Horror
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The Red Saree
Niyati Sharma Chapter 1: The rain was relentless as the ferry docked at Mandwa jetty. Ishita Karve stepped onto the slick platform, her umbrella barely holding against the salty wind. Beside her, Aaditya Deshmukh stood with quiet pride, his suitcase in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other. The car that awaited them—a…
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The Widow of Greyhill Manor
Isabelle D’Mello Part 1: The Last House on the Hill The cab hesitated at the foot of the winding, gravel road. “This is where it ends for me,” the driver muttered, eyes darting to the thick trees lining either side. The evening sky above was bruised with the last pinks of sunset, and a fog…
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The Last Séance at Bhangarh Fort
Soumyo Roy Part 1: The Journal The pages were yellowed, brittle at the corners, and the leather spine smelled of time — not the clean scent of old libraries, but of something older, heavier. Like soil packed over secrets. Rehan Sen traced his fingers over the inscription on the first page: “Meera K. Sharma, August…
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The Harvest of Harsinghpur
Chapter 1: The Golden Arrival The road to Harsinghpur was narrow and snaked like a forgotten scar through endless waves of wheat fields swaying under a late summer sun. Simran Kaur sat in the back of the dusty jeep, her duffel bag squeezed between her knees, eyes fixed on the undulating gold outside the window.…
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The Clockmaker’s Widow
Sreeparna Dutta Part 1: The Clock that Shouldn’t Tick The villa stood like a forgotten promise—wrapped in fog, choked by ivy, and hunched at the edge of the cliff like it wanted to leap off. Priya Kapoor stood before the iron gate of “Whispering Pines,” a name that now seemed laughably poetic. The trees didn’t…
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The Ghost Follower
Rhea D’Souza She first saw the message at 2:13 a.m., glowing faintly on her cracked iPhone screen: @mydeathwasnotanaccident: You remember the swing. The blood. The lie. Tia Kapoor blinked, swiping the notification away. Half-asleep, she assumed it was a prank or spam. Probably a desperate bot scraping her older posts. She had, after all, posted…
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The Drummers of Devikulam
Aritra Sen Chapter 1: The road to Devikulam wound like a serpent through the mist-laced hills of Kerala, each bend revealing a new secret of the land—clusters of tea bushes in perfect symmetry, skeletal trees clawing at the grey sky, and occasional shrines draped in red cloth and turmeric-smudged stone. Dr. Anirudh Menon sat in…
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The Eighth Door
Ishani Varma Part 1: Arrival at St. Elora’s The jeep rattled up the winding path as mist bled through the pine trees like a silent ghost. Ananya Roy pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, watching the outline of the valley shift and disappear. Below, the Nilgiris rolled in endless folds of green-grey, but up…
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The Accountant’s Game
Dilip Joshi 1 The spreadsheets didn’t scream. They whispered. Subtle inconsistencies in formatting, curious repetition in transaction references, and the strange appearance of a dormant offshore subsidiary—“VKL Capital Holdings (Cayman)”—that had shown no activity for nearly four years suddenly blinking back to life with a $212 million transfer flagged under “legacy adjustments.” To most eyes…
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STATIC
One The city never truly slept, but it had moments—between the honks and the hum of late-night traffic—where the silence stretched long enough to pretend. It was during those hollow hours, somewhere between midnight and 3 a.m., that Arjun Malik sat in the rusting studio of 93.7 FM, alone but for the hum of old…
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The Red Shawl
Amit Paul Chapter 1: The Snowlight Frame The sky above Spiti was a cruel, beautiful thing—too blue to trust. Arjun Rawat had been walking for hours, boots crunching softly over a thin crust of ice, camera slung across his chest like a talisman. He wasn’t just another tourist in search of selfies on mountain ridges;…
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The House at Black Hollow Bend
Rukmini Sen The road to Black Hollow Bend curled like a serpent around the pine-draped cliffs of Himachal, treacherous and often drowned in fog. Locals rarely took it after sundown, and those who did returned with silence stitched to their tongues. But Alok Menon wasn’t local. A freelance travel writer with a stubborn streak and…