Dev Mukherjee
Chapter 1: Arrival at Dusk
The forest road narrowed as they drove deeper into Kunnur, swallowed by towering eucalyptus trees on either side. The air smelled of wet bark and moss, tinged with the chill of approaching dusk. Kabir kept his eyes on the curving path, one hand gripping the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against Riya’s fingers resting on the gearstick. She was staring out the window, her camera already in her lap.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” Kabir asked, voice uncertain. The GPS had long since stopped working.
Riya nodded. “The caretaker said the bungalow is past the old tea estate, then two right turns through the forest. We’ve followed it to the dot.”
Kabir exhaled. “It’s beautiful… but kind of spooky.”
“That’s the idea,” Riya grinned. “We wanted quiet, didn’t we?”
The bungalow came into view like a half-forgotten memory—colonial in design, two stories tall, with ivy crawling across the stone walls. The wooden balcony sagged slightly, and the tiled roof was spotted with fallen leaves. A single oil lantern flickered near the main door.
As they pulled up, a thin man stepped onto the porch. He wore a checkered shawl over his shoulders and looked far older than his actual age.
“You must be Ravi,” Kabir said as they stepped out.
The man nodded slowly. “Ravi. I’m the caretaker. This bungalow… it hasn’t had guests in a while.”
“That’s okay,” Riya said, shouldering her backpack. “We’re looking forward to some peace and quiet.”
Ravi didn’t smile. “I keep the place clean. Generator works. Kitchen is stocked. But there is one thing…” He hesitated.
“Yes?” Kabir asked.
Ravi’s eyes flicked to the upper windows. “Do not try to open the door at the end of the upstairs hallway. It stays locked. Always has.”
Kabir chuckled nervously. “Got it. Haunted room rule. Every old bungalow has one.”
But Riya frowned. “Why is it locked?”
Ravi didn’t answer. He turned and led them inside.
The interior smelled of cedar and old books. The floor creaked underfoot. The furniture was antique, dark wood with floral cushions that had faded over decades. A grand staircase stood at the center, curling up toward a shadowy landing.
Their bedroom overlooked the forest. Riya opened the window and breathed in deeply, camera already raised to catch the golden light falling through the trees.
“You’re going to love this,” she murmured.
Kabir walked to the bathroom. “Running water works. At least we won’t have to bathe in the river.”
By the time they’d unpacked, night had crept in. Dinner was simple—dal, rice, and pickle from the kitchen. They sat near the fireplace, sipping chai. Ravi had disappeared after lighting a few lanterns.
“No phone signal,” Kabir muttered, waving his phone in the air.
Riya smiled. “Even better. No notifications. No work emails. Just us.”
Just then, a wind rose outside. The trees groaned. One of the lanterns flickered violently and went out.
“Old bungalow charm,” Kabir joked, but the unease in his tone was clear.
They climbed into bed, the silence so absolute that even the sound of their breath seemed loud.
Around midnight, Riya stirred. She heard something—soft, like the shifting of fabric. Then a creak.
She sat up slowly.
Kabir was asleep beside her. The room was lit by moonlight streaming through the window.
She listened.
Creak.
From upstairs.
Heart thudding, she got out of bed, careful not to wake Kabir. She opened the bedroom door.
The house was still.
But as she stepped into the corridor, the air felt heavier. She looked up toward the staircase.
At the end of the upper hallway stood a single door.
A locked door.
Chapter 2: The Locked Room
The staircase groaned with every step Riya took, as though the house itself was reluctant to let her pass. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself—the chill had deepened, though no windows were open. The upper hallway stretched in eerie silence, lit only by the moonlight pooling through a single arched window at the far end.
There it stood.
The door Ravi had warned them about.
It looked no different from the others—faded green paint, brass knob dulled by time. But the air near it was different. Heavier. Still.
She reached out instinctively but paused. Her fingers hovered just above the handle.
Then—click.
She spun around. Nothing.
Except… the faintest sound. Like footsteps, but soft. Dragging.
She swallowed and backed away from the door.
Back in the bedroom, Kabir stirred as Riya climbed in beside him.
“You okay?” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” she whispered, curling into him. “Just… heard something. This house plays tricks.”
He kissed her forehead without opening his eyes. “We’re in the middle of a forest. Probably a monkey or something.”
But Riya didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
Morning brought sunshine and birdsong, and the house seemed to shed its night-time unease. Riya tried to shake off her restlessness as they had breakfast on the porch. Kabir was reading a book while she flipped through photos on her camera.
Suddenly, she froze.
“Wait—Kabir, come here.”
He looked up, confused. “What is it?”
She held the camera out to him. In one of the shots from the previous evening, the forest path near the banyan tree was faintly visible.
There was a figure.
Blurred, yes—but clearly there. A woman in a white dress. Barefoot.
Kabir frowned. “You didn’t see anyone?”
“No. And look at the timestamp. That’s just before sunset—no one else was there.”
“Maybe Ravi?” he guessed, but didn’t sound convinced.
“He was inside preparing dinner.”
Riya stared out into the forest. The banyan tree stood tall and ancient, unmoved.
She couldn’t explain it, but something had started to seep under her skin—like she was being watched.
Later that afternoon, while Kabir napped, Riya wandered through the bungalow with her camera. The library had a musty charm—rows of brittle books, most untouched for decades. She took a few shots and moved on.
That’s when she noticed it—a loose wooden panel near the staircase.
Curious, she nudged it gently. It creaked open.
Inside, hidden in the hollow, was a small, cloth-bound book.
A diary.
The first page was written in elegant cursive.
“Eliza Fern, April 1892. The trees here speak. Not in words, but in sighs. I cannot sleep, and I fear the forest is watching.”
Riya felt a chill run down her spine. The ink had faded, but the fear in the words was sharp. She flipped through the pages—entries filled with loneliness, accounts of her walks, strange dreams, shadowy figures under the banyan tree.
Then abruptly, the diary ended.
“He said the forest eats the truth. And tonight, I go to find out.”
No signature. No date. Just the imprint of the pen pressing hard into the paper, like a final cry etched into time.
Kabir wasn’t pleased when she showed him.
“You went poking around old panels? What if something collapsed?”
“This was meant to be found,” Riya said firmly. “Eliza lived here. She disappeared.”
Kabir rubbed his face. “And now we’re part of a horror movie?”
She didn’t laugh.
“Ravi warned us about that door,” she said. “What if it’s connected?”
“Riya…”
She placed a hand on his.
“I just want to know the truth.”
That night, the forest fell silent early.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
And upstairs, the forgotten door waited—still locked.
But something had already slipped through.
Something that didn’t need to open a door to enter.
Chapter 3: The Banyan Tree
The morning sun filtered weakly through a veil of mist, casting long, trembling shadows across the ground. Riya stood barefoot just beyond the bungalow’s wraparound porch, staring at the forest path that led toward the old banyan tree. She held Eliza’s diary tight in her hands like a map to something hidden—and possibly forbidden.
Kabir appeared behind her, his mug of coffee steaming.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” he asked.
She turned. “Just for a walk. I want to see that spot from the photograph. Maybe… find something.”
“Or maybe just enjoy a honeymoon like normal people?” he smiled faintly.
Riya kissed his cheek. “Come with me then.”
He hesitated. “No. But take Ravi with you.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
He didn’t push further. But as she disappeared into the green, Kabir remained on the porch long after his coffee turned cold.
The forest was denser than it looked from the bungalow—an orchestra of rustling leaves, damp earth, and birdsong. The banyan tree loomed ahead, ancient and unmoving, its aerial roots cascading like stone columns from its arms. Riya paused.
The moment she stepped into the clearing, everything stilled.
The air changed—colder, quieter.
She crouched near the base of the tree, brushing aside dry leaves and moss. Her fingers hit something hard. Carefully, she uncovered a small, moss-covered stone. Beneath it was a rusted silver chain—still bearing a locket.
She opened it.
Inside, a tiny portrait, drawn by hand. A girl, probably in her teens, with wide, somber eyes.
“Eliza,” Riya whispered.
A gust of wind swept past her, almost like a sigh.
She stood, unsettled. The trees around her remained still.
But something… somewhere… had moved.
Back at the bungalow, Kabir paced.
Ravi was sweeping the back courtyard, humming tunelessly.
“Did a girl really go missing here?” Kabir asked.
Ravi stopped. His broom froze mid-sweep.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Long ago. Daughter of the sahib who built this house. Eliza Fern. She would walk the forest. One day, she didn’t come back.”
“What happened?”
“No one knows. The British left. The house was abandoned. But…”
“But?”
“Some say they still hear her. Especially near the banyan. Some say she came back.”
Kabir frowned. “Came back?”
Ravi didn’t answer.
He turned and walked inside.
That night, Riya placed the locket and diary in a drawer and locked it. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered to Kabir. “But I feel like she’s asking me to listen.”
Kabir ran his hand down her arm. “Then we’ll listen. Together.”
They turned in early.
But Riya awoke to a soft sound—a scraping noise, like fingernails on wood.
She sat up.
It was coming from upstairs.
Kabir was asleep. She didn’t wake him this time.
Candle in hand, she stepped out into the hallway.
The stairs creaked under her bare feet.
The air grew colder the higher she climbed.
She reached the upper hallway.
The door—the forgotten door—stood at the end.
It wasn’t locked anymore.
It was open.
Just slightly.
A sliver of darkness leaked out.
And from within, the faintest sound:
A girl’s voice, humming a tune no one had sung for over a hundred years.
Chapter 4: Eliza’s Room
Riya stood frozen, staring at the barely ajar door. The melody floated gently toward her—soft, haunting, and oddly familiar. She didn’t know the tune, yet some deep part of her responded to it, like a memory that wasn’t hers. The candle flickered violently in her hand as if warning her to turn back.
But she didn’t.
She pushed the door open.
The room beyond smelled of old roses and dust. The walls were papered in faded lavender, peeling in places, revealing the cracked plaster beneath. A narrow bed stood against one wall, the sheets yellowed with time but carefully made. A porcelain doll with missing eyes sat on the pillow. And beside the window, facing the forest, was a small writing desk.
Riya stepped inside. The floor didn’t creak. The air was unnaturally still.
The humming had stopped.
She moved toward the desk. The drawers were locked, but the top was clear—except for a candle that hadn’t burned in decades and a single feather, white and brittle.
Suddenly, behind her—creak.
She turned.
Nothing.
Just the open door.
She stepped back into the hallway.
The air shifted. The humming began again—but this time it wasn’t coming from the room.
It was coming from the stairs.
From below.
Kabir woke to the sound of the drawer in their bedroom slamming shut.
He sat up, heart racing. “Riya?”
No answer.
He saw the candle on the bedside table. Lit.
She never left candles burning.
He rushed into the hallway and climbed the stairs two at a time, calling her name.
“Riya!”
At the end of the hallway, he saw the open door.
And Riya standing motionless, staring into the room.
She turned slowly. “She lived here.”
Kabir reached her. “What are you doing? This door was locked!”
“She sang to me,” Riya said, her voice distant. “Like in the diary. She would sing to the trees.”
Kabir held her arms. “You’re shaking.”
“She wants us to know.”
He led her back downstairs and shut the door.
But it didn’t click.
The lock was broken now.
The next morning, Kabir insisted they leave.
“We can go to Ooty. Or back home. This place isn’t right.”
Riya nodded—but her eyes kept drifting toward the forest.
“I’ll pack,” she whispered.
Kabir went to find Ravi. The caretaker was already outside, staring toward the banyan.
“She found the room,” Ravi said without turning.
“You knew what was up there,” Kabir snapped. “You should’ve told us everything.”
“I did,” Ravi replied. “I told you not to open it. Not all doors are meant to be remembered.”
Kabir narrowed his eyes. “What’s in that room?”
Ravi finally turned. “The last thing Eliza ever touched. And maybe, the first place she returned.”
Back inside, Riya stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror.
But something was wrong.
The reflection… was smiling.
She wasn’t.
The mirror cracked.
Just slightly—like a hairline fracture down its middle.
She blinked.
The crack was gone.
And outside the window, the banyan tree swayed… though no wind touched the forest.
Chapter 5: The Forest Eats the Truth
Kabir threw clothes into their bags in a frenzy. He’d had enough. The mirror, the locked room, the whispers—no romantic retreat was worth this unraveling. Riya sat quietly on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on the window as though watching something only she could see.
“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” he said. “I don’t care if I have to carry you out.”
Riya didn’t respond.
Kabir walked over and crouched in front of her.
“Riya, this place is doing something to you.”
She blinked, slowly. “It’s not the place. It’s her. She never left. She’s… waiting.”
Kabir gripped her shoulders. “Listen to me. Whatever happened to Eliza, it’s not our responsibility. We don’t owe this house anything.”
Riya looked at him then, really looked, and something flickered in her eyes—grief, maybe, or guilt. “But what if she’s asking for help, Kabir? What if she was never heard, never found?”
Kabir stood, jaw tight. “And what if you end up just like her?”
Downstairs, Ravi stood at the front door, holding an envelope. He handed it to Riya without a word.
Inside was a brittle photograph—black and white, faded at the corners. A girl, maybe seventeen, standing by the banyan tree. Her eyes were hollow, like she hadn’t slept in years.
On the back, in pencil: Eliza. April 1892.
Riya clutched it to her chest. “I have to go back.”
Kabir snapped. “Absolutely not!”
“I just need to see what’s buried there. I know something is. Her diary ended with that line: ‘The forest eats the truth.’ That locket didn’t just fall there. She wanted it to be found.”
“She’s not your ghost to carry!” Kabir’s voice cracked.
But she was already walking out the door.
The forest seemed to sigh as they entered.
This time, Kabir followed.
They reached the banyan tree together, and Riya knelt at the spot where she had found the locket.
She dug with her bare hands.
Kabir watched helplessly, torn between fear and fury.
After a few minutes, Riya stopped.
Her fingers had touched something hard.
She unearthed a small wooden box, rotting at the edges. Inside was a velvet ribbon, tied around a bundle of letters. And beneath that—
A bone.
Small. Fragile.
Kabir turned away.
Riya held the letters with trembling fingers. The ink was smudged, but one word was clear on each page:
“Father, please believe me.”
“The man from the forest watches me at night.”
“He said I must be quiet, or he’ll bury me like the others.”
“I think he already has.”
That night, the wind returned.
The locked room door stood wide open now.
Inside, Riya laid the letters on the bed. She placed the photograph beside the porcelain doll and whispered, “You’re not forgotten.”
The candle blew out.
And for the first time in days, the house exhaled.
Kabir and Riya left the next morning.
As they reached the forest gate, Ravi nodded once.
“She’ll rest now,” he said.
But as the bungalow disappeared behind them, Kabir couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was still watching from the upstairs window.
Chapter 6: The Last Guest
Three months passed.
Back in Bangalore, the city was loud and full of distractions—traffic horns, late meetings, glowing screens. But the forest never truly left Riya. In quiet moments, she’d find herself reaching for the locket, now cleaned and kept in her drawer. The diary, letters, and photograph had been sent to a small archival museum in Ooty. Officially, Eliza Fern’s story was now a “historical curiosity.”
Unofficially, it haunted them both.
Kabir had stopped talking about it altogether. He called it a chapter, something to forget. But Riya couldn’t.
Not when she still dreamed of the room.
Then one day, a letter arrived.
No sender’s name.
Just a simple line on aged paper:
“One room still remains unopened.”
Riya stared at it. The handwriting was delicate, almost familiar.
She didn’t tell Kabir.
Instead, she packed a bag and took the overnight train back to Kunnur.
The forest greeted her like an old friend—silent, dense, expectant.
The bungalow hadn’t changed.
Ravi was gone.
She found a younger man instead—his grandson, perhaps—who said no guests had come since them.
Riya entered the house alone.
Dust coated the floors.
The upstairs door remained shut.
But she wasn’t here for that room anymore.
She walked to the back of the house, past the old servant quarters, where the walls were overgrown with ivy. A tiny door stood half-hidden in the brick—so small she hadn’t noticed it during her stay.
It creaked open with effort.
Inside was a narrow staircase spiraling down into the earth.
She descended slowly, the air growing damp and cold.
At the bottom was a stone room—windowless, airless.
And in the center, a chair.
Chains on its arms.
Scratch marks on the walls.
She froze.
It wasn’t just one girl.
Eliza wasn’t the first.
And maybe not the last.
That night, Riya slept in the bungalow one final time.
No dreams.
No whispers.
Just a stillness that pressed against her skin like cloth soaked in secrets.
She left at dawn.
But as she walked down the forest path, she saw her own footprints in the mud—coming from the opposite direction.
She never looked back.
A year later…
The forest bungalow is up for sale.
Listed as a “heritage colonial estate” on a luxury travel website.
The listing reads:
“Quiet, secluded, perfect for a couple’s retreat. One upstairs room locked for maintenance.”
And late at night, when the wind is just right, you can still hear her humming.
From the room.
From the trees.
From beneath the floorboards.
The forgotten door was only the beginning.
THE END
