Tag Archives: books

Indian Classics

Deceptive Murders – By Amitav Ganguly 

Leave a comment

In a world of lies and manipulation, every murder feels inevitable.

Some crime thrillers entertain you. Others unsettle you. Deceptive Murders does both — but with an edge that lingers. It’s not just about who killed whom; it’s about the terrifying patience of a predator who never appears in the open, and the two detectives brave enough to hunt him. Detective Inspector Samsher Brahma and Sub-Inspector Suparna Sharma aren’t chasing an ordinary criminal. They’re up against a mastermind who never lifts a weapon, never leaves a trace. Instead, he bends others to his will, weaving a web of silence and control so intricate that every death feels inevitable, almost preordained. That’s what makes this story chilling — the villain isn’t loud or reckless, he’s cold, calculated, and untouchable. The writing grips you without demanding it. Short, taut chapters drag you deeper into this cerebral cat-and-mouse chase, and just when you think you’ve found the rhythm, the ground slips beneath you. Every page pulses with tension, every revelation feels like a trap door opening beneath the detectives — and the reader.

The writing grips you without demanding it. Short, taut chapters drag you deeper into this cerebral cat-and-mouse chase, and just when you think you’ve found the rhythm, the ground slips beneath you. Every page pulses with tension, every revelation feels like a trap door opening beneath the detectives — and the reader.

What struck me most was the atmosphere. It’s eerie, quiet, and suffocating — like being watched by someone who knows you better than you know yourself. The murders here aren’t about bloodshed, they’re about control, about power, about turning human beings into pawns in a larger, sinister game.

By the time I finished, I realised this wasn’t just a crime novel. It was a psychological battle — a clash of intellects between hunters and the hunted, where one wrong step could mean another life lost.

Deceptive Murders is a brilliant, unsettling read. A thriller that doesn’t just tell you a story, it makes you feel the weight of fear, the sharpness of manipulation, and the eerie silence of evil hiding in plain sight.

#Highly Recommended !

Indian Classics

“Meera”

Leave a comment

Title: “Meera”

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

A soft amber glow from candles dances across the room. The table is set with care — two plates, a bottle of red wine, and a warm dinner waiting. Richa, draped in a deep crimson nightdress, sits on the edge of the bed. She checks the clock, takes a deep breath, and smiles nervously.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS

Rohan enters, unbuttoning his shirt. He pauses, surprised by the setup — the effort, the warmth, the woman waiting for him.

Rohan:
Richa, I need to speak to you.

Richa:
(smiling gently)
I understand, Rohan. But let’s have dinner first. I made all your favorites.

Rohan:
(shakes his head, tense)
No. This can’t wait.

(Beat)

Rohan:
I’ve been seeing someone. A girl from work. It’s been a while… and it’s serious.

Richa:
(calmly)
I know. I’ve known for six months now.

Rohan:
(surprised)
You… knew?

Richa:
I kept hoping you’d come back. That maybe we’d find our way again.
(pause)
I heard she’s beautiful.

(Silence. The weight of unspoken pain fills the room.)

Richa:
So what now? Is she coming here? Should I set another plate?

Rohan:
No. I’m leaving. With her. Tonight.
I’ll send the divorce papers in the morning.

(Long pause. Richa smiles — small, steady.)

Richa:
Alright.

(she rises from the bed)

At least let me pack for you one last time. I always did that for you.

INT. CLOSET – MOMENTS LATER

Richa folds his clothes with mechanical grace. Every crease speaks of memories, routines, quiet love. Rohan watches, guilt growing in his eyes.

Rohan:
I’m sorry, Richa.
I’m really… really sorry.

Richa:
(pauses, then turns slightly, smiling faintly)
Rohan… do you know Meera?

Rohan:
(confused)
Who?

Richa:
Meera. Krishna’s Meera.

Rohan:
(shakes head)
I don’t understand…

Richa:
(softly, almost like telling a bedtime story)
One day, Meera’s husband asked her,
“Who is Krishna? Who is he to you? He doesn’t even exist… and yet, you speak of him like he’s the only one who matters.”
And Meera just smiled and said,
“I don’t need to see or touch Krishna to love him. My love… it goes beyond all this.”

(Rohan stares at her, uneasy. The room is still.)

Rohan:
Are we done?

Richa:
(nods)
Yeah… almost.

Rohan:
I paid the rent for six months. The car’s in the parking. Keys are on the table.
I’m taking your leave now.

(He steps forward. Richa leans in and kisses him one last time. It’s not longing. It’s closure.)

She hugs him, arms trembling, but sure. He lets go and walks out.

INT. BEDROOM – MINUTES LATER

The door shuts.

Richa stands still… then her body folds to the floor. Her sobs shatter the silence — raw, aching, echoing through the empty room.

She clutches her chest like her heart’s trying to escape.

FADE OUT

TEXT ON SCREEN:
“Some loves are silent. Some departures are loud. And some women — like Meera — love so deeply, even goodbye echoes with devotion.”

  • Richa ❤

Indian Classics

Reflections on Chokher Bali and the Modern Woman

Leave a comment

Last Sunday, I had the opportunity to witness a stirring performance of Rabindranath Tagore’s Chokher Bali at the Shri Ram Centre (SRC) in New Delhi. Since then, the play has been constantly circling in my thoughts—unraveling layer by layer, as I reflect on its deep portrayal of human emotions, relationships, and the quiet yet powerful rebellion of a woman seeking identity beyond societal labels.

Chokher Bali tells the story of Binodini, a young widow—intelligent, passionate, and emotionally complex—who finds herself entwined in a forbidden relationship and moral dilemmas. What struck me most was how relatable she still feels, even more than a century after Tagore wrote her. Binodini isn’t just a literary character—she is a mirror, still reflecting the struggle of many modern women caught between what they feel and what they are told to be.

In today’s world, women like Binodini are often given dismissive labels: “the other woman,” “homewrecker,” or “the third wheel.” Their emotional needs, inner conflicts, and layered personalities are flattened into moral judgments. The modern-day Binodini might be working, independent, and emotionally aware, but she’s still navigating the difficult terrain of relationships, desire, and social expectation. Much like Binodini, today’s women are still punished for expressing love outside the “acceptable” boundaries and are too often shamed for choosing themselves.

Let me be clear: I do not support infidelity or three-way relationships. They often bring pain, distrust, and emotional upheaval—not just to those involved but to everyone around them. And yet, Chokher Bali forces us to look beyond the black-and-white. It invites us to see the emotional voids, the longing for understanding, and the ache for love that lead people into complex, even morally grey, situations. It doesn’t glorify them—it simply presents them as they are: raw, flawed, and human.

Relationships, then and now, remain complicated. We like to think we’ve evolved, but the core of human connection—love, betrayal, longing, and loneliness—hasn’t changed much. The ordeal of relationships today includes new complexities: emotional unavailability, unclear boundaries, commitment fears, and the societal pressure to present perfection while hiding the pain beneath. Binodini’s vulnerability, her yearning, her moments of rebellion—all resonate with women today who are tired of being boxed into roles that don’t account for their full emotional truth.

Yet, there is also growth. Unlike Binodini, women today are beginning to reclaim their narratives. They talk about their feelings openly, they choose to walk away from what hurts them, they define love and success on their own terms. There is a long way to go, but the conversations have started—about choice, mental health, emotional labor, and equality in relationships.

What makes Chokher Bali timeless is its brave depiction of a woman as neither saint nor sinner, but simply human. Watching this unfold on stage made me realize how important it is to revisit such stories—not just to honor their literary brilliance, but to see how far we’ve come and how much we still carry from the past.

This write-up, then, is more than a reflection—it’s a bridge between Binodini’s world and ours. Between a woman silenced by tradition, and today’s woman still learning to speak her truth, even when the world doesn’t want to hear it.

  • Richa M ❤

Fantasy writing by Richa Mehndiratta, Fiction, Horror

“The Queen’s Curse”

Leave a comment
The current image has no alternative text. The file name is: image-2.png

Part 1 :-

Chapter 1: Jia’s Heartache

Jia sat in her small apartment, surrounded by the faint scent of his cologne that lingered on the pillow, his old sweatshirt tossed carelessly across the couch. Every corner seemed to whisper his name, and every object reminded her of the love she had lost. The breakup had torn her apart, leaving an aching hole in her chest that she couldn’t escape.

She missed his touch—the way his fingers had felt on her skin, the warmth of his embrace. Even the thought of his deep, soothing voice felt like a lifeline she couldn’t grasp anymore. There were days she felt like she could still hear his laugh echoing in the background, or smell the faint trace of his aftershave as if he were right next to her. But he wasn’t.

Days turned to weeks, and Jia found herself spiraling deeper into sadness. No matter how many times she tried to push the memories aside, they kept resurfacing like an unwanted visitor she couldn’t shake.

One afternoon, she felt a surge of frustration, fed up with her own grief. “I need something to distract myself,” she thought. After a moment of deliberation, she grabbed her coat, determined to get out of the apartment for a while.

Chapter 2: The Withered Library

Jia walked through the rainy streets of the city, her boots splashing in the puddles, until she reached a part of the town she hadn’t visited before. Nestled between narrow alleys and forgotten streets was an old, crumbling building — a library. Its windows were clouded with years of grime, and the once-grand sign hanging above the door was barely visible, the paint peeling away like the pages of a forgotten book.

The Amravati City Library was a place Jia had heard of in passing, but never considered stepping into. Now, it seemed like the perfect escape.

She pushed open the heavy door, the creak echoing through the silence of the building. A musty smell hit her nose as soon as she stepped inside — the smell of old books, dust, and forgotten memories. The walls were lined with tall, sagging bookshelves, some of which leaned precariously to one side. Dim light flickered from old lamps mounted on the walls, casting long, eerie shadows across the rows of books.

“Hello?” Jia called, but the sound of her voice swallowed by the vast emptiness. She glanced around, but there was no sign of a librarian or anyone else. She was alone.

Drawn by an inexplicable pull, Jia wandered deeper into the library. As she passed the shelves, she noticed many of the books were frayed and falling apart. The place felt like it had been abandoned for decades. Finally, her eyes settled on a thick, leather-bound volume sitting on a wooden pedestal, its pages yellowed with age.

The cover read: “Stories from Real Incidences”.

It seemed almost as if the book was waiting for her to pick it up. With trembling hands, Jia opened the cover and began to read.

Chapter 3: The Queen’s Tale

The story began in a distant kingdom, centuries ago. The kingdom of Amravati, ruled by a queen who had the rare gift of foresight. Her name was Queen Amravati, and she was both revered and feared by her people. It was said that she could see into the future, predict the coming of prosperity or calamity, and steer her kingdom toward success. For a time, she was celebrated as a goddess.

But that was before the darkness came.

Amravati’s power, which was once seen as a divine gift, began to show a darker side. Her predictions turned grim. She foretold a terrible drought that would devastate the kingdom, leading to famine and death. She predicted the fall of the crops, the plague that would sweep across the lands, and even the death of those closest to the royal family. With each warning, the people grew anxious, fearful, and angry.

For a long while, the court had trusted her, even worshiped her. But as her predictions grew darker, so did their attitudes. Whispers began to spread through the kingdom — the queen was no longer seen as a benevolent goddess, but as a witch, a harbinger of doom.

The king, who had once been her closest ally, began to distance himself from her. The people, who had once adored her, now turned their backs. No one wanted to hear her prophetic visions anymore. They wanted hope, not despair.

Then came the worst prophecy of all. The king’s mother, a frail woman who had been by the queen’s side through thick and thin, fell ill with a high fever. Her condition worsened by the day, and despite the best healers in the kingdom, she died within a week.

The king, grief-stricken and desperate, accused Amravati of cursing his mother, of bringing the plague that had claimed her life. He was consumed by rage. He called together his ministers, and they, too, saw the queen’s powers as unnatural.

“She is evil. She has brought this curse upon us. She must be punished.” The ministers spoke, each word laced with fear and suspicion.

The king, now blinded by grief and rage, listened to their counsel. He condemned Queen Amravati for her supposed role in the death of his mother. The people, now stirred up by the whispers and accusations, turned on her completely.

Amravati was bound and taken to the execution chamber. The room, cold and dark, smelled of burning wood and death. The crowd outside, hungry for revenge, jeered and threw stones at her.

Amravati was burned alive. But as the flames consumed her body, she screamed a terrible curse, one that would haunt the kingdom for centuries to come.

Chapter 4: The Curse of Amravati

The story in the book continued, but Jia felt her breath catch in her throat. She couldn’t stop reading. The words pulled her deeper, and she was no longer aware of the library around her. Her fingers trembled as she flipped the pages.

The curse, it seemed, was real.

After Amravati’s death, the kingdom fell into chaos. The drought that she had foretold came to pass, followed by famine, disease, and death. The crops withered in the fields, and the people starved. The kingdom that had once thrived now lay in ruin.

But what truly terrified Jia was the final sentence of the story.

“Her spirit never left the kingdom. The queen’s curse lingered, twisting the fate of those who crossed her path. Anyone who dared to seek her power, anyone who touched her legacy, would become her next victim.”

Jia’s heart pounded in her chest. She felt a chill run through her spine. The words on the page began to blur, and she looked around, trying to focus. But the library was no longer quiet. The air felt thick, oppressive. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to grow darker, almost as though they were alive, creeping closer.

And then, she heard it.

A whisper. Soft at first, but growing louder.

“Jia.”

It came from behind her, followed by a cold breeze that swept across her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

She spun around. There was no one there.

Her breath hitched as she tried to shake off the feeling, but the whispers continued. “Jia. You know what you have done. You cannot escape.”

Jia’s heart thudded in her chest. She dropped the book and stumbled back, but her eyes were drawn to the dark corners of the library, where shadows twisted and swirled like something alive, waiting to claim her.

She turned to run, but the door slammed shut, trapping her inside.

Chapter 5: The Queen’s Return

Jia didn’t know how long she had been running through the maze of bookshelves, her feet stumbling over the old, crooked floors. Her mind was in a haze—the curse was real. Amravati’s curse had found her.

As she turned a corner, she saw something impossible. In the farthest corner of the library, a woman stood, her figure shrouded in darkness. Her eyes glowed like molten gold, her face pale and twisted in a permanent, unnatural smile.

“Amravati?” Jia whispered, her voice trembling.

The woman stepped forward, and as she did, the air grew colder, heavier. Jia felt her chest tighten as if something was trying to crush her.

“You shouldn’t have opened the book.” Amravati’s voice echoed, hollow and distant, but it felt all too real.

Jia fell to her knees. The library around her started to warp, the shelves bending, the walls shaking. And in that moment, Jia knew—the curse wasn’t just about the queen’s death. It was about her unfinished vengeance. And Jia was now a part of it.

Part 2 :-

“The Queen’s Wrath – Part 2”

Chapter 1: The Return of the Past

Jia hadn’t slept in days. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the cold grip of Amravati’s spirit tightening around her. The whispers were no longer just a faint echo in her mind; they were a constant presence, louder and more insistent. “Revenge. Revenge.” The words repeated like a mantra, guiding her thoughts toward a singular purpose.

She hadn’t understood it at first—why she felt so out of control, why her thoughts seemed to betray her, but the pieces started falling into place as the days passed. Amravati’s soul, the vengeful queen, was taking over. Her body, her mind, her every action were no longer her own.

But it wasn’t just about the kingdom anymore. It wasn’t just about the death of the queen or her fiery end. Amravati’s curse had a more personal vendetta—one that intertwined with Jia’s broken heart.

It was all connected to Rohan.

Rohan’s family was the last surviving branch of the royal bloodline, the descendants of the very king who had condemned Amravati to death. Jia’s mind swirled with the realization — the queen’s wrath was not satisfied by her own death; she wanted to wipe out the last remnants of the king’s family.

And now, those people were Rohan’s family.

Chapter 2: The Unholy Connection

Jia couldn’t escape the urge to reach out to Rohan. The memories of their love were like open wounds, raw and bleeding. She missed him. Amravati’s rage intertwined with Jia’s sorrow, creating a twisted craving to see him again. She couldn’t explain why she felt this pull, but her fingers found themselves typing out a message to him one cold evening.

“Rohan, I need to see you.”

The response came faster than she expected.

“Jia… Is it really you? Where have you been?”

Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t heard from him in months—not since their breakup. The floodgates opened, and she felt the warmth of his words suffocating her with both longing and dread. Amravati was awake now, guiding her actions, manipulating her emotions, and she couldn’t tell if her feelings for Rohan were genuine or simply a part of the queen’s revenge-driven plan.

But Jia couldn’t stop herself.

“Please, I need to explain… I can’t live without you.” She typed, almost pleading.

It wasn’t just her words. It was Amravati’s voice speaking through her—her desire for vengeance masked as love.

Chapter 3: The Meeting

They agreed to meet at the old park where they used to go for walks together. Jia hadn’t seen him in months, but when she walked up to him, a familiar pain sliced through her chest. Rohan looked as good as he ever had, maybe even more handsome, the weight of their breakup not seeming to have affected him as much as it had affected her.

But there was something off about him. His eyes were distant, searching, as though he was trying to piece together the puzzle of who Jia had become.

“Jia, I don’t understand. Why did you leave? I thought we were—”

The words caught in her throat. Jia wanted to answer, but Amravati’s spirit was in control. Her body trembled as she tried to speak, the words coming out not her own.

“Rohan, I never left you… I was always here. You just never saw me.“

Her voice was low, almost eerie. Rohan took a step back, eyes widening.

“What do you mean? You’ve been gone for months, Jia. I’ve moved on.” His words hit her like a slap, but they also stirred something in her—a fury, an ache that wasn’t hers. Amravati’s rage was slowly consuming her, and now, the queen’s intentions began to bleed through.

“No… No, you haven’t,” she whispered, her tone turning cold. “You don’t even know what you’ve done.”

Rohan stared at her, confused and a little frightened. “What are you talking about?”

And then, Amravati’s power fully took over. Jia felt her body move without her will. The claws of vengeance dug into her, and in an instant, her hands wrapped around Rohan’s throat. Her eyes, once full of grief, now glowed with an unnatural malice, an ancient, murderous rage.

Rohan gasped, struggling to break free, but it was too late. Amravati’s vengeance was swift. The last of the king’s bloodline was snuffed out in an instant.

Chapter 4: The Aftermath

Jia woke up hours later, sprawled on the cold ground of the park, her hands covered in blood. She felt like she had been drowning in her own skin. When she looked around, the weight of what had just happened hit her like a freight train. Rohan was gone.

She tried to scream, but her throat was raw, as if she had already tried to do so. The once-familiar park now felt like a foreign, desolate place. Jia stumbled to her feet, only to find that Amravati had already set the next part of the plan into motion. She was no longer in control.

Her thoughts were not her own. They were consumed by visions of the royal family, Rohan’s parents, and anyone with ties to the bloodline. One by one, they began to die, gruesomely—the family that had once condemned Amravati to death was now being erased from history.

Chapter 5: The Mental Asylum

Days later, Jia was found wandering the streets in a trance-like state, her eyes wild, her clothes torn. The authorities had no idea what had happened. She was covered in blood, but there were no answers. Rohan’s body was found, his family killed one after another, and all signs pointed to Jia.

She was arrested, thrown into a mental asylum, where she was confined to a small room, her mind unraveling more with each passing hour.

The doctors tried to understand her, but all she could say were the same words over and over.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything… Amravati made me. The queen… the curse. It wasn’t me.”

She was deemed insane. The world thought she had snapped under the weight of grief, that her obsession with Rohan had pushed her over the edge.

But what they didn’t know was the truth. The library had been sealed, banned by the authorities, its dark history erased from public memory. No one dared speak of Amravati or the curse again.

Epilogue: The Library’s Dark Legacy

The Amravati City Library remained abandoned and untouched, its doors now locked tight, its dark history buried deep beneath the rubble. People spoke of it only in whispers.

But in the dead of night, some still claimed to hear whispers coming from within, voices that promised vengeance, voices that still carried the weight of a queen’s curse.

Jia’s story, too, would fade—just another tragedy lost in the cracks of time. But somewhere, in the darkest corners of the city, the whispers of Amravati’s wrath could still be heard, beckoning those foolish enough to seek the cursed books.

Part 3 :-

Title: “The Queen’s Wrath – Part 3”

Chapter 6: The New Victim

The Amravati City Library, long abandoned and sealed away from the public, had somehow disappeared from the memory of the city’s residents. The story of the cursed queen and her vengeance faded with time, relegated to the forgotten corners of urban legend. The books that had once been housed there were moved to a new, more modern public library in the city, and among them, hidden within the stacks of dusty volumes, was the same cursed book.

Years passed.

The library itself, now a gleaming, modern building, stood at the heart of the city like a beacon of progress. The new generation of readers didn’t know the horrors that lay within its walls. The quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the soft rustle of pages turned by eager students were the only sounds that filled the building—until the book was rediscovered.

On a quiet Tuesday afternoon, a young woman named Meera, new to the city and eager to dive into books she had never read before, found herself wandering the aisles of the public library. Meera, a recent college graduate, was looking for something to escape her own tangled thoughts—something to distract her from the emptiness she felt after leaving her small hometown behind.

Her eyes wandered across the rows of books, scanning titles, but nothing seemed to catch her interest. That was when she spotted it—an old, leather-bound volume sitting slightly out of place on a high shelf. Its cover was dark, almost too worn, the title barely legible.

“Stories from Real Incidences.”

The title seemed innocuous enough, and her curiosity got the better of her. Meera pulled the book down from the shelf, her fingers brushing the edges of its brittle pages. It felt strangely heavy, like it held more than just words—like it carried something far older, more dangerous.

Without a second thought, she found a quiet corner in the library and opened the book.

Chapter 7: The Return of Amravati

Meera’s fingers trembled as she turned the first page, reading the words about the ancient kingdom of Amravati and its tragic queen. As she read, a strange unease began to settle over her. It was as if the words themselves had a life of their own, wrapping around her like an invisible force.

And then, she came across the final part of the story—the curse, the death of Queen Amravati, and the destruction of the royal family. The warning at the end of the book stood out, in stark contrast to the rest of the tale:

“Her spirit never left the kingdom. Her vengeance lives on, waiting for the next fool to awaken it.”

Meera felt a cold chill creep down her spine. Her eyes darted to the library entrance, but there was no one in sight. It was quiet—eerily so.

Suddenly, she felt the unmistakable sensation that she was being watched.

She glanced around, but there was no one nearby. Her breath quickened, and a shiver ran through her. The feeling wouldn’t leave, though. It was as if something—or someone—was standing just beyond her line of sight, waiting for the right moment to make itself known.

And then, she saw it.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure. A woman, dressed in an ancient gown, standing motionless by the tall, dimly lit shelves at the far end of the library. The figure was almost too still, her face pale and ghostly, a twisted, knowing smile playing on her lips.

Meera froze, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.

The woman’s eyes glowed with an eerie intensity. Her presence was like ice in the air, cold and suffocating. She didn’t speak, but Meera felt her voice in her mind, the same voice that had whispered in Jia’s ear, now calling out to her.

“You are mine now.”

Meera tried to scream, but no sound came out. She felt her hands go numb, her vision spinning, and the room seemed to close in on her. The figure in the corner stepped closer, her smile growing wider and more twisted, until her face was mere inches from Meera’s. The library around them began to distort, warping into something dark and oppressive, the walls closing in as if they were alive.

The book in Meera’s hands began to pulse, the pages fluttering as if caught in an unseen wind, its words shifting, changing in a language Meera couldn’t understand.

“You opened the door, Meera. Now you belong to me.“

The whisper echoed in her mind, but before she could react, the room fell into darkness. The light overhead flickered and died. Meera’s hands trembled uncontrollably as the book fell from her grip, landing with a soft thud on the floor.

And in that moment, as the shadows in the room grew thicker, the queen’s cold laugh rang through the silence.

Chapter 8: The Curse Reborn

The next morning, when the library reopened, no one found Meera. The book was gone, but the strange sense of unease remained, like an invisible presence lingering in the air.

Meera’s parents were contacted, and they told the police that she had been acting strangely in the days leading up to her disappearance. No one could explain where she had gone or why she had vanished without a trace. The only thing anyone could agree on was that she had checked out that old book.

The Amravati City Library was still sealed off, but the book had somehow ended up back in circulation, like a dark seed waiting to be planted in the hands of the next unsuspecting reader.

Chapter 9: The Endless Cycle

Some time later, a new librarian working the night shift began noticing strange occurrences at the library. Books would be out of place, lights would flicker, and sometimes, when she walked between the rows of bookshelves, she felt eyes watching her—cold, unblinking eyes.

One evening, she ventured into the old archives room in search of misplaced books. It was there that she found something that had been forgotten for years—a dust-covered box, sealed with a thick layer of cobwebs. Inside, she discovered an old leather-bound book, still worn from age, with the same title: “Stories from Real Incidences”.

With trembling hands, she opened it, and before she could even read a word, the temperature in the room dropped. A cold gust of wind blew across her face, and she felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

But it was too late.

From the shadows, a figure slowly emerged.

Standing in the corner of the room, smiling, was Amravati.

-Richa ❤

Fantasy writing by Richa Mehndiratta, Fiction, Horror

The Haunting of Hartmann School

Leave a comment

(With the Cursed Well, Wind Chimes, and Mirror)

It was a cold evening at Hartmann School in Ooty, and the farewell day had just come to an end. The students were buzzing with excitement, exchanging last-minute memories. But for Aman, Ravi, Simran, Neha, and Karan, it wasn’t just about saying goodbye to school. They had one final adventure planned—a dare they had been discussing for weeks.

Everyone knew the rumors about the school’s backyard. The place was always avoided after dark, the air thick with whispers of strange happenings. People said it was haunted by something dark, something no one could explain. But on their last day together, the group of friends was determined to explore it once and for all. After all, it was their last chance to access the backyard when the gates would be closed, and the entire school would be empty.

The yard was eerily quiet, the wind rustling the wind chimes that hung on an old tree near the gate. The sound was different tonight. It wasn’t just the usual soft tinkling but a harsh, almost angry clanging that echoed in the dead silence of the evening. “That’s strange,” Simran said, looking up at the chimes. “I’ve never heard them sound like this before.”

“It’s just the wind,” Ravi muttered, but even he felt a chill down his spine. “Let’s go.”

As they crossed into the backyard, a sense of unease filled the air. The yard was overgrown, the plants and bushes wild and untamed, but what caught their attention was an old, neglected well. Its stone walls were covered with moss, and the surface of the water inside seemed to glimmer faintly in the darkness. It wasn’t just any well; it looked like it had been abandoned for years, as if no one had dared to approach it. But tonight, it called to them.

They gathered around it, staring at the eerie water below. But as they did, they remembered the stories they’d heard from Rajesh, the school’s peon.

“Don’t go near the well,” he had warned countless times. “It’s cursed. There’s a reason the land was abandoned before the school was built.”

But none of them had ever taken Rajesh seriously. Until now.

“What’s the big deal with the well?” Karan asked, kicking at the dirt near its edge. “It’s just a well.”

Rajesh’s words echoed in their minds, but they shrugged it off, convinced it was just superstition. But something about the place felt wrong. The air felt heavier, and the wind had begun to pick up. The rusted wind chimes rattled again, and they all jumped, startled by the sudden loud clanging.

“Let’s check out the shed over there,” Aman suggested, trying to shake off the growing unease.

But as they turned, they spotted something else—the mirror. It was small, cracked, and covered in grime, leaning against the wall near the well. Simran’s curiosity got the better of her, and she moved closer, wiping off the dust from the glass. When she peered into it, her reflection was distorted, but that wasn’t the worst part.

“Guys, look!” Simran gasped, her hand shaking. “There’s someone behind me in the mirror.”

The group spun around, their hearts racing, but the backyard was empty. The mirror reflected a shadowy figure standing at the edge of the yard, its face hidden in darkness.

“Stop scaring us,” Neha said, but her voice was trembling.

But Simran couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mirror. “No, something’s not right here.”

Just as she stepped back, a voice—a cold, hollow whisper—came from the direction of the well. “You shouldn’t have come… You shouldn’t have disturbed me.”

Suddenly, the ground began to rumble, and the well seemed to pulse, like it was alive. A low, guttural growl echoed from deep within the earth, sending chills down their spines.

The Backstory
The curse that haunted this land had begun long before the school had ever been built. In the late 1800s, the land had been owned by a wealthy landowner, Raghav Singh, who lived with his wife and son, Arjun Singh. Arjun was an intelligent and ambitious young man, but also a little too greedy for his own good.

Raghav Singh had made his fortune through trade, and in his old age, he planned to pass it all on to his only son. But Arjun, instead of being grateful, had grown impatient. He wanted it all now, and his mind was filled with dark ambitions. When his father fell ill, Arjun saw an opportunity.

In a desperate attempt to gain access to his father’s wealth, Arjun poisoned Raghav, intending to inherit the fortune prematurely. But things didn’t go as planned. The poison didn’t kill Raghav right away, and as he lay dying, he cursed his son, warning him that his greed would bring ruin to their entire family. But Arjun, driven by a desire for power, ignored the curse.

Soon after, Arjun’s mother fell ill under mysterious circumstances. And then, just days before Raghav died, Arjun’s wife went missing. Arjun had no explanation, but he began to feel the weight of his actions. The strange things happening around him were signs of the curse he had brought upon himself.

In a fit of panic, Arjun went to the well near the house—the one his family had always used for their water. He thought if he could offer a sacrifice, he could reverse the curse. But as he looked into the murky water, the darkness that had claimed his family took hold of him instead. The well became his tomb, and from that moment on, the land was cursed.

As the years passed, the property was abandoned, and eventually, the school was built on top of it. But the curse remained. And now, anyone who came too close to the well would feel the wrath of Arjun’s spirit, forever trapped by his own greed.

Back in the present, as Arjun’s vengeful spirit manifested in front of the group, the wind chimes rang violently, and the mirror began to shimmer and crack, showing grotesque reflections of the friends—each one seeing their own worst fears staring back at them.

The shadowy figure in the distance began to grow, its face becoming clearer. Arjun’s eyes glowed with an unnatural light, his skin pale and decayed, his form towering and menacing. His voice echoed across the yard, “You woke me. Now, you will pay.”

Before they could react, Aman screamed in terror, feeling a cold, invisible force grip him. His body was pulled toward the well. “Help! HELP!” But his cries were drowned out by the wind and the eerie clanging of the chimes.

One by one, the group was dragged toward the well. Ravi, Neha, and Simran vanished into the darkness, their bodies pulled by the curse that Arjun had set in motion years ago. Karan, the last to go, managed to break free for a moment, but as he turned to run, the mirror shattered, and he saw Arjun’s face staring at him in the shards. The last thing Karan saw before everything went black was Arjun’s hand reaching for him.

The next morning, Rajesh arrived at Hartmann School as usual, thinking it was just another normal day. He unlocked the gate and made his way toward the backyard, where the morning fog still clung to the earth. He wasn’t expecting what he found.

The first thing he noticed was the unsettling silence. The wind chimes, which had always been so loud and ominous, were still—motionless in the stillness of dawn. Rajesh thought it was odd, but he continued on. But when he stepped into the backyard, the air grew heavier, colder. A strange, unpleasant odor hung in the air, as if something had died there.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw it—the well, its stone walls dark and dripping with moisture, the surface of the water still like a mirror. But this time, there was something else—a dark, wet stain around the base of the well. Rajesh’s heart raced as he slowly moved closer, sensing something wasn’t right. That’s when he saw it.

The bodies of the five students were lying around the well, huddled together in unnatural positions. Their faces were twisted in horror, frozen in time, and their clothes were torn and covered in mud. But the worst part was their skin—pale, waxy, as if they had been drained of life. The eyes of Simran, Ravi, Neha, Aman, and Karan were wide open, staring into nothingness, but there was no sign of life in them.

It was clear that they had been dead for hours, but there was something so strange about their appearances. Their bodies were unnaturally still, as if they had been carefully arranged. It was almost like something had placed them there, and not just left them to rot. And then Rajesh noticed something that made his stomach churn—the slightest trace of a dark, sticky substance around their mouths, as though they had been choking on something before they died.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, and the wind chimes rang out in sharp, violent clinks, though there was no breeze. Rajesh took a step back, the hairs on his neck standing up, as he realized the full horror of what had occurred.

Within minutes, the police arrived. The area was immediately cordoned off, and a team of officers began to investigate. The scene they arrived at was more baffling than they could have imagined. There were no signs of a struggle, no clear injuries. The bodies seemed untouched, as though they had simply fallen to the ground, lifeless.

Detective Sharma, who had worked many gruesome cases, could not explain it. He walked around the well, his eyes narrowed, but nothing about the scene made sense. It wasn’t like a normal murder or accident. It felt… supernatural. The presence of something darker.

When the families of the children were called, the reaction was one of shock and disbelief. Aman’s parents were the first to arrive, their faces stricken with grief. His mother collapsed into his father’s arms when they saw their son’s body. Simran’s parents, just as devastated, could barely comprehend what had happened. There were no answers, no reasoning.

They all wanted to know how their children ended up dead in the backyard of their school. What had killed them? Was it an accident? Or had someone done this to them?

But the police couldn’t provide any answers. The only clue they found was a scrap of paper found near the well, soaked and torn but legible. It read:

“The curse cannot be broken. The well will take more. One day, you will be back.”

The family members were horrified. They couldn’t understand what it meant, but it felt like a warning, like something ancient and evil had taken their children.

The school’s administration was thrown into chaos. The principal, Mr. Mehra, insisted that it was a tragic accident—that maybe the students had been exploring the yard and something had gone wrong. But deep down, he too felt the dread creeping in.

The backyard, once considered a “haunted” part of the school, had always been kept off-limits. But no one had ever truly believed in the stories. The presence of Rajesh, the school’s peon, who had warned about the well and the curse, became more significant now. Had he known something all along?

Rajesh, too, was in shock. He had seen strange things happen near the well, but he had never imagined that anyone would be foolish enough to go near it. He couldn’t help but feel guilty. Maybe he should have done more to stop them. Maybe he should have locked the gate and prevented them from entering. But even Rajesh knew that something far darker than any of them could understand lived on that land.

Over the next few days, the school came under scrutiny. News spread like wildfire, and soon the tragedy became a local legend. People from nearby towns started visiting the school, not to grieve, but to see the place where the children had met their end. The stories about the curse of Arjun Singh and the well resurfaced, and many believed it was his vengeful spirit that had killed the children.

A local priest came to the school to perform a cleansing ceremony, but when he arrived near the well, he refused to go any closer. “The land is tainted,” he muttered. “There is nothing that can stop the curse now. The evil here has taken its toll, and it will not be undone.”

The police investigation remained open, but no one could figure out what had happened to the children. There was no sign of a struggle, no evidence of poisoning or drugs—just the strange, lifeless bodies surrounded by an oppressive, thick silence. They couldn’t explain why the children had died, but the authorities started closing in on something: this was no accident. It was as if something had been waiting for them, watching them. And when they went near the well, they had sealed their fate.

As for Hartmann School, it became a ghost story itself. The backyard was closed off permanently, and the school board decided to demolish the well and the area around it. But no matter how much they tried to erase the past, the whispers of the dead lingered.

And whenever the wind blew through the trees, the sound of wind chimes could be heard—an eerie, almost mournful clinking, as if the spirits of the children were still trapped there. As for Rajesh, he quietly left his job, unable to live with the weight of what had happened.

In the end, no one ever truly knew what happened to Simran, Ravi, Neha, Aman, and Karan. But one thing was certain—the curse that haunted the land was not just a story. It was real. And it would never let anyone forget.

End

Disclaimer:

The story you just read is purely fictional and a product of my imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental. This story does not reflect or represent the actual history of the school mentioned and is intended for entertainment purposes only.