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***
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