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.
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