• Bangla - রহস্য গল্প

    অদৃশ্য দরজা

    August 20, 2025 - By 

    দেবদীপ মুখার্জী পুরনো ভাড়াবাড়ি শহরের প্রান্তে, যেখানে নতুন উঁচু ফ্ল্যাটের দালান এখনও পুরোপুরি গজিয়ে ওঠেনি, সেখানেই একপাশে দাঁড়িয়ে আছে ভাঙাচোরা, শ্যাওলা-ঢাকা একটি ভাড়াবাড়ি। বাইরে থেকে দেখলেই মনে হয় বহুদিন কেউ থাকেনি। কিন্তু আসলে সেটা ভাড়ার জন্যই রাখা হয়েছে—সস্তা ভাড়া, সামান্য মেরামতির খরচে কেউ যদি সাহস করে থাকতে রাজি হয়। রুদ্র, সদ্য কলেজ শেষ করে সাংবাদিকতার চাকরিতে ঢোকা এক তরুণ, তার অফিসের কাছে একটা থাকার জায়গা চাইছিল। শহরের ভেতরে ভাড়া সামলানো সম্ভব হচ্ছিল না। ঠিক তখনই এক প্রপার্টি ডিলারের মাধ্যমে এই বাড়ির খোঁজ পায়। বাড়িটা দেখতে এসে প্রথমেই বুক কেঁপে উঠেছিল—কালচে দেওয়াল, কাঠের জানালায় ফাটল, ছাদের কোণে বাদুড় ঝুলে আছে। কিন্তু…

  • English - Suspense

    Room 417

    August 19, 2025 - By 

    Meera Chandrani Part 1 — The Envelope The envelope was the colour of old bones—thin, brittle, and unreasonably light. It was waiting on my desk when I returned from a morning beat at the magistrate’s court, wedged under my keyboard as if it had crawled there and died. No sender’s name, no return address, just my own printed neatly in black: ANANYA BASU, CITY CRIME. I rubbed at the fine dust that clung to it and felt a prickle—something metallic shifting inside with the slimmest rattle. “Fans of your work,” said Sayan, the photographer, peering over his camera like an…

  • English - Suspense

    THE LAST MANUSCRIPT

    August 8, 2025 - By 

    Sanjana Iyer 1 The rain had settled into a soft, rhythmic patter against the windowpanes of Vidya Ranganathan’s rented flat in Bandra when the doorbell rang—a sound far too sudden for a Sunday morning steeped in the smell of filter coffee and undone to-do lists. She opened the door to find no one, only a brown-paper-wrapped parcel resting on the doormat, slightly damp, addressed in old-fashioned cursive to “Vidya Ranganathan, Editor (Retired), Mumbai.” No sender, no postage. Inside was a manuscript—pages browned and curling at the edges, parts of it scorched as if rescued from a fire. The title etched…

  • English - Horror

    The Narmada Pact

    August 8, 2025 - By 

    Aarushi Trivedi One The monsoon had just withdrawn from the land, leaving behind a scent of damp earth and ancient memories as Dr. Meera Rao stepped off the dusty jeep that brought her to Shulgaon—a quiet riverside village wrapped in dense sal groves and secrets. From the banks of the Narmada, the landscape stretched out with a deceptive serenity, the river gliding past like a sentient observer. Meera adjusted the scarf around her neck, shielding herself from the lingering heat, her eyes already scanning the site marked by flags and canvas tarps. It was an unassuming mound just fifty meters…

  • English - Suspense

    The Last Breath of Kalimpong

    August 6, 2025 - By 

    Aaryan Kaul Arrival in Mist The taxi wheezed up the winding hills like an asthmatic animal. Rain lashed against the glass. Ayesha Dhar sat in the backseat, her suitcase pressing against her knees, and stared out at the town rising through the fog. Kalimpong looked like it had never heard of sunlight. The trees bled mist. The road disappeared behind every bend. And everything smelled faintly of moss, burnt rubber, and regret. She hadn’t spoken much since leaving Siliguri. The driver didn’t press. He was like most people in the hills — weather-beaten, wary, and not particularly fond of questions.…

  • English - Fiction

    Empire of One

    August 2, 2025 - By 

    Dev Malhotra The Rainmaker The glass tower rose over Nariman Point like a sword in the smog, twenty-eight floors of ambition and secrets. Inside the top-floor corner office, Aarav Mehta stood still, watching the rain dance against the tinted windows. His reflection was a silhouette—expensive suit, perfect hair, the faintest tremor in his clenched jaw. Mumbai’s skyline blinked back at him like a code only he could read. The world knew him as the rainmaker—the youngest self-made billionaire in the country, founder of Virex Group, disruptor, genius, loner. But Aarav had always known better. Money was not the point. Power…

  • English - Suspense

    House Number 12

    August 2, 2025 - By 

    Part 1: The Welcome Plate The house was beige. The kind of beige that once meant hopeful whitewash but now wore the skin of resignation. Maya Joshi stood on the narrow cemented path that led to the cracked front door of House Number 12 in Samruddhi Bagh and wondered if resignation might actually be good for her. Her suitcase leaned against her calf, dusty from the auto ride. In her other hand, she held a brass key that had come wrapped in brown paper, handed by the landlord’s niece who spoke too softly and kept glancing over her shoulder, as…

  • Bangla - রহস্য গল্প

    অলিখিত

    August 1, 2025 - By 

    সায়ন্তনী দে চিঠির তারিখ ছোট ছোট অক্ষরে লেখা, হাতের লেখা যেন পুরনো স্কুলের বাংলা খাতা থেকে উঠে এসেছে—নির্ভুল, অথচ কেমন যেন কাঁপা কাঁপা। অনুরাধা চিঠিটা পড়ছিলো তৃতীয়বার, চশমার কাঁচে হালকা ঘাম জমে উঠেছে। “তারিখ— ১২ই জুন, ২০২৫। স্থান— দক্ষিণ কলকাতা, যাদবপুরের গলির মাথায়। সময়— রাত ১:১৫। একটি সাদা স্কুটিতে চড়ে যে যুবক ফিরছে, সে জানে না, আজই তার শেষ রাত। ঠিক তার বাড়ির পাঁচ নম্বর ল্যাম্পপোস্টের কাছে তাকে ছুরি মারা হবে।” ডা. অনুরাধা ঘোষ চিঠিটা নামিয়ে রাখলেন। ইরা সেন তখন তাঁর চেম্বারের কাঠের চেয়ারে বসে আছে, কাঁধ পর্যন্ত খোলা সাদা কুর্তির গায়ে আলো পড়ে ঝিকিয়ে উঠছে। মেয়েটির মুখে ভয় নেই,…

  • English - Horror

    Red Door, No Echo

    July 31, 2025 - By 

    Vivaan Malik Part 1: The Room That Doesn’t Exist The rain fell like nails on the roof of the boarding house, hard and deliberate. Elliot Crane stepped out of the taxi, dragging a battered suitcase behind him, the soles of his boots already slick with Kolkata’s monsoon grime. The signboard above the house was missing letters—what remained read: “B R ING H USE.” A broken bulb swung from the lintel like a dying eye. He paused for a moment, collar turned up, and knocked twice. Behind the faded blue door, something shifted. A slit opened. Grey eyes squinted. “Room?” Elliot…

  • Crime - English

    The Puppeteer of Howrah

    July 30, 2025 - By 

    Souradeep Dutta 1 Rain drummed steadily on the rusted iron roof of Subhro Dutta’s apartment in Shibpur, blurring the already smudged cityscape outside the window. The walls inside were yellowed with smoke, time, and neglect, just like him. He sat in his old cane chair, a half-filled glass of Old Monk dangling loosely from his hand, watching the flickering television news bulletin like a man watching ghosts dance. “Another body discovered in Howrah Maidan area,” the anchor was saying, tone flat, professional, unaffected. But what made Subhro sit up slightly wasn’t the death—it was the image that followed. A photograph…