling stirred the air, unsettling and persistent, as though the room itself breathed uneasily. Trembling, his fingers hovered near the canvas, caught between dread and an inexplicable pull. He wanted to look away, to cover it and escape, but an unrelenting force within him demanded he stay.

In the dim light, cracks formed along her painted skin, delicate fractures pulsing faintly, alive with dark energy. They spread slowly, like veins carrying something sinister, twisting and writhing as though the painting itself was breathing. When he blinked, the fractures rippled again, as if aware of his gaze.

A faint whisper rose again, chilling him to the core. The painting seemed alive, its presence suffocating. Stumbling back, Naresh clutched his chest as the room plunged into an icy darkness that felt endless.

His gaze fell on the rosary lying on the table next to the sketchbook, the very one that had saved him the night of the debacle on the Gulladmath bungalow terrace. Its beads, untouched since the ritual, looked dulled, as if drained of power. Each time Naresh approached the canvas, the rosary seemed to echo his grandmother’s prayers—rituals meant to guard against spirits crossing into the world of the living. Yet Naresh couldn’t tell if it was shielding him or warning him of the darkness seeping from the artwork. When his fingers brushed the beads, a sharp chill sliced through him, deeper and colder than the air in the room.

He folded the canvas carefully and slid it back into the sketchbook. His hands trembled as he shut the book tightly, almost reverently, as if sealing away a forbidden truth. He tucked it into the darkest corner of his shelf, hoping to bury its presence, yet the unease lingered. The room grew colder, the chill seeping deep into his bones despite the closed windows.

Faint, rhythmic tapping echoed from the closet, starting softly but growing more insistent, like a trapped force demanding release. Naresh tightened his grip on the rosary, its fading warmth offering no comfort. Frozen, he stared at the closet door, paralyzed, as the weight of an unseen presence bore down on him, suffocating and relentless.

Even with the rosary nearby, its faint shimmer gave no solace. The whispers intensified, shifting into distinct voices—taunting, accusing, pleading—each word laced with malice, burrowing deep into his mind and clawing at his sanity. The room seemed alive, every breath weighed down by the oppressive presence emanating from the painting.

At night, the sensation of being watched overwhelmed him, forcing him to clutch the rosary tighter. Its fleeting warmth offered no protection as faint whispers seeped through the walls, relentless and taunting. The air near the closet hung heavy, icy, and suffocating, as if the painting’s essence waited to break free.

He woke in a sweat, her mocking laughter echoing in the dark. The painting wasn’t lifeless—it bled malevolence, suffusing the room and refusing to let him forget.Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—waiting, watching, unyielding.

That night, faint, mocking laughter echoed through the room, growing louder until it jolted him awake. Drenched in sweat, his chest heaved as his eyes darted toward the shadows. The laughter dissolved into whispers, snaking through the air like ghostly tendrils. The rosary lay cold and lifeless beside him, its faint shimmer extinguished, leaving behind a suffocating silence.

The Final Descent

A soft tapping broke the stillness, emanating from the closet. Naresh froze, his heart pounding as the door creaked open, barely a sliver. In the dim light, her painted eyes appeared alive, unblinking and fixed on him. A faint shimmer rippled across her form, like a silent threat crawling through the shadows. Paralyzed, he stared as the painted figure seemed to shift, its gaze cutting straight through him.

He wondered briefly: Was he still human, or a ghost in transit, trapped between worlds? The question seared his mind, but no answers came. As the whispers grew louder, taunting and pleading, Naresh clutched his chest, crushed beneath the suffocating weight of her presence. He felt like a preta—neither alive nor dead—cursed to linger in a space where time and reality twisted into shadows. As the room dissolved into darkness, her eyes burned like embers, unblinking and eternal—a chilling reminder that no soul escapes the debts of the past.

Naresh’s three dogs, Gappi, Sandy, and Coco, stirred abruptly from their slumber, their ears twitching as if detecting an unseen threat. They glanced at their master, who seemed to sleep peacefully—at least outwardly. After a hesitant pause, they lay back down, but their unease hung in the air, sharp and palpable.

The End