Arvind Malhotra
The Arrival
The bus from Delhi shuddered as it wound its way along the serpentine mountain road, the Beas river glinting like a steel blade far below. Arjun Malhotra sat by the window, notebook on his lap, watching the snowy ridges of Kullu rise into sight. Winter here wasn’t like the polite chill of Delhi—it was sharp, biting, and unrelenting. He pulled his muffler tighter but his eyes were alive with purpose. He wasn’t here to admire landscapes. He was chasing a story most people had chosen to ignore.
The first whisper had come in an email—anonymous, unsigned. “People are disappearing in Kullu. The police say accidents. Locals say the valley is cursed. If you care about the truth, come.” For weeks Arjun debated. But then came the second nudge: a memory of his elder brother, Vikram, who had vanished near Manali six years ago. The police had closed it as a trekking accident. The body was never found. The mountains had taken him, they said. Arjun had never believed that.
The bus halted at Kullu town. Shops with carved wooden facades stood shuttered against the cold; prayer flags fluttered weakly in the wind. He shouldered his bag and checked into a modest lodge near Dhalpur. The lodge owner, an old man with sunken eyes, greeted him with the guarded courtesy of someone used to strangers but unwilling to share too much.
“You here for skiing?” the man asked.
“No,” Arjun replied, pen poised. “I’m a writer. Travel piece.”
The man grunted. “Plenty to see. Temples. Valleys. Just don’t wander too far at night.”
“Why not?” Arjun asked, feigning casualness.
The old man only looked at him for a moment longer, then busied himself with keys.
Later that evening, Arjun stepped out, crunching through thin layers of snow. He stopped by a tea stall. The warmth of cardamom chai filled his chest as he listened to locals gossiping by the fire. He caught fragments—about apple orchards ruined by storms, about an accident near Naggar, about someone who never returned home. When he pressed for details, the circle of men fell silent. One finally said, “Outsiders shouldn’t ask about such things. The valley remembers.”
Back in his room, Arjun typed his notes: Villagers evasive. Fear disguised as superstition. Must push harder. But sleep did not come easily. Around midnight, a sound drifted in from the distance—a faint melody, like a woman singing. The voice was haunting, wordless, carried by the wind. He froze. The town was still, silent but for the river’s constant roar. The singing lasted only a minute, then dissolved into the night.
The next morning, he sought answers more directly. At a school on the hillside, he introduced himself to Devika Thakur, a teacher in her early thirties, sharp-eyed, cautious. She recognized his surname at once.
“You’re Vikram’s brother,” she said softly.
Arjun blinked. “You knew him?”
“My cousin was with his trekking group when he disappeared. She vanished too.” Devika’s voice tightened. “The police don’t investigate. They say the mountains take who they want. But I don’t believe that.”
For a moment, they stood together, the silence heavy. Then Devika slipped a worn diary into his hand. “This belonged to her. Read it. And if you’re brave enough, don’t go to the river at night.”
That evening, Arjun opened the diary. The last entry chilled him: “We saw the old guesthouse again. The one everyone says is cursed. Lights inside, though no one lives there. And the singing… it followed us all the way back.”
Arjun snapped the diary shut. The same singing he had heard last night. Whatever haunted this valley—curse or crime—had already pulled him in.
The Whispering Guesthouse
The diary’s words sat heavy in Arjun’s mind all day. He carried it in his coat pocket, the cover damp from snowflakes that had melted against it. The sun in Kullu was pale, barely warming the slopes, and the town seemed to shrink into itself as dusk approached. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the valley held its breath after dark.
He went back to the tea stall where he had overheard the men the night before. When he casually asked about the “old guesthouse near the river,” the chatter died instantly. One of the men spat into the snow. “Nothing but ruins,” he muttered. “The English built it, the gods abandoned it. Best you stay away.” The others turned their backs.
The silence was almost too pointed. Arjun smiled politely and left, but he had what he needed—confirmation that the guesthouse existed, and that people feared it. Fear was the surest sign of a story worth chasing.
That evening, Devika agreed to meet him at the edge of the forest road. She wore a thick shawl wrapped tightly around her, her face drawn with reluctance.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.
“And yet you came,” Arjun replied.
She didn’t answer, just led the way down a narrow path where snow muffled every step. The Beas river growled unseen in the darkness below, its presence felt more than seen. After half an hour, the trees thinned, and the shape of the guesthouse appeared—an abandoned structure of blackened wood, three stories tall, with shuttered windows and a roof sagging under snow. Even in ruin, it looked out of place, like a wound stitched into the valley.
Arjun raised his flashlight, its beam catching the faded carving on the lintel: The Beas View Lodge, 1924. The door hung crooked, but the iron lock was missing. As if someone had forced it open not long ago.
Inside, dust and cobwebs coated the beams, yet there were footprints on the wooden floor—fresh, pressed into the thin layer of snow that had drifted inside. Arjun crouched, tracing them with his hand. Too large to be a child’s, too recent to be ignored. He glanced at Devika.
“See? Someone’s been here.”
Her lips tightened. “Then let’s not stay.”
But Arjun pushed deeper. The lodge smelled of damp earth and ash, as though fires had been lit here recently. In one corner, a tin kettle and two rusted mugs lay beside the blackened remains of a fire. He scribbled in his notebook: Not abandoned. Active use. Possibly criminal activity masked by superstition.
Suddenly, a sound drifted through the rotting walls. A woman’s voice—low, mournful, almost melodic—singing without words. The same voice he had heard from his lodge window. It swelled and faded with the wind, as if the walls themselves breathed.
Devika clutched his sleeve. “It’s her.”
“Her who?” Arjun whispered.
“They say a British woman died here. Some say she drowned in the Beas, some say she hanged herself in the lodge. Her voice returns every winter snow.”
Arjun’s heart pounded. “Or someone wants us to believe that.”
The singing grew sharper, closer. For a moment it seemed to come from the upper floor. He clicked on his flashlight again, but the beam sputtered and died. The lodge plunged into darkness. Only the voice remained, circling them, rising into an eerie wail before vanishing into silence as sudden as its arrival.
They stood frozen. Then Devika whispered, “We should go.”
Arjun reluctantly agreed. As they stepped outside, the snow was falling thicker. On the ground, just beyond the door, lay a single fresh footprint—larger, deeper than the ones inside. And it pointed not away from the house, but directly toward it.
Arjun raised his camera to photograph it, but by the time he adjusted the lens, the snowfall had already begun to erase it.
That night, back in his room, he replayed the sound in his mind. He had no recording, no proof—only the diary, the footprints, and the fear in Devika’s eyes. He was determined to go back, alone if necessary.
But before he could plan his next step, someone slid an envelope under his door. Inside was a single sheet of paper, scrawled in shaky handwriting:
Leave the valley before the silence takes you too.
Footprints in the Snow
The envelope stayed on the desk all night, its warning scrawled in uneven letters. Arjun stared at it until dawn bled through the curtains. Whoever had slipped it under his door had known exactly where he was staying, and exactly why he had come. That meant eyes were already on him.
When he finally stepped outside, the air was brittle with frost. Snow lay fresh over the streets, covering everything in a deceptive purity. But as he walked toward the school to meet Devika, he noticed it: faint footprints along the edge of the road, pressed into the snow. They were not from the night before—too sharp, too recent. He followed them out of instinct.
The prints wound down a side lane past shuttered shops and a half-buried shrine. Then, suddenly, they ended. The last impression was sharp, boot-sized, and after that—the snow stretched clean, untouched, as if the walker had simply dissolved into thin air.
Arjun crouched, brushing his gloved hand over the last print. His heart raced. He thought of the footprint outside the guesthouse, the one erased by snowfall before he could capture it. Twice now, he had been shown evidence, and twice it had been snatched away by the valley itself.
Devika waited for him at the schoolyard, a bundle of books in her arms. “You shouldn’t have gone back last night,” she said the moment she saw him.
“I had to,” Arjun replied. “And you came too.”
Her jaw tightened. “Yes, but I won’t again. This place has rules outsiders don’t understand.”
He showed her the note. Her face paled. “That handwriting… it looks like my cousin’s. But she’s been gone for months.”
Arjun’s pulse skipped. “Gone where?”
“She disappeared after a winter trek,” Devika whispered. “They said she fell into the river. But her body never surfaced. Just like your brother.”
For a moment, they both stood in silence, bound by their losses. Then Arjun asked, “Would you show me where she vanished?”
They hiked in the afternoon sun, the snow crunching under their boots, until they reached the banks of the Beas. The river was swollen with meltwater, rushing dark and furious. Devika pointed to a bend where the current sliced close to the cliffs. “They said she slipped there. But she was careful. She wouldn’t have.”
Arjun studied the spot. The rocks were slick, yes, but there were grooves in the earth—drag marks, faint but clear beneath the snow. He crouched, tracing them. Not a fall. A struggle. Someone had forced her toward the water.
Just as the thought formed, a shadow shifted in the trees above. Arjun snapped his head up. A figure stood there, half-hidden among the pines. He couldn’t see the face, only the dark outline of a coat. The figure turned and vanished into the forest.
Arjun bolted uphill, but the snow betrayed him, collapsing under his boots. By the time he reached the ridge, the forest was empty. Only a line of footprints stretched deeper into the woods. He raised his camera, snapping a few hurried shots before following.
The footprints zigzagged between trees, always just visible ahead. Then, abruptly, they stopped again. No return trail. No broken branches. Only silence pressing in. Arjun spun around, chest heaving. For a moment he was sure someone was behind him.
And then—soft, almost mocking—the melody returned. That same woman’s voice, rising and falling like a chant, drifting through the trees. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
By the time Arjun staggered back down, Devika was waiting at the riverbank, panic in her eyes.
“You followed them, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “But they ended. Just like before. And I heard the singing again.”
Devika shook her head. “This is what I feared. The valley doesn’t want you here. If you stay—”
She broke off as a new voice cut through the air.
“Mr. Malhotra.”
They turned. Inspector Negi stood at the edge of the path, thick mustache bristling, his uniform immaculate even in the snow. His eyes were sharp and unfriendly.
“You’ve been asking questions that upset the locals,” he said. “I strongly suggest you stop. There are no disappearances. Only accidents. Mountain life is harsh. People fall, rivers take them. That’s all.”
Arjun met his gaze evenly. “Then who left this note under my door?” He held it out.
Negi barely glanced at it. “Pranks. Superstition. Nothing more. If you value your safety, you’ll leave the valley on the next bus.”
With that, he turned and trudged away, leaving only his boot prints behind—stark and undeniable in the snow.
Arjun stared after him. For the first time, he felt certain: Inspector Negi knew far more than he admitted. And the footprints in the snow—appearing, vanishing, leading nowhere—were not random. Someone was watching, controlling every step.
That night, Arjun reviewed the photos on his camera. Most were blurred, the snowstorm reducing detail. But one frame, just before the trail vanished, showed something that made his skin crawl: not just footprints, but a shadow, faint but human-shaped, stretched long across the snow—yet in that moment, no figure had been visible ahead of him.
The Inspector’s Warning
The following morning, the sky was a hard silver sheet, clouds pressing low over the mountains. Arjun sat in the lodge dining room, spreading out his notes and photographs across the wooden table. The faint shadow in that one blurred frame gnawed at him. Proof, or just a trick of the storm? His instincts told him it was deliberate. Someone wanted him to doubt his own senses.
Devika arrived, shawl wrapped tightly, her eyes restless. She had brought the diary again. “There are more pages you didn’t read,” she said, sliding it across to him. “I thought I should keep them hidden, but after last night…”
Arjun opened to the later entries. The handwriting was hurried, jagged with fear. “We heard her voice again by the river. But this time, I saw a man—standing near the guesthouse, watching. I think he followed us. Inspector Negi says it’s imagination. But why does he always appear right after we hear the singing?”
Arjun looked up sharply. “She wrote Negi’s name.”
Devika nodded grimly. “He told us not to speak of it. When she vanished, he said it was an accident. He filed no report. He didn’t even let us search properly.”
Before Arjun could reply, a heavy knock rattled the lodge door. The lodge owner shuffled nervously to open it. Inspector Negi strode in, boots dripping with slush, cap tucked under his arm. His eyes locked on Arjun immediately.
“Mr. Malhotra,” he said, voice low but edged, “a word.”
They stepped outside into the biting cold. Snow fell in fine needles, stinging Arjun’s face. Negi leaned close, his breath visible in the air.
“You’re chasing ghosts,” Negi said. “This valley has enough problems without a Delhi journalist stirring hysteria.”
“I’m chasing facts,” Arjun countered. “People are missing. Including Devika’s cousin. Including my brother.”
Negi’s jaw tightened. “Mountains take lives every year. It’s tragedy, not conspiracy. Leave it at that.”
Arjun studied him. “Then why were you at the river yesterday? Why do the missing leave behind no bodies, no reports, just silence? What are you protecting?”
Negi’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, his hand twitched as if resisting the urge to grab Arjun’s collar. Instead, he muttered: “You think the mountains are lying? Stay long enough, and they’ll answer you themselves.” He turned abruptly, crunching away through the snow.
Arjun stood in the swirling flurries, chilled not by the weather but by Negi’s words. They weren’t a denial. They were a warning.
That night, Devika invited Arjun to her home, a modest wooden house clinging to the slope above the town. Over a simple dinner of rice and lentils, she told him what her grandmother used to whisper:
“The guesthouse was cursed the day it was built,” Devika said softly. “A British officer brought his wife here. She hated the valley, hated the isolation. One winter, she drowned in the Beas. Some say he pushed her, some say she walked in herself. But her voice has been heard ever since. The villagers say she sings for company, luring others to join her.”
Arjun stirred his food absently. “A convenient story. A cover.”
“Or both,” Devika said. “Sometimes a lie grows around a truth so tightly, you can’t tell them apart.”
Later, when Devika slept, Arjun stayed awake, re-reading the diary by lamplight. One line made his blood run cold: “If anything happens to me, don’t trust the police. Don’t trust Negi.”
The storm thickened that night. Arjun returned to his lodge through narrow alleys buried in snowdrifts. When he reached his door, something caught his eye—a dark shape wedged beneath the threshold. Another note.
This one was scrawled hastily, the ink smeared by damp fingers:
Stop searching. Or you’ll vanish like the rest.
Arjun looked up into the silent street. No one was there, yet the snow carried fresh prints—leading away, into darkness.
He clenched the note in his fist. Whoever was behind this wanted him silenced. Which meant he was closer than ever to the truth.
Secrets of the Valley
The snowstorm cleared by morning, leaving the valley washed in an unforgiving brightness. Every branch, every rooftop glistened as though the mountains themselves had been dipped in glass. Yet beneath the beauty lay a silence that pressed on Arjun’s chest. He tucked the threatening note deeper into his coat pocket and made his way to Devika’s school.
She met him outside, eyes shadowed from a sleepless night. “You got another warning, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.
Arjun nodded. “They won’t stop me. In fact, they’re making me certain. There’s more here than superstition.”
Devika glanced around before speaking. “There’s someone you should meet. An old man. He used to be a forest guide. Knows every path, every trail. My cousin trusted him once. They call him Baba Raghunath.”
They hiked into the pines that afternoon, the forest alive with dripping icicles and the caw of distant crows. After an hour, they found a hut crouched against the hillside, smoke curling weakly from its chimney. Baba Raghunath emerged, wiry and stooped, his beard flecked with frost. His eyes, though cloudy with age, burned with a strange sharpness.
“You’ve come with questions the valley doesn’t want answered,” he said before they spoke a word.
Arjun introduced himself, then laid the diary in the old man’s hands. Baba Raghunath flipped through the pages slowly, as if weighing not just words but the silences between them. Finally he said, “The guesthouse was never cursed by gods. It was cursed by men. In the old days, traders used the passes for silk, spices, even opium. When borders closed, they found new trade. Flesh. People. Girls. They took them through tunnels hidden under the guesthouse. The British built the place on top of an older shrine to cover it.”
Devika gasped. “Are you saying—?”
“Yes.” The old man’s voice was flat. “Smuggling never ended. It only changed hands. Even today, every few winters, someone vanishes. The snow covers the trails, the river swallows voices. The valley keeps its silence.”
Arjun’s throat tightened. “And Negi?”
Baba Raghunath spat into the snow. “He guards the trade. Pretends it’s curses and ghosts. Easier to silence fear with superstition than to face the rot of men.”
For a moment, only the fire crackled between them. Then the old man leaned closer. “If you want proof, go beneath the guesthouse. There is a trapdoor under the old fireplace. But beware—the valley doesn’t forgive those who open its mouth.”
That evening, Arjun and Devika returned to town. On the way, they paused at the river bend where the drag marks still scarred the snow. Devika’s voice was low. “If Baba’s right, my cousin… she didn’t fall. She was taken.”
Arjun placed a hand on her shoulder. “And my brother too.” His voice hardened. “We’ll find out.”
Back at the lodge, Arjun spread out his notes, photographs, the diary, and now Baba’s revelation. The threads wove together: a guesthouse with a hidden tunnel, disappearances masked as accidents, and a policeman guarding it all. But the missing piece remained—the voice. The singing.
As if to answer him, it came again that night. He was lying awake, notebook open, when the melody drifted through the icy stillness. Softer this time, almost mournful. He rose, heart hammering, and followed it outside.
The streets were deserted, snow glowing pale under the moon. The voice led him toward the edge of town, down to the riverbank. And there—impossible, undeniable—stood a woman in a white shawl, her hair loose, her face pale as the snow. She was singing, eyes closed, the sound carrying over the roar of the river.
Arjun froze. Every muscle screamed at him to flee, but his feet rooted to the spot. The song was beautiful, almost unbearably sad. Then, just as suddenly, the woman turned her face toward him. Her lips never moved, yet the song grew louder.
He blinked—and she was gone. Only the river thundered on.
Behind him, snow crunched. Arjun spun around. A man’s figure moved swiftly back into the trees. He caught only a glimpse before it vanished—but he recognized the gait. Broad-shouldered. Purposeful. Inspector Negi.
Arjun’s breath clouded the frozen air. The guesthouse, the tunnels, the singing, Negi’s shadow everywhere. The threads were tightening.
He returned to his room and wrote one final line in his notes before dawn: Tomorrow, I go beneath the guesthouse.
The Storm Breaks
The storm rolled in by afternoon, black clouds sliding low across the ridges, carrying snow like an army marching in silence. The townsfolk bolted their shutters early, smoke rising hurriedly from chimneys. Arjun stood at his lodge window, notebook closed, waiting for Devika. Tonight, the guesthouse would no longer remain a ruin of whispers. Tonight, he would open its mouth.
Devika arrived just as the first flakes began to fall, her shawl pulled tightly against the wind. “This is madness,” she said, breath clouding. “The storm will trap us.”
“That’s the point,” Arjun replied. “Negi won’t expect anyone to move in this weather. If there’s proof, we’ll find it before it’s buried.”
They set off through the forest path, snow thickening with every step. The world shrank to a tunnel of white and pine, their breaths the only sound beside the river’s muted roar. By the time the guesthouse loomed from the darkness, its roof sagging beneath new weight, the storm was a living wall around them.
Inside, their flashlights cut narrow cones through dust and shadow. Arjun’s heart pounded. He led Devika to the great stone fireplace, its mantle crumbling but still whole. He dropped to his knees, running his hands along the hearth. At first, nothing—only soot and ice. Then his fingers found it: a seam, thin but deliberate, near the back.
“Here,” he whispered.
Together they pried at the edge until, with a groan, a wooden trapdoor gave way. Beneath lay a staircase, steep and narrow, air rising from it damp and foul. Arjun shone his light down. Stone walls. Old, but not abandoned.
They descended slowly, every creak of wood behind them magnified by the storm outside. The staircase ended in a tunnel carved into rock, its floor muddy with recent tracks. Arjun crouched. Boot prints. Fresh.
The tunnel branched. One path led deeper toward the mountainside, the other curved back beneath the guesthouse. They chose the latter. Soon, wooden crates appeared stacked against the walls—splintered, damp, but still marked with faded stencils: old trade symbols, numbers. Arjun forced one open. Inside were chains. Rusted, yes, but used recently. The metal smelled of skin.
Devika’s face blanched. “Oh god…”
A sound echoed down the tunnel—a door slamming above. Someone else was in the guesthouse.
Arjun grabbed Devika’s hand, pulling her deeper into shadow. Footsteps followed, deliberate, heavy. A flashlight beam swept across the tunnel wall, searching. Voices murmured in low tones. Arjun recognized one at once. Negi.
“Make sure it’s clear,” the inspector’s voice barked. “The journalist is sniffing too close.”
Another voice, unfamiliar, replied in rough Hindi. “Storm’s too thick. No one will come.”
“Don’t be sure,” Negi said. “He’s reckless. If he’s found the tunnel, end it tonight.”
Devika’s grip tightened around Arjun’s hand. They pressed themselves flat against the stone until the voices faded deeper into the tunnels. Only then did Arjun allow himself to breathe.
They turned to retreat, but the trapdoor above had slammed shut. The guesthouse was sealed. Snow hammered the roof, wind howled through broken shutters, and down here, the air felt alive with menace.
Arjun raised his flashlight again, jaw set. “We can’t go back. We’ll follow where the tunnel leads.”
They pushed forward. The passage grew narrower, colder, the sound of water dripping steadily. Finally, it opened into a cavern, half-collapsed, with a narrow crack leading toward the river. Scattered across the ground were remnants: a scarf, torn and frozen; a boot, waterlogged; a diary page smeared beyond legibility.
Devika knelt, tears stinging her eyes. “It’s hers. My cousin’s.”
Arjun’s throat closed. He thought of his brother—how easily these mountains swallowed names. He clenched his fists. “This isn’t just history. It’s still happening. Negi’s still running it.”
Suddenly, from above the cavern, the singing began. Low at first, then rising, filling the stone walls with a hollow, unearthly resonance. The same melody, but closer than ever, as if the voice itself was trapped beneath the earth with them.
Devika’s eyes widened. “She’s here…”
Arjun shook his head, though his own skin prickled with fear. “No. It’s a trick. They use the legend to scare people away. Maybe a recording, maybe someone—”
The light of his torch fell on the cavern wall. Scratched into the stone, faint but visible, were words: Not all are taken by men. Some are taken by the river.
Before he could make sense of it, footsteps echoed again from the tunnel behind. Negi’s voice, nearer this time, carried through the storm’s roar: “Search everywhere. If they’re down here, they won’t leave alive.”
Arjun extinguished the flashlight. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Revelation in the Whiteout
Darkness closed in like a fist. Arjun and Devika crouched in the cavern, their breaths shallow, listening to the shuffle of boots echoing through the tunnel. Negi’s voice carried, sharp and impatient.
“Check every corner. They’ve seen too much.”
A second voice muttered something in the dialect of the hills, rough and clipped. Arjun leaned close to Devika, whispering: “We can’t stay here. If they find us, it’s over.”
They edged toward the narrow crack that led out toward the river. Snowflakes swirled through it, the storm forcing its way underground. The opening was barely wide enough for a person to slip through, but it was their only chance. Arjun went first, twisting sideways until his chest scraped stone. The cold wind tore at his face as he wriggled out onto the riverbank. Devika followed, pale and trembling but determined.
They emerged into chaos. The blizzard had thickened into a whiteout, snow whirling so violently it erased distance. The river roared unseen at their side, its voice merging with the wind. The world was reduced to whiteness and sound.
Then came the singing.
Fainter than before, yet still clear, threading through the storm. The voice rose and fell, eerie and unmoored, carrying across the snow like a lament. Devika clutched Arjun’s arm. “She’s calling.”
Arjun shook his head fiercely. “It’s them. Negi’s men. They use it to frighten people. Focus.”
A flashlight beam cut suddenly through the storm. Two figures burst from the crack they had just escaped, their outlines blurred but unmistakably armed. Arjun grabbed Devika’s hand, dragging her up the slope, snow collapsing under their boots. The wind blinded them, but adrenaline carried them forward.
They stumbled into the skeletal outline of the guesthouse above. The structure groaned under the storm, shutters flapping, roof sagging. Inside, the trapdoor stood open again. Negi emerged from it, his uniform coated in frost, revolver gleaming in his hand.
“End of the road, Malhotra,” he growled. “You think you can walk into my valley and expose decades of silence?”
Arjun’s breath came in ragged bursts, but his voice held steady. “You’re not silencing me. I know what you’ve done—trafficking people, burying their names under legends. My brother. Her cousin. How many more?”
Negi sneered. “Do you think Delhi cares? Do you think the world listens? Out here, accidents are easier to believe than corruption. The mountains are my ally.”
Devika stepped forward, her voice trembling but fierce. “The mountains will bury you too, Negi. Just like you buried them.”
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the storm battering the walls. Then—an unearthly sound filled the lodge. The singing. Louder now, impossibly close, as if the walls themselves sang. Negi’s eyes flicked upward involuntarily. His grip faltered.
The floorboards groaned. Snow forced its way through the shattered windows. And then, with a crack like thunder, part of the roof collapsed. Negi staggered, slipping on the broken planks, his revolver skittering across the floor.
Arjun lunged, pinning him down. The inspector thrashed, his face twisted with fury and fear. “You don’t understand!” he roared. “It isn’t just me. The valley has its own hunger. I only feed it!”
Before Arjun could answer, another beam of light slashed through the storm outside. More figures—Negi’s men—closing in. Devika grabbed the revolver from the floor and aimed it, her hands shaking but steady enough.
“Stay back!” she shouted.
For a heartbeat, time hung suspended: Negi under Arjun’s weight, Devika holding the gun, the storm shrieking through the broken lodge, and the voice still singing, weaving through it all. Human or not, real or imagined, it was undeniable.
Then the men retreated, vanishing back into the storm. Negi snarled, but his fight drained as Arjun forced his wrists behind his back.
They bound him with the rusted chains they had found in the tunnels. The irony was not lost on either of them.
When they finally dragged him outside, the storm had begun to ease. The wind softened, the snow falling in slower flakes. But the singing lingered, fading into the distance until it was swallowed by the roar of the Beas.
Negi spat into the snow. “You can take me to Delhi, write your stories, shout your truths. But the valley will keep singing. And one day, it will take you too.”
Arjun stared at him, fury and dread warring inside. He tightened his grip on the chains. “Maybe. But not tonight.”
Echoes Beyond Silence
The storm dwindled by dawn, leaving the valley blanketed in a silence so deep it felt almost sacred. The sun broke timidly through ragged clouds, spilling pale light on the snowdrifts. Arjun and Devika stood outside the battered guesthouse, Inspector Negi bound between them, his breath steaming in the cold.
They marched him back toward the town, their boots crunching through the snow. The path was deserted; doors and windows were shut, villagers peeking out only after the unlikely procession passed. Arjun could feel the eyes on them, eyes that had long looked away, trained by fear and silence.
At the lodge, Arjun used the landline to call the nearest station outside the valley. His voice was firm, measured, as he reported Negi’s crimes, the tunnels, the trafficking. He gave them details only an eyewitness could know. When he put down the receiver, his hands shook—not with fear, but with the adrenaline of finally tearing a hole in the silence.
By midday, police jeeps arrived from Mandi, their sirens wailing against the mountains. Officers in heavy coats stormed the guesthouse, dragging crates and chains into daylight. They photographed the tunnels, recorded witness statements. The villagers gathered, whispering as truths long buried in snow were pulled out into the open. Some wept; some stared blankly, as though unable to believe it was real.
Negi was loaded into the jeep, still defiant even in chains. “You fools,” he spat. “You think you’ve won? The valley will always hunger. When the next storm comes, it will take more. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourselves.”
Arjun met his gaze one last time. “The valley doesn’t hunger. Men like you do.”
The jeeps departed, their wheels cutting black scars through the snow. For the first time in years, the valley seemed to exhale.
That evening, Arjun and Devika sat by the fire in her house. The diary lay on the table between them, its pages fragile but vindicated. They spoke little, exhaustion heavy on their shoulders. Yet there was relief too, a weight lifted.
When Arjun finally rose to leave, Devika touched his arm. “Do you think it’s over?”
He hesitated. “Negi’s gone. The network’s broken. But…” He trailed off, unsure how to give shape to what lingered in his mind.
That night, back at the lodge, he packed his notebook and camera. The bus to Delhi would leave in the morning. He should have felt triumphant. Instead, unease clung to him like the cold.
Sleep evaded him. At midnight, unable to resist, he opened his window. The valley lay quiet under the moon, silver on white. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then—soft, fragile, unmistakable—the singing rose once more.
It was the same voice, wordless, weaving through the snow. Sad, lonely, unbearably human. No men in tunnels now, no schemes of Negi. Just the song, filling the air.
Arjun gripped the windowsill, heart pounding. Logic screamed it was impossible. Yet the sound carried over the river, rising and falling as though the valley itself mourned.
He whispered into the cold: “Who are you?”
The song answered only with silence.
By dawn, the voice was gone. Arjun boarded the bus, leaving Kullu behind. The investigation would make headlines, arrests would follow, but the mystery would remain. The valley had given him truths of men, but not of ghosts.
As the bus wound its way down the serpentine road, the Beas glittering below, Arjun looked back one last time. The snow lay still, perfect, hiding everything it had seen.
And in the quiet of his mind, he thought he heard a faint echo—one final note of the song, fading into memory.
The snowfall had ended. But the silence remained.
END
