Anika Desai
The road to the plantation was a winding ribbon of crumbling tar, carved into the steep, green hillsides of the Nilgiris. The ancient forest loomed on either side: gnarled oaks, eucalyptus, and tall blue gums tangled in vines. The fog rolled in thick as milk, seeping through the trees like a living thing.
Sanjay Dutta pulled his car to a halt outside the weathered gates of the estate. His wife, Ananya, was dozing beside him, one hand resting protectively on their daughter Meera’s head. The child was only eight, and she stirred as the engine ticked into silence.
“Are we here, Papa?” Meera asked sleepily.
“Yes, sweetheart.” Sanjay exhaled. The sign above the gate was nearly hidden by creeping ivy: Whispering Glen Plantation. Even in the mist, he could see the letters were cracked and worn.
Ananya sat up, blinking. “It looks…old,” she said.
“It’s been in the family for generations,” Sanjay reminded her. “Ever since my great-great-grandfather came here during the British days.”
“But why us? Why now?” Ananya’s voice was soft, but there was an edge of unease.
Sanjay shrugged. “Uncle Dev died without children. We’re the last of the Duttas. It’s ours now.”
They stepped out of the car. The air smelled of damp earth and eucalyptus oil. The caretaker—a stooped man named Raju—met them at the steps of the main house. His face was lined like the bark of the ancient trees.
“Welcome, saab,” he said. “It’s good to have the family back.”
The main house was a relic of colonial architecture: tall windows, a broad veranda, and a roof sagging under the weight of decades. Inside, the corridors were lined with dark wood paneling, portraits of stern-faced ancestors glaring down from heavy frames.
“Electricity is patchy,” Raju warned. “Sometimes the fog plays tricks on the wires.”
Sanjay nodded. “We’ll manage.” But the fog had already begun to curl through the open windows, as if testing the house’s defenses.
That first night, Sanjay lay awake in the master bedroom, listening to the wind sighing in the trees. Ananya slept beside him, her breathing slow and even, but he could not find rest. The fog outside pressed against the glass like a living thing, wrapping the house in a suffocating blanket.
Then came the voices.
Faint at first—like wind through leaves—but growing louder: whispers in English and Tamil, layered and overlapping, impossible to distinguish. He tried to convince himself it was only the old house settling, the wind playing tricks. But the voices seemed to carry meaning, though he could not understand them.
He rose quietly, careful not to wake Ananya, and walked the hallway. Shadows pooled in the corners. A cold draft wafted from a half-open door.
It led to his great-great-grandfather’s study, a relic from the days when the British ruled these hills. The smell of old books and mothballs struck him as he entered. The study’s desk was cluttered with papers yellowed by time.
A ledger lay open, its ink faded to brown. September 12th, 1856. The entry was in an elegant hand:
“A matter of utmost secrecy has arisen regarding the estate. The workers are restless, and rumors spread among them like disease. Tonight, I met with Dr. Carmichael and the others. We must act before the fog brings madness.”
Sanjay felt a chill down his spine. He turned the page, but the rest of the ledger had been torn out, leaving only jagged edges.
Behind him, the whispering rose—insistent now, as if a crowd pressed close.
Fog brings madness.
He spun around, but the study was empty. Only the mist outside seemed to have thickened, pressing at the windows like grasping hands.
The next morning, Sanjay shared his discovery with Ananya over a thin breakfast of toast and coffee. The fog had not lifted, and the light in the kitchen was cold and gray.
“Rumors among the workers?” Ananya repeated. “What kind of rumors?”
“I don’t know,” Sanjay admitted. “But I think it has to do with the voices I heard last night.”
Ananya frowned. “Voices?”
“It sounds insane, I know. But I heard them—English, Tamil, overlapping. They were talking about the fog bringing madness.”
Ananya shivered. “This place is giving me chills.”
Raju appeared at the kitchen door, hat in hand. “Sahib,” he said softly, “it is the fog season. The old people say the hills remember things that happened long ago. Sometimes…the dead speak.”
“The dead?” Sanjay repeated.
Raju nodded gravely. “There is an old story,” he said. “When the British owned the plantation, there was a rebellion. A group of workers accused the master of cheating them. He refused to pay fair wages, and he forced them to work in the mist at night.”
Sanjay leaned forward. “And?”
“They say the master lured the ringleader—a man named Sivaraman—into the fog and killed him. Threw his body into the ravine. The others disappeared, too. Some say he killed them all. Some say he made a pact with the fog itself.” Raju crossed himself in the local style. “Ever since, when the fog comes, the dead whisper.”
Ananya’s face had gone pale. “Is that why the estate is called ‘Whispering Glen’?”
Raju nodded. “Yes, memsahib. Because of the voices.”
Sanjay stared into his coffee. The legend gnawed at his mind. Betrayal. Murder. Secrets buried in the mist.
That night, the fog came thicker than before, pressing against the windows like a living wall. Meera had gone to bed early, exhausted from the day’s explorations. Sanjay and Ananya sat by the fireplace, trying to chase away the chill.
Suddenly, a soft knock came at the study door.
Ananya jumped. “Who could that be?”
“It’s just the wind,” Sanjay said, but he wasn’t certain. He stood, heart pounding, and opened the door.
No one stood there. Only the fog drifting in through a crack in the window. But then he noticed something—an old brass handle set into the wall near the fireplace, half-hidden by a tattered curtain.
“Did you see this before?” he asked Ananya.
She shook her head. “No.”
He grasped the handle and pulled. The wall creaked, and a panel swung open. A narrow staircase wound down into darkness.
“Should we…?” Ananya began.
“We have to,” Sanjay said. “If there’s something down there, I need to know.”
They descended slowly, the steps groaning beneath their weight. At the bottom, the air was damp and cold, and the smell of earth was overpowering.
Sanjay switched on his phone’s flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom. They found themselves in a small, stone-walled chamber. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with rusted tools, oil lamps, and yellowed papers.
On a table lay a metal box. Sanjay opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside were letters, tied with a red ribbon. He unfolded one, the ink faded but legible:
“To Dr. Carmichael—
I have taken care of the matter. Sivaraman will trouble us no more. The others fled or perished in the fog. This land is ours now—forever, if the pact holds.”
Sanjay felt sick. “My ancestor…he killed them.”
Ananya’s voice shook. “A pact with the fog? What does that mean?”
Before Sanjay could answer, the whispering rose around them again, louder than ever. The voices spoke in tongues he couldn’t decipher—anguished, angry, accusing. The air grew colder. A shape moved in the darkness—a tall figure with hollow eyes.
“RUN!” Sanjay screamed.
They fled up the stairs, the fog clawing at their heels.
They bolted the hidden door behind them and collapsed by the fireplace, gasping.
“We have to get Meera and leave,” Ananya said. “This place is cursed.”
But before they could move, Meera came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. “Papa?” she said. “Who are the people in my room?”
Sanjay froze. “What people, sweetheart?”
“The ones who are sad. They’re crying in the fog. They said they can’t leave until you listen.”
Ananya clutched Meera’s hand. “There’s no one there,” she said firmly.
But Sanjay knew better. The guilt of his ancestor’s sins had seeped into the bones of the house—and now the dead demanded justice.
He rose and went to Meera’s room. The fog had drifted inside, thick as smoke. Shadows formed in the corners—faces etched with grief and rage.
“Tell me what you want,” Sanjay said, his voice shaking. “What do I have to do to set you free?”
A voice—clearer than the rest—rose above the chorus. It was a woman’s voice, sad and accusing.
“Confess the murder. Tell the world what was done to us.”
The fog swirled, revealing the faint outline of a man in tattered clothes—Sivaraman. His eyes glowed like embers. “Acknowledge your blood’s guilt. Only then can we rest.”
Sanjay’s knees gave way. “I—I confess,” he whispered. “My ancestor murdered you. He cheated you and killed you. I acknowledge his crime. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The fog trembled. The voices rose in a final, thunderous cry—and then, like a wave receding, the fog withdrew. The room was suddenly clear. Meera blinked in confusion.
“Papa? Where did the people go?”
“They’re free now,” Sanjay said softly, tears in his eyes. “They’re free.”
The next morning, the sun rose over the Nilgiris, painting the hills gold and green. The fog had lifted, revealing the plantation in its full, tragic beauty. The tea bushes glistened with dew.
Raju met them at the steps. “Sahib,” he said, smiling faintly. “The fog has gone.”
“Yes,” Sanjay said. “And the voices too.”
Raju nodded. “The dead have found their peace.”
Sanjay looked out over the fields, his heart heavy but lighter than it had been in days. The sins of the past had been acknowledged. The cycle of silence was broken.
“Come on,” he said to Ananya and Meera. “Let’s go home.”
They left the house behind, but as they drove down the winding road, Sanjay glanced back once. The plantation stood in the sun, the mist finally lifted.
And though the ghosts had departed, he knew their stories would live on in the hills of the Nilgiris—forever a reminder that the fog remembers.
THE END
