Animesh Tarafder
1
The sun had barely begun to set, casting a soft golden glow over the winding streets of Kolkata, when Dr. Neelav Gupta received the call that would pull him back into a past he had long buried. A murder—gruesome, ritualistic—had occurred in the heart of the city. As a renowned criminal psychologist, Neelav was often called in for such cases, but there was something unsettling about this one. The victim, an elderly woman, had been found posed in an unnatural way, her body frozen in a grotesque contortion. Strange symbols, like the markings of a forgotten language, were drawn with startling precision on the walls of her small, cluttered home. The police, already on edge, had quickly run out of explanations, and so they sought Neelav’s expertise. The scene was chilling, yet it wasn’t the horror of the crime itself that unsettled him—it was the feeling that something far deeper, something personal, was at play. As he arrived at the crime scene, his mind raced, piecing together the strange familiarity of the symbols. They were reminiscent of ancient rituals, whispers from the past that had long faded into the shadows of Kolkata’s history.
Standing over the body, Neelav’s mind moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine, but his gut told him something wasn’t right. The cold air of the city felt thicker tonight, as if the very streets of Kolkata were holding their breath. The victim’s eyes stared blankly into the void, her skin pale and marked with the symbols, as though she had been caught in the web of an ancient curse. The pattern was too deliberate, too methodical. This wasn’t a random act of violence; it was something planned, something ritualistic. As he examined the scene, Neelav’s thoughts drifted momentarily to his childhood—the stories of Kolkata’s hidden past that his father had whispered about, things he had never fully understood. His father, a prominent figure in the city, had been connected to a dark, secret society—the Kalapathar. A failed occult ritual, one shrouded in mystery, had claimed the life of Neelav’s parents years ago, leaving him with nothing but painful memories and unanswered questions. The death of the elderly woman seemed, in some strange way, to tie into that past. The more Neelav looked at the symbols, the more he felt the oppressive weight of history pressing down on him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was trying to force him to confront a part of his past that he had fought so hard to forget.
It was then that Neelav received the first letter. At first, he thought it was simply a coincidence—another piece of the puzzle, a clue left by the killer. But as he read the words, a chill ran down his spine. The letter was written in a handwriting he recognized—his own, from a time long ago. The words were cryptic, taunting even. “You can’t escape your past, Neelav. The shadows are waiting.” The handwriting felt like a jolt to his very core, as if the ghosts of his childhood had returned to haunt him. The letter spoke of his troubled childhood in Kolkata, of the mysterious accident that had taken his parents away, and the deep, unresolved grief that had lingered in him ever since. But it wasn’t just the contents of the letter that disturbed him—it was the tone. The sender knew things that no one could have known: his darkest secrets, the truths he had buried so deep that even he had forgotten them. Whoever this person was, they were watching him—closely. His connection to the murder now felt far more personal than he had anticipated, and Neelav realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that this was only the beginning of something much darker.
2
The following morning, Neelav sat in his office, staring at the letter with growing unease. The words lingered in his mind, gnawing at him like an insistent itch he couldn’t scratch. The past was coming for him, dragging him back to a place he’d long tried to forget. He had spent years building a career in criminal psychology, immersing himself in the minds of killers, hoping that by understanding their darkness, he could outrun his own. But the case of the murdered woman was different. Something about it felt personal. The cryptic symbols, the taunting letter, and the eerie reminder of his own past were all pointing to something far more sinister, something he wasn’t ready to face.
Inspector Anjana Roy, who had been assigned to the case, met Neelav at the police station. A no-nonsense officer in her mid-thirties, Anjana had always prided herself on relying on facts, logic, and traditional investigative methods. She didn’t believe in psychological profiling or any of the speculative theories that criminal psychologists liked to spin. But when the second murder happened just days after the first, with the same ritualistic symbols marking the walls of the victim’s home, she had no choice but to ask for Neelav’s help. She stood across from him now, scanning the letter he held in his hands, her skepticism written plainly on her face.
“What do you think this means, Dr. Gupta?” Anjana asked, her tone blunt, but not unkind. “Another murder, same symbols, same bizarre positioning of the body. It seems like a serial killer. But you’re telling me this is part of something older, something… occult?”
Neelav let out a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of thoughts racing through his mind. He handed her the letter, his fingers brushing against the edges of the paper, feeling a coldness he couldn’t shake. “These symbols are not random, Inspector. They’re part of an ancient ritual, one that has its roots deep in Kolkata’s history. They belong to a secret society, Kalapathar, that was rumored to have dabbled in the occult in the 1950s.”
Anjana raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Kalapathar? You’re telling me that some old cult is behind these murders?”
Neelav nodded grimly. “Not just a cult, Inspector. A powerful society that included some of Kolkata’s most influential figures—businessmen, politicians, scholars. The goal of their rituals was immortality, achieved through dark rites. My father was once a part of this group, but he died in what was believed to be an accident. I never understood the full story, but I’m starting to think his death wasn’t an accident at all.”
Anjana’s gaze softened for a moment, the hint of sympathy flickering across her features before she masked it again with her usual professional demeanor. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dr. Gupta. But if these murders are connected to this society, then why haven’t they resurfaced until now? Why these women, and why now?”
Neelav stared out of the window, lost in thought. “I don’t know. But I’m starting to think that the murders are more than just a way to fulfill some twisted ritual. They’re personal. Whoever is behind them knows something about me—about my family—and they want me to know that they’re still out there. The killer’s trying to send me a message, and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.”
Anjana looked at him, the skepticism slowly turning into reluctant acceptance. “What’s your next move?”
Neelav hesitated, his fingers drumming absentmindedly on the desk. “We need to look into the history of Kalapathar, find out who was involved and what happened to them. I suspect the cult’s influence is far from gone. These murders… they feel like a twisted version of something from my past—something unfinished.”
As he spoke, a deep unease settled over him. The letter had unsettled him more than he cared to admit, but it was the symbols—the same symbols he had seen on the walls of the murdered women’s homes—that haunted him the most. They were part of a puzzle, one that was pulling him back into the very heart of his family’s secrets. And though he had spent his life running from the darkness of his past, he now realized that there was no escaping it. The truth was slowly being revealed, piece by agonizing piece, and Neelav knew that the only way out was to confront it head-on.
Anjana’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We’ll start with the history of the cult, Dr. Gupta. If this is personal, we’ll need to dive into your family’s past.”
Neelav met her gaze, determination hardening in his chest. “I just hope I’m ready to face whatever comes next.”
The days that followed were a blur of endless meetings, forensic reports, and the grim routine of uncovering layers of a history Neelav had spent years avoiding. The second murder had been almost identical to the first. An elderly woman, alone in her home, found in a grotesque pose, symbols marking her walls—symbols that seemed to burn their way into Neelav’s memory. He spent hours at the police station, poring over the crime scene photographs, the sketches of the symbols, and the growing list of victims. His mind raced, trying to connect the dots. But the more he dug, the more elusive the connections became. The only certainty was the growing sense of dread that clung to him like a second skin.
Neelav met with Inspector Anjana Roy again in the small, sterile conference room of the police station. The window looked out onto the bustling streets of Kolkata, but the world outside felt distant, like a place untouched by the darkness that was now creeping into Neelav’s life. Anjana was flipping through the files, her face grim, eyes focused. Neelav sat across from her, his fingers idly tapping on the desk. He could tell she was frustrated—more so than usual. She didn’t believe in the occult, didn’t believe in psychological profiling, yet here she was, relying on Neelav’s expertise. He could feel her skepticism slowly eroding, replaced by an undeniable tension between them. They had become an unlikely team, but with every passing hour, Neelav could sense the line between professional detachment and something more personal growing thinner.
“Dr. Gupta, we’ve been through the victims’ histories,” Anjana began, breaking the silence. “They all lived alone, with no immediate family nearby. But there’s something that doesn’t sit right. The first woman, Mrs. Dey, lived in Shobhabazar, a neighborhood known for its colonial-era buildings, a place where many wealthy families once resided. The second victim, Mrs. Sharma, was from Alambazar, a more modest area. But both women were active in local community circles—church, book clubs, social gatherings. It doesn’t fit the profile of a random killer. It’s too… personal.”
Neelav nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “That’s the pattern, Inspector. The victims aren’t random at all. These women are connected to something much older. It’s not just a matter of opportunity or circumstance. They’re being chosen for a reason.”
Anjana stared at him, her lips pressed in a thin line. “But why? What connects them? And how does that tie back to you?”
Neelav stood up and walked to the board, where he had pinned photographs of the victims, their homes, and the strange symbols. His mind was a jigsaw puzzle, and he was trying desperately to fit the pieces together. He pointed to the symbols. “These symbols… they aren’t just ancient. They’re part of a ritual—one connected to the Kalapathar society. The very same society my father was involved in.”
Anjana’s eyes narrowed. “Your father? How does that connect to the murders?”
Neelav turned to face her. “My father’s death wasn’t an accident. He was a key figure in the Kalapathar cult. And the murder of these women… it’s a twisted reflection of something that happened decades ago. A failed ritual. The murder is more than just the killer trying to complete the ritual. It’s a message. A warning.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. His father’s involvement in the cult had always been a shadow in his life, something he hadn’t wanted to confront. But now, it was pulling him back into the very heart of the darkness he had spent so many years trying to outrun. The killer wasn’t just targeting random women. They were recreating the ritual that had once claimed his father’s life. But why? And why now?
Anjana took a step closer to the board, scanning the photographs of the victims. “But we still don’t know who’s behind this. What’s their motive?”
Neelav ran a hand through his hair. “That’s what we need to figure out. These murders are a deliberate attempt to resurrect something long buried. Kalapathar was never just about power—it was about immortality. They believed they could transcend death, that by completing certain rituals, they could achieve a higher state of being. My father’s death was part of that failed ritual. I think the killer is trying to finish what my father and his associates started.”
Anjana’s face was thoughtful, her skepticism giving way to cautious curiosity. “So you think these women are… sacrifices? And the killer is trying to complete some kind of occult ceremony?”
Neelav nodded. “Exactly. But there’s something else. The more I look at the victims, the more I feel like they’re being drawn into this because of their connection to me. They are linked to my family’s history. Mrs. Dey, for example—she used to be close friends with my mother. Mrs. Sharma was a former neighbor of ours. The victims aren’t just random—they were all part of my life in some way.”
Anjana’s eyes widened as the realization hit her. “The killer is targeting people from your past… why?”
“I don’t know,” Neelav said, his voice tight with emotion. “But it’s clear that they want me to remember something I’ve tried to forget. And I think they’re using these murders to force me into confronting it.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Neelav’s words hanging in the air. The investigation had just taken a dark turn, one that felt too close to home. As the pieces of the puzzle began to align, Neelav could feel the presence of something ancient, something malevolent, closing in on him. The more he uncovered, the more he realized that the past was never truly buried. It had only been waiting for the right moment to rise again. And now, that moment had come.
4
The investigation had taken on a relentless momentum, the weeks bleeding into each other like the slow trickle of ink on paper. As much as Neelav tried to compartmentalize his personal history, the case kept pulling him back, its tendrils weaving through the very fabric of his being. Each day brought new discoveries, new horrors, and with them, a growing sense of inevitability. He was no longer just a bystander in this case—he was a participant in a dark narrative that had been set in motion long before he’d ever walked into the room. And the past, he realized, was never as distant as he had once believed.
Neelav sat at his desk, reviewing the latest files, the photographs of the victims, the sketches of the symbols. The deeper he delved, the more the symbols began to taunt him, almost as if they were alive, speaking a language only his subconscious could understand. He’d been through every detail, every angle, but it was only now—sitting in the quiet of his office, surrounded by the dim light of the city—that he felt the true weight of the case pressing down on him. The murder scenes, with their meticulous arrangement of symbols and bodies, felt too deliberate. Too intentional. Whoever was behind this had been watching him, had known how to push him, how to make him confront the most painful parts of himself.
The door creaked open, and Neelav’s gaze shifted to see Inspector Anjana Roy standing there, her posture rigid, her expression as unreadable as ever. But today, there was something different in her eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment that they were no longer just investigating a series of murders. They were both chasing shadows, each of them with a personal stake in the outcome.
“Dr. Gupta,” Anjana said, her voice steady but with an edge of urgency, “we’ve got something new. Another letter. This time, it’s more… specific. It talks about you—about your family. It says we’re getting closer to the truth.”
Neelav stood up slowly, his heart rate picking up despite himself. “Show me.”
Anjana handed him the letter, its edges worn, the paper stained and fragile as if it had been handled over and over again. Neelav unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the message:
“The walls of your mind are crumbling, Neelav. Just like your father’s did before him. You can’t outrun the past, nor can you outrun what you were meant to become. The cycle is coming full circle. What you’ve forgotten, others remember.”
The words sent a chill through Neelav’s spine. They weren’t just about the murders anymore—they were a direct assault on his mind. They were designed to crack open the façade he had built so carefully, to make him face the darkest corners of his psyche.
“This is different,” Neelav said quietly, handing the letter back to Anjana. “This isn’t just a killer taunting me. This is a message from someone who knows exactly how to break me down.”
Anjana studied him carefully, her gaze softening ever so slightly. “You don’t have to do this alone, Dr. Gupta. Whatever this is—whatever this connection to your past is—I’m here to help.”
Neelav turned to face her, his expression hardening. “You don’t understand, Inspector. You have no idea what this is dredging up. My father’s death, the cult, the rituals—everything I’ve buried. It’s all resurfacing. And every step I take, the more I realize that this killer is somehow linked to me. To my family. To the lies I’ve lived with.”
She stepped closer, her eyes searching his face. “Then let’s find out what the truth is. Let’s go back to where this all started.”
The deeper they dug into the case, the more Neelav felt his grip on reality slipping. Memories that had once seemed like faint whispers now came flooding back in vivid flashes—images of his childhood home, of his parents’ distant expressions, of the strange rituals his father had spoken of in hushed tones late at night. The symbol etched on his mind from his youth—the same one found on the walls of the victims’ homes—now felt like it was staring at him from every corner. The more he searched, the more he realized how little he truly knew about his own family. He had assumed his father’s death was a tragic accident, a random act of fate. But now, he was beginning to see the cracks in that story, the faint outlines of something far more sinister lurking just beneath the surface.
Neelav took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. They had to get answers. They had to understand the cult and its history—what had happened during those long-forgotten rituals. He knew the key to understanding the killer’s motives lay buried in that history, in the secrets that had been sealed away with his father’s death.
The phone rang, breaking his reverie. Neelav grabbed the receiver, his heart beating faster. It was Professor Rajat Chatterjee, the occult scholar, the one person who might have the answers to the questions that were eating away at him.
“Dr. Gupta,” Chatterjee’s voice crackled over the line, “I have something for you. A document, one that’s been hidden for years. It’s about the Kalapathar society, your father’s involvement, and the failed ritual that—”
Before he could finish, the line went dead. The connection was lost, and Neelav stared at the receiver in his hand, a deep sense of foreboding creeping over him.
The truth, it seemed, was just beyond reach. But someone didn’t want him to find it. The closer he got, the more obstacles were thrown in his path. And now, as the shadows from his past stretched longer, Neelav had to face the terrifying reality that the killer wasn’t just chasing him—they were leading him into a trap.
A trap that was set long ago, and one that might just claim him as its next victim.
The quiet hum of the city outside felt distant, as if the world beyond Neelav’s office no longer existed. It had been days since he last spoke to Professor Rajat Chatterjee, and the sudden cut-off had left him in a state of heightened tension. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had been ripped away from him—something that might have unlocked the final pieces of the puzzle. The phone call was a stark reminder that he was no longer just investigating a series of murders; he was in the midst of something far more dangerous, a hunt that spanned generations. His father’s secrets were now his burden to bear, and as the shadow of the past crept closer, Neelav felt its oppressive weight pressing down on him.
Anjana had become more than just a colleague; she was now an ally in the truest sense. The cases of missing children, the unexplained deaths, and the unverified reports of strange occurrences all led back to one central truth: the cult, Kalapathar, was still alive in ways they had not anticipated. While Neelav’s mind searched for logic and reason, his heart—burdened with fear and guilt—pushed him to explore the supernatural. It wasn’t just a case anymore. It was personal. The murders weren’t random. They were part of a ritual tied to the death of his parents, to his father’s involvement in the occult, and to a past Neelav had desperately tried to bury.
Sitting in the dimly lit room, Neelav sifted through a stack of old documents from the university archives. It was here, hidden among dusty pages and yellowed books, that he hoped to find some connection—some truth—about the occult society his father had been part of. The more he uncovered, the more his fear grew. He had suspected for years that his family’s past was tangled in something dark, but now it was undeniable. Every document, every photo he found, pointed to the same inescapable truth: his father’s death wasn’t an accident. It had been part of a failed ritual—a ritual meant to bring about immortality.
“Dr. Gupta, I’ve found something,” Anjana’s voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned to see her standing in the doorway, holding a worn notebook in her hands. She looked more than just concerned—she looked disturbed.
Neelav took the notebook from her, his fingers brushing against the frayed edges. The cover was plain, but the contents were far from ordinary. Inside, he found sketches of symbols he had seen in the murder scenes, interspersed with notes that described rituals he had only ever heard of in whispers. The more he read, the more the connection became clear. This wasn’t just some misguided spiritual pursuit—it was an obsession. His father, along with others in the Kalapathar society, had believed that by performing certain rituals, they could transcend death. They sought immortality not in the spiritual sense, but through physical rebirth. But the ritual had failed, causing catastrophic consequences. Neelav had always believed his parents’ deaths were part of an unfortunate accident, but this notebook—this journal—suggested otherwise. His father had been involved in an occult practice so dark, so twisted, that it had led to the very deaths he had tried to escape.
“The ritual… it’s supposed to be performed by someone who has knowledge of the past,” Neelav muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The sacrifice… the one who ‘completes’ it, is tied to the family bloodline. And the death… it’s meant to open the path to eternal life.” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too much to bear. Was that why his father died? Had he failed? And if so, why was someone trying to complete the ritual now?
Anjana’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “Is this what they’re doing? The victims—are they part of the ritual?”
Neelav nodded slowly, his heart racing. “Yes, these women, they were chosen. The symbols—those aren’t just random. They’re part of the ritual. The killer is reenacting a dark ritual from my father’s past. They’re trying to complete what was left undone. And I’m afraid… they’re trying to draw me back into it.”
The realization hit Neelav with a force that left him breathless. The murders weren’t just a way for the killer to complete some ancient ritual. They were a twisted form of vengeance. Whoever was behind this wanted Neelav to pay for his father’s involvement. And the killer—whether they knew it or not—was using Neelav as a pawn, luring him back to the very place he had tried to escape: the heart of Kalapathar.
“This journal… it must be the key,” Neelav said, his voice more certain now. “This is how they’re continuing the ritual. The murder of these women, it’s all part of a bigger picture. Whoever is behind this knows exactly what they’re doing. They’re trying to force me to confront my past—to face the very thing I’ve spent my life running from.”
Anjana placed her hand on his shoulder, her eyes filled with sympathy but also a quiet strength. “We’re getting closer to the truth, Dr. Gupta. But we need to stop this before it goes any further.”
Neelav stared at the pages of the journal, his eyes tracing the symbols, the ancient rituals, and the faded notes that spoke of death and rebirth. The key to stopping this madness lay in the very past he had tried to suppress. The cult was still alive—its members were still seeking to complete what had been left unfinished. And now, as the past threatened to consume him, Neelav knew that the only way to stop the killings—and stop the ritual—was to face the darkness head-on. To confront the demons that had haunted his family for decades.
“We have to find out who’s behind this,” Neelav said, his voice low with determination. “And we have to stop them before it’s too late.”
As they left the office, Neelav’s thoughts raced. The answers were close—too close. But the truth, he realized, was more dangerous than he could have ever imagined. The ritual was far from over, and he was at its center, the last piece of a puzzle that had been decades in the making. The past was not just a whisper anymore. It was a roar, and it was coming for him.
Kolkata’s streets were bathed in a heavy, oppressive fog as Neelav and Anjana made their way to the old mansion, its looming silhouette barely visible through the haze. The city had always been a place of contrasts, its colonial-era buildings standing side by side with modern skyscrapers. But tonight, it felt as though time itself had folded in on itself, trapping them between two worlds—one that existed in the present, and the other, a shadow of the past that had never truly disappeared.
The mansion in question had been abandoned for decades. Once a thriving center of intellectual and political activity, it had become a ghost of its former self, its grand halls now crumbling under the weight of neglect. But for Neelav, it wasn’t just the mansion’s history that haunted him—it was what had happened within its walls. This was where the Kalapathar society had once gathered, where the ritual had been performed in secret, and where his father had been part of something that led to his untimely death.
As they entered the mansion, the silence was deafening. The floorboards creaked under their feet, and the smell of mildew mixed with the scent of old wood and dust. It was as if the house itself had been holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to return. Neelav’s heart raced, but he forced himself to stay calm. Every step deeper into the mansion felt like a step closer to the heart of the darkness that had consumed his family.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Anjana asked, her voice low and tense, though her eyes scanned every corner of the decaying building with the intensity of a seasoned investigator.
Neelav nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is where it all began. My father, the society… they performed the ritual here. The failed one. The one that cost them their lives.”
The air inside the mansion felt thick with history, and as Neelav walked further, he could almost hear the whispers of the past. The walls seemed to pulse with the energy of long-forgotten secrets, as though they were waiting for him to uncover them. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the faded wallpaper, the fabric of his father’s legacy woven into every crack and stain.
Anjana was close behind, her footsteps barely audible as they approached what had once been the grandest room in the mansion. The floor was now littered with debris, and the large windows were cracked, allowing only faint moonlight to filter through. As Neelav stepped into the center of the room, he felt a sudden chill, the temperature dropping as if the building itself had taken a breath.
“This is it,” Neelav said, his voice distant, as if the words came from a place deep within him. “This is where the ritual was meant to take place. My father and the others… they were here. They believed that by offering their lives, they could transcend death. They believed in immortality.”
Anjana stood beside him, her expression softening, though her eyes were sharp with suspicion. “But why did it fail? What went wrong?”
Neelav closed his eyes, memories flooding back—fragments of his father’s strange, cryptic words, the look in his eyes just before his sudden death. The failed ritual. The disappearance of his mother. He didn’t know everything, but he knew that the failure wasn’t an accident—it was part of something much larger. The society had paid a price, but someone was now trying to finish what had been started.
“I don’t know yet,” Neelav said quietly. “But I think I’m about to find out.”
Just as he spoke, Anjana’s flashlight flickered. The beam of light danced across the room, landing on something that caught her attention. Neelav turned to follow her gaze and froze.
There, etched into the floorboards in faded, but unmistakable symbols, was the same marking he had seen in the victims’ homes—the same symbols that had been found on the walls of the first two murdered women. They were the markings of the Kalapathar society, the key to the ritual. But here, in this forgotten room, they had been left behind, waiting for someone to discover them.
“They were here,” Neelav whispered, his voice trembling. “They performed it here. This is where it all went wrong.”
Anjana knelt down, her fingers brushing over the symbols with an intensity that mirrored Neelav’s own. “And now someone’s trying to complete it.”
Neelav’s pulse quickened. The symbols were more than just marks on a floor—they were a map, a guide to the next step of the ritual. The killings weren’t just random acts of violence. They were part of something much larger—a ritual that was meant to unlock a door that should have remained closed.
“I think the killer is closer than we realize,” Neelav said, his mind racing. “These murders are a way to recreate the ritual, piece by piece. The deaths aren’t just sacrifices—they’re a means to an end. The cult… they were seeking immortality. But it wasn’t just about physical life. They were trying to transcend time, trying to escape the grip of death itself.”
“Then we need to stop them,” Anjana said firmly, standing up, her resolve matching Neelav’s. “But we still don’t know who’s behind this, or what their endgame is.”
Neelav turned back toward the symbols on the floor, his eyes scanning every line, every curve. The killer, he realized, wasn’t just trying to kill. They were trying to open a door—one that had been locked away for years. The failed ritual wasn’t just about bringing the dead back; it was about creating something new, something beyond life and death. The cult’s influence was alive, and the murderer was trying to complete what had been left unfinished.
“We don’t have much time,” Neelav said. “They’re moving quickly now. We have to figure out what the next step is before it’s too late.”
As the weight of the situation pressed down on him, Neelav knew that the closer they got to the truth, the more dangerous the path ahead would become. The mansion had been a place of secrets for too long. Now, it seemed, those secrets were about to come to life again.
The air in the mansion was suffocating now, heavy with the weight of untold stories and unrelenting secrets. Neelav could feel the presence of something ancient pressing in from all sides, as if the very walls of the building had absorbed the horrors of the past and were now reaching out to reclaim him. The symbols etched into the floor were no longer just signs—they were a warning. The killer wasn’t merely following a script. They were trying to awaken something, to finish what had been started decades ago, and Neelav knew, deep in his gut, that he was the key. The one who had been left behind, the unfinished piece of a puzzle that should never have been solved.
Anjana stood beside him, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she examined the symbols. The flashlight beam flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the room, but it was clear to both of them that the path they were on had no turning back.
“We need to find out what these symbols mean,” Neelav said, his voice sharp with urgency. “They’re not just random. They represent a ritual, a key to unlocking something from the past. A door to a power that should never be awakened.”
Anjana’s gaze flickered over the floor, then to the walls, then back to Neelav. “The cult—Kalapathar—was trying to achieve immortality. But what kind of immortality? And why are they using these women as sacrifices? You said the killer is trying to finish something. What exactly?”
Neelav hesitated. He didn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely had any answers at all—but he knew the killer’s motives were tied to a twisted and forgotten history. The truth was buried deep in the mansion, buried under layers of time and silence.
“I think it’s more than just life after death,” he said slowly. “The Kalapathar society wasn’t just after immortality in the physical sense. They wanted to transcend time, to step outside the cycle of life and death. The ritual they began was meant to open a door—not just to the afterlife, but to a place beyond it.”
Anjana’s brow furrowed. “Beyond death? What does that mean, exactly?”
Neelav swallowed hard, as if the words themselves were too much to bear. “They believed that by completing this ritual, they could create an eternal existence, one that defied the boundaries of time and space. The ritual involved binding souls, not just for immortality, but to bring back something—or someone—from the past.”
The silence in the room thickened. The implications of Neelav’s words hung in the air, chilling both of them to the core. The killer wasn’t just trying to perform a ritual for power or control. They were trying to resurrect something—someone. Someone tied to Neelav’s family.
The blood drained from Neelav’s face as the realization struck him like a blow.
“My father,” he whispered. “They want to bring him back.”
Anjana’s eyes widened. “Your father? But he’s—”
“He’s dead. I know,” Neelav interrupted, his voice breaking. “But not in the way I thought. The ritual my father was involved in… it wasn’t just about immortality in the physical sense. It was about resurrecting the past, about undoing the finality of death itself. They were trying to bring people back—people they believed could offer something more than just power. They wanted to resurrect memories, old souls, even… old wounds.”
He stepped forward, his hand trembling as he pointed to the floor. The symbols were no longer just shapes—they were a map. A map of time. A map of death.
“This wasn’t about bringing my father back,” Neelav continued, his voice growing stronger. “This was about finishing the ritual that was supposed to be completed. The sacrifice. They needed the bloodline to complete it. My father… I’m the last piece. My blood. My soul.”
Anjana stepped closer, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and determination. “If that’s true, then whoever is doing this—whoever is behind these murders—wants you. They want you to finish what your father started.”
Neelav nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. “They’re trying to force me to do it. To complete the ritual, to open the door. And I think they’ll stop at nothing to make it happen. The deaths of these women—they’re just the beginning. The killer isn’t just a murderer. They’re a messenger. A herald of something much older.”
Anjana’s gaze hardened, her jaw set with resolve. “Then we need to stop them. Before it’s too late.”
Neelav turned back to the symbols, his mind racing. The killer was closer than ever. The connections were clearer now. He could see the pieces falling into place, each one pointing toward the inevitable. The ritual, the symbols, the murders—they were all leading him to a single, unthinkable conclusion: the past was about to resurface in a way neither he nor anyone else could ever have anticipated.
He stepped back from the symbols, his mind struggling to keep up with the mounting pressure. There was only one place left to go now. The answers, he realized, were locked away in the mansion’s hidden chamber—a place his father had once mentioned in passing, a place that had been sealed off for decades. A place that held the final key to stopping the ritual before it could be completed.
“We need to find the hidden chamber,” Neelav said, his voice filled with grim determination. “It’s the only way to stop this.”
As they made their way deeper into the mansion, the walls seemed to close in on them, the weight of the past bearing down with each step. The mansion was no longer just a decaying building—it was a tomb, a place of confinement, a place where time itself had been distorted. Neelav’s pulse quickened as he reached for the old, rusted handle of a hidden door, buried beneath layers of dust and decay.
With a creak, the door opened, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into the darkness. This was it. The final descent. The door to the past. To the ritual.
And with it, the final confrontation with the killer—and with the ghosts that had haunted Neelav’s family for so long.
As Neelav descended into the depths of the mansion, he knew there would be no turning back. What lay ahead could change everything, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to face it. But he had no choice. The past had come to claim him, and he had to confront it head-on.
8
The air grew colder as Neelav descended the narrow staircase, the dim light from his flashlight barely penetrating the thick, suffocating darkness. The steps creaked under his weight, as though protesting the intrusion, as if the very foundation of the mansion was reluctant to reveal its secrets. Each step downward felt like a journey into the depths of his own soul, into memories he had long buried and fears he had worked tirelessly to ignore. The mansion, now a tomb, seemed to pulse with life—a sinister life, one that had been dormant for decades, waiting for someone to come seeking answers.
Anjana was close behind, her presence a steadying force in the otherwise oppressive silence. She, too, could feel the weight of what lay ahead, the unknown horrors that lingered in the forgotten corners of the house. She had seen many dark things in her career, but nothing compared to the chilling unease that clung to this place. This wasn’t just a crime scene—it was a living relic of something ancient, something that had been buried for too long.
As Neelav’s flashlight beam swept over the stone walls of the underground chamber, he saw it—the unmistakable symbols of the Kalapathar society, etched into the very foundation of the room. They had been carved with such precision and care that it was clear this wasn’t just a forgotten cult. This was a place where something sacred had been worshipped, a place where rituals had been performed with the hope of transcending the natural order.
“This is it,” Neelav whispered, his voice barely audible, but filled with a quiet terror. “This is where it all began.”
The room was a cold, cavernous space, the air thick with the scent of old stone and the must of centuries. The symbols on the walls were now unmistakably familiar, each one representing a different step in the ritual. They told a story—one that began with the promise of eternal life and ended in a tragic, incomplete sacrifice. But something had been left unfinished, and that unfinished work had drawn Neelav here, to this very room, where the past was about to be resurrected.
In the center of the chamber lay an altar, its stone surface worn with age but still imposing. Around it, the floor was covered with the remnants of old ritualistic tools—candles, incense burners, and what appeared to be fragments of clothing. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the crime scenes Neelav had studied in the murders. The same symbols. The same ritualistic patterns. And most chilling of all, the same feeling of foreboding, as though the very air itself was waiting for something to happen.
“This is where they performed the ritual,” Neelav said, his voice trembling slightly. “And this is where they failed.”
Anjana stepped forward, her flashlight illuminating a strange, curved mark on the floor near the altar. It looked like a scar, a dark stain that hadn’t been there when they last visited. Her breath caught in her throat as she examined it more closely. “What is this? Blood?”
Neelav’s heart skipped a beat as he moved closer. “It’s blood, yes. But it’s more than that. It’s the blood of the failed ritual—the sacrifice that didn’t take. This is where my father—”
He stopped himself, the words choking him. The realization hit like a thunderclap. His father hadn’t just been a participant in the cult; he had been its ultimate sacrifice, the one whose death had been supposed to complete the ritual. But something had gone wrong. The ritual had failed, and his father’s death had been the price paid. The very blood spilled on this altar had been meant to seal the pact, to bind the ritual. But it hadn’t worked.
Anjana looked at him, her expression softening, but her eyes were still sharp. “Your father—he was part of this?”
Neelav nodded slowly. “He was the key. My father was the one they believed would give them what they wanted—immortality. But something went wrong. And now the killer… they’re trying to finish what was started. They want my blood to complete the ritual.”
A cold shiver ran down Neelav’s spine as the realization sank in. The killer wasn’t just a madman. They were a part of this, part of the same legacy that had been passed down through the Kalapathar society. Whoever was behind the murders had not just been targeting random victims—they had been systematically recreating the ritual, one death at a time, each murder a piece of the puzzle that had remained unsolved for decades.
Suddenly, the silence of the chamber was shattered by the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing from the entrance. Both Neelav and Anjana froze, their hearts racing as they turned toward the source of the noise.
A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the faint light of the stairwell. The man stepped forward, and the beam of Neelav’s flashlight caught the edge of his face. He was tall, with a face that was vaguely familiar—a face Neelav had seen in photographs, in old family albums, a face that had haunted his nightmares.
“Aadesh,” Neelav whispered, his voice hoarse.
The figure smiled, a twisted, knowing smile. “I knew you would come, Neelav,” Aadesh said, his voice calm, almost soothing, as though he were speaking to an old friend. “You always were the one who couldn’t stay away from the truth.”
Anjana instinctively reached for her gun, but Neelav held up a hand, stopping her. He could feel it now—the full weight of his past crashing down on him. Aadesh Mukherjee. A name that had been buried in the recesses of his memory, someone from his childhood, someone who had disappeared long ago. But now, Aadesh was here, and the pieces were falling into place.
“You were supposed to be dead,” Neelav said, his voice shaking with disbelief. “I thought you—”
Aadesh stepped closer, his eyes dark with something more than just madness. “I didn’t die, Neelav. I just… transformed. I became part of the ritual. And now, so will you.”
The air seemed to thicken with tension as Aadesh’s words hung in the space between them. Neelav felt the blood drain from his face as he realized what was happening. The killer wasn’t just trying to finish the ritual. He was part of it. Aadesh had been the missing link, the final piece, and now he was here to claim what was owed.
“You’re part of this… cult,” Neelav said, his voice rising. “You’ve been trying to bring this back—to bring him back.”
Aadesh’s smile twisted into something more sinister. “Not just him, Neelav. All of us. We’re all connected. All of us who died. The ritual will be complete. And then… immortality will be ours. But you, my old friend, you will be the one who unlocks the final door. You will be the one who brings us all back.”
Neelav’s mind reeled as he understood the full horror of the situation. Aadesh wasn’t just a killer. He was the living embodiment of the cult’s twisted obsession with immortality. And now, Neelav was the final piece of the puzzle—the bloodline that would finish the ritual, whether he wanted to or not.
With a sudden, violent motion, Aadesh lunged forward, his hand outstretched toward Neelav. But as he did, Anjana fired her gun, the sharp sound of the shot ringing through the chamber.
Aadesh staggered back, a look of surprise crossing his face, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he grinned, his eyes glowing with an eerie intensity.
“This isn’t over, Neelav,” he said, his voice low, almost reverential. “The door is already open. You’ve already stepped through.”
Neelav felt the ground beneath him shift, and for a moment, he was no longer sure where the ritual ended and reality began. He was no longer just a witness. He was part of something much larger, something that had been waiting for him.
As the darkness of the chamber seemed to swallow him whole, Neelav knew one thing for certain: there was no turning back now. The past had come to claim him. And soon, the door would be fully opened.
The gunshot had barely faded when the air in the chamber shifted, thickening with a palpable tension. The echo of the bullet, though sharp and sudden, felt distant now, as though it had been swallowed up by the darkness that seemed to rise from the very ground beneath Neelav’s feet. He could still see Aadesh standing before him, the wound in his chest already beginning to heal, the blood dripping in slow, deliberate streams down his dark clothing. There was no surprise in his eyes, no fear—just a strange, almost reverent calm. As though he had expected this all along.
Anjana was tense, her weapon still raised, but she was frozen in place, her gaze flicking from Neelav to Aadesh, then back again. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, and Neelav could see the realization sinking in: this wasn’t a normal murderer they were dealing with. Aadesh was something… other.
“You’re… not human,” Anjana breathed, her voice thick with the weight of the words.
Aadesh tilted his head slightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Not in the way you think,” he said. “But that’s the thing about immortality, Inspector. It’s not about living forever. It’s about never truly dying. Becoming part of something… something bigger. And now, thanks to Neelav, I’m closer than I’ve ever been to finishing what we started.”
Neelav’s pulse pounded in his ears, his mind scrambling to make sense of the nightmare unfolding in front of him. This wasn’t just about rituals or occult societies anymore. This was about something beyond the realm of human understanding—a force that had stretched across time, that had haunted his family for generations. The cult, Kalapathar, wasn’t just a group of people seeking power. They had been trying to transcend the boundaries of life and death, to break free from the cycle that bound them to mortal existence.
Aadesh’s transformation wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual. He had transcended, become something else entirely.
“You think you can stop this?” Aadesh continued, taking a step closer to Neelav. “You think a bullet can kill what’s already dead? We’re past that now. The ritual has already begun, Neelav. The door is open. You, me, your father—none of us will ever truly leave. Not anymore.”
The weight of his words pressed down on Neelav’s chest. His breath came in shallow bursts, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt, as though reality itself was unraveling.
“How do you think your father died, Neelav?” Aadesh asked, his voice almost gentle. “It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t fate. Your father made the ultimate sacrifice—he gave his life so the ritual could continue. But his death wasn’t enough. They needed you. They needed your blood to finish what he started. You were the final piece. And once you give it to them, Neelav… we will be free.”
Neelav recoiled, his stomach churning with disgust. He couldn’t believe what Aadesh was saying. His father… had he known what he was part of? Had he willingly sacrificed himself, hoping to bring about some dark resurrection? And now, his son, Neelav, was the last piece of the puzzle. The one who could complete the ritual and open the door to immortality for those trapped within the cult.
Aadesh stepped forward again, his eyes locked onto Neelav’s. There was no malice in his gaze—only a strange kind of expectation, as though he were waiting for Neelav to understand, to accept the inevitable.
“Come with me, Neelav,” he said, his voice hypnotic, almost coaxing. “You have no choice. You’ve already begun the journey. The path has already been laid out. All you have to do is walk through the door. You’ll see your father again. You’ll see what they promised.”
Neelav’s mind raced, his heart hammering in his chest. What door? What promise?
The room around him seemed to close in, the symbols on the walls shifting, coming to life, swirling like shadows in the flickering light of their flashlights. The chamber felt alive with a deep, ancient pulse. He could almost hear the beating of a heart—the heart of the ritual, the beating of something that had been waiting, hidden for generations.
Then he saw it. At the far end of the room, in the shadows, was a large stone door, its surface covered in more symbols—familiar, but distorted in ways that made Neelav’s skin crawl. The door was half-open, a faint light spilling out from the crack. The air around it felt electric, charged with something unnatural.
Aadesh’s voice was low, almost reverential. “The door to the other side, Neelav. It’s open. It’s been waiting for you. All you need to do is step through.”
Neelav felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He wanted to run, to get as far away from this nightmare as possible. But something held him there. Some dark force, invisible but undeniable, tugged at his every nerve. He felt as if the door were calling to him, beckoning him toward it, pulling him closer with every breath he took.
Anjana moved beside him, her voice trembling. “We have to stop him, Neelav. We can’t let this happen.”
Neelav looked at her, his mind clouded with confusion and fear. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to run. But something inside him—something darker, something buried deep—was telling him to stay. To face the truth. To face the door.
“Neelav, listen to me!” Anjana’s voice cut through the fog in his mind. “This isn’t you! You’re not a part of this!”
Aadesh chuckled darkly. “She’s right, Neelav. You don’t belong here. But the truth is… you never really left, did you? You’ve always been part of this—part of the bloodline, part of the legacy. And now, you’ll join us. You’ll join your father.”
With a sudden, desperate motion, Neelav broke free from the strange grip Aadesh had on him, stumbling back. The ground beneath him seemed to shift as if the earth itself was opening up. His mind reeled, his heart pounding in his chest. This is not me. This is not who I am.
He turned to face the door, the light spilling from the crack widening, beckoning him closer. His body was frozen, paralyzed by the weight of his family’s dark history. The truth was staring him in the face, and he could no longer deny it.
The door was the key. The ritual had already begun. And whether he wanted to or not, Neelav knew he was standing on the threshold of something he could never undo.
Aadesh’s voice echoed behind him. “You’re ready, Neelav. Step through. This is your destiny.”
With one final, deep breath, Neelav stepped forward, towards the door—towards the darkness. And as he crossed the threshold, he felt the weight of eternity press down on him.
The door closed behind him.
And the world of the living seemed to slip away.
The instant Neelav crossed the threshold, the world as he knew it ceased to exist. The chamber of the mansion, the air thick with its ancient secrets, faded into nothingness, replaced by an overwhelming light. It wasn’t bright in the conventional sense, but it was blinding—almost as if the very fabric of time and space had unraveled around him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. He was floating, suspended in a void, where the boundaries between life and death were no longer clear.
Neelav’s mind raced, his body a blur of sensations he couldn’t quite comprehend. He felt himself being pulled—compelled, like an object caught in a powerful gravitational field—toward something. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it: a presence, an energy, ancient and primal. It was as if the door he had stepped through wasn’t just a passage into another room or place. It was a portal to something far older, a place that existed beyond time, beyond the physical world.
“Neelav…”
The voice was soft, familiar—achingly so. He felt it resonate deep within him, as though it were calling to him from the very core of his being.
“Neelav… come to me.”
His heart skipped a beat. The voice—his father’s voice—was unmistakable. But how could it be? His father had been dead for years, a victim of the same dark forces that had now ensnared Neelav himself. Was this real? Was this some twisted illusion, a product of the dark ritual that had already begun to take hold of him?
The light around him shifted, taking on a pale, ethereal glow. Slowly, the edges of the void began to soften, revealing shapes—shadows, figures, faint outlines of people. Neelav’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the forms of those long gone: his parents, their faces clear but expressionless, as if frozen in time. He could almost hear their whispers, their silent cries, all trapped in this space between worlds.
His father, Rajiv Gupta, stood before him. He was as Neelav remembered him, tall and strong, with the same penetrating eyes that had always seemed to look through him. But there was something wrong—something other about him now. His skin was pale, his features hollow. He was no longer the man Neelav had known. He was a part of this place, a remnant of the past, forever trapped in the limbo between life and death.
“Father…” Neelav whispered, his voice hoarse, as though speaking through water.
Rajiv’s lips moved, but no sound came. Instead, his expression softened, and he raised a hand, gesturing toward the vast expanse that surrounded them. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, as though he were trapped in a dream from which he could not escape.
Neelav took a step forward, his feet moving on their own, as if guided by an unseen force. “What is this place? What have I done? Why did you—?”
Rajiv’s figure flickered like a candle flame in the wind, and then the air around Neelav seemed to shift, as though the reality itself was warping, bending to something far older than his understanding. A new voice entered the space—one that was both familiar and terrifying.
“A door, Neelav,” the voice echoed. “A door opened by your blood, your lineage. A door to what you would call the beyond. But it is not what you think. It is not a place of peace, of rest. It is a place of endless becoming.”
The voice was deep, ancient, and unsettlingly calm. Neelav turned toward it, his eyes searching the shifting shadows. There, standing in the darkness, was Aadesh, his eyes glowing with an unnatural light. He wasn’t just a man anymore; he was a force—a creature that had transcended the boundaries of humanity.
“You,” Neelav said, his voice shaking with fury and confusion. “You did this. You brought me here.”
Aadesh smiled, his face now completely devoid of humanity. He was something else entirely—something made of the same darkness that surrounded them. “I didn’t bring you here, Neelav. You brought yourself. You’ve always been destined for this. We are the same, you and I. We were both chosen. Your father knew that. He gave his life so that you could become a part of this… a part of what comes after death.”
Neelav felt his pulse quicken. He didn’t understand—he couldn’t. This wasn’t his destiny. This wasn’t who he was.
“You think you can stop it?” Aadesh’s voice was mocking now, full of dark amusement. “You think you can escape the ritual? The bloodline? There is no escape, Neelav. The door is open, and the past cannot be undone.”
The coldness in Aadesh’s words settled in Neelav’s chest like ice. He knew, now, that this wasn’t about revenge. This wasn’t just about Aadesh or his father. This was about something much older—something that had been building for centuries. The ritual had always been meant to transcend time, to erase the boundaries between the living and the dead. But now, the line had been blurred so much that it was impossible to tell which was which.
Suddenly, Neelav felt his heart stop. The world around him seemed to fracture, and his body felt weightless. He looked down at his hands—his skin was fading, becoming translucent. He wasn’t sure if it was his vision failing him or if something deeper was happening. But he could feel it, the truth seeping through the cracks of his understanding.
He was dying.
“Father! Please!” Neelav cried out, his voice breaking. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to be a part of this!”
But Rajiv, though he moved his lips, offered no answer. His eyes, though full of sorrow, gave Neelav no comfort. The truth was inescapable. He was here to complete the ritual, to become what the cult had tried to create—the bridge between the living and the dead. And once he crossed that line, there would be no returning.
“Your fate was sealed the moment you walked into that mansion,” Aadesh said softly, as though Neelav were a child who had finally understood the game. “Now you will understand what it means to transcend the limits of mortality. You will see the truth. You will become part of this place, where time no longer binds us, where death holds no dominion.”
Neelav’s body trembled, not from cold, but from a deeper terror—the terror of being erased, of becoming nothing more than an echo. As the void around him swirled, the final truth hit him like a tidal wave: there was no escape from this. He was already a part of it. The ritual had claimed him. His bloodline had sealed his fate, and the door he had walked through was no longer just a passage—it was the threshold to a new existence.
A new eternity.
As the world around him began to dissolve, Neelav realized that he had crossed the line between life and death, and there was no turning back. He had joined them. He had become part of the darkness.
And as the shadows closed in around him, Neelav knew, with terrible clarity, that the door was now fully open.
The ritual was complete.
End
