Shabana and Abhishek were both established writers, well-known for their delicate summer romances that had won the hearts of many. But now, their publisher demanded something entirely different — a book that would grip readers with bone-chilling thrills and a dark romance unlike anything they had done before. Searching for inspiration, they both agreed to escape the bustling city and rented an isolated bungalow near the ocean, far from Bangalore’s neon lights and clamor.
The agent who handed them the keys warned them in hushed tones: "No one’s lived here for a long time. It’s… eerie. There was a woman who vanished suddenly, leaving everything behind. We cleared the house, but the air still feels heavy." Shabana and Abhishek exchanged skeptical glances but shrugged off the warnings. They wanted to breathe life into their new novel, and this solitude was perfect.
Days melted into weeks as they debated the plot, character arcs, and setting, weaving suspense and tension into their outline. One evening, Abhishek, unable to resist the lure of cricket, announced, “Let’s take a break. IPL match — Delhi Capitals versus Punjab Kings.” Shabana closed her laptop reluctantly, and they settled to watch the game.
As rain lashed the windows, the flickering TV displayed an 8-year-old girl. “I want to hug Kuldeep Yadav,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. The absurdity of a child crushing on a middle-aged cricketer made Shabana and Abhishek chuckle. But then, the power suddenly cut off, plunging the room into darkness, save for the booming thunder outside. They switched off the TV and retreated to bed.
Morning came with an inexplicable headache for both, as if unseen hands had pressed mercilessly against their foreheads. Shabana shuffled into the dusty kitchen, only to find cupboards bare—no tea, no milk, no spices. She groaned, nudging the still-sleeping Abhishek to venture out and fetch groceries.
Stepping outside, the glaring sun seared her eyes, and a cruel oddity gripped her: the earth was bone dry. The storm from the night before had vanished, leaving no trace—no wet roads, no puddles, not a leaf disturbed by rain. At the market, local faces greeted her with bemused smiles. “No rain here,” one man chuckled. “Summer lasts long in these parts. Why would it rain?”
The absurdity gnawed at her as she returned along the parched shoreline. Suddenly, a haunting figure caught her eye—standing at the boundary where sand met sea. A girl in a white dress mottled with red, blood trailing down her legs, gazing sorrowfully at the endless waves. A fragile whisper floated just for Shabana’s ears: “What have I done?”
Fear rooted her in place. Her gaze flicked away, catching Abhishek, just emerging from the bungalow, shirtless and disoriented. “Why are you staring at the ocean like it’s speaking to you?” he teased. She hesitated, recounting the vision, but he laughed, dismissing it as a trick of the mind.
As days passed, their professional discussions tangled with personal feelings, and an unexpected romance bloomed. Yet the agent’s words haunted them: “No romance. Just pure thriller.” Still, the eerie occurrences multiplied. Strange figures appearing in peripheral shadows, birds falling lifelessly near the house, blood seeping inexplicably across walls, and an ancient tree crashing down with a terrifying crack mere inches from their heads.
One night, distant footsteps echoed on creaking floors, the sky bled a deep crimson, and an old woman seemed to appear at the edge of vision — a silent sentinel of the house’s dark secrets.
Abhishek’s skepticism gave way to dread. They were caught in a sinister spiral, their fictional narrative bleeding into reality. Shabana, obsessed, penned the girl’s story — unknowingly unlocking a nightmare.
Desperate, they sought an astrologer. His face grim as he revealed the tale of an 8-year-old spirit, once a neglected child of two cruel literary agents who had ignored her cries until madness consumed her. She had murdered her parents, burning them alive in this very house. Now, trapped between worlds, she claimed the bungalow, punishing intruders with relentless torment, jealous of Shabana’s freedom to live.
“The blood you tasted, the sickness — it’s only the beginning,” the astrologer warned. “Leaving won’t save you. She’s attached now. Jealous and vengeful.”
As they hurried to pack, the earth shuddered violently. Shabana faltered, dropping her bag — possessed, her body convulsed in agony as the spirit took control. Abhishek recoiled, desperate to flee, but the doors locked tight. Flames burst forth, swallowing the house in hellish light. Shabana screamed, the ghost’s cruel laughter mingling with her cries.
Frantic, Abhishek grabbed the manuscript, tossing it into the fire. Slowly, the blaze died, and Shabana collapsed, unconscious on the scorched floor.
Abhishek’s heart thundered wildly in his chest as he tore away from the burning house, the acrid scent of smoke and ash clawing at his lungs. The flames had swallowed the bungalow whole, its wooden bones crackling in a deafening roar that echoed through the still night. Yet even as he fled, a dreadful certainty settled deep inside him — this was not over.
The road ahead stretched endlessly into darkness, flanked by gnarled trees whose twisted branches seemed to reach for him like grasping fingers. His headlights pierced the black veil, illuminating only the empty pavement, but something in the periphery of his vision made him jerk the wheel.
There, in the middle of the road, stood the girl — the same ghostly child he and Shabana had glimpsed near the shore. Her white dress, stained with old blood, fluttered despite the absence of wind, and the doll she clutched was torn, a single red ribbon trailing behind her like a sinister banner.
Time seemed to slow as Abhishek slammed on the brakes, the tires screaming in protest. His heart hammered louder, each beat a desperate plea for escape. The girl’s pale eyes met his, hollow and endless, shimmering with a terrible sadness — and something else. Malice.
The car screeched to a halt just inches from her feet. The world held its breath.
Then, with a sudden flicker, she vanished — melting into the shadows as if she had never been there at all. A cold chill wrapped around Abhishek’s spine, and a whisper brushed his ear, so soft he wasn’t sure if he had imagined it: “You can’t run from me…”
Hands trembling, he reached for the door handle, needing to get as far away from that cursed place as possible. But his foot froze on the pedal. Something lay on the asphalt — the manuscript. The pages, now singed and stained with deep crimson fingerprints, fluttered weakly in the breeze.
A slow, dreadful realization dawned: the story they had penned — the story of pain, torment, and vengeance — had somehow slipped beyond the boundaries of paper and ink. It was alive. And it was hungry.
Abhishek’s breath hitched as he picked up the manuscript. The words seemed to crawl and shift beneath his fingers, the ink bleeding into shapes that no human eyes should see. From the shadows, a soft thud echoed — like a child’s footstep, light and fleeting, yet unmistakably close.
He whipped his head around, the car’s interior suddenly icy cold despite the humid night. There, pressed against the fogged window, was a faint outline of the girl’s face — pale, sorrowful, her eyes glowing with unnatural light.
The doll in her hands turned slowly toward him, its stitched smile twisting into a cruel sneer.
Abhishek’s pulse surged; the breath caught in his throat. The road behind him had dissolved into a void, no turning back now. The only way forward was through the darkness — and whatever awaited him there.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. The night closed in like a shroud, and somewhere beyond the edge of reason, the girl’s whisper returned, trailing through the trees like a promise:
"This is only the beginning..."
The engine roared to life, but the road had changed — warped, endless, twisted into a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. And in the distance, the faint glow of the burning manuscript flickered once more.
Abhishek’s eyes darted forward. The nightmare was far from over.
Abhishek stepped out of the car, his legs numb, the manuscript clutched tightly to his chest. He approached her, each step heavier than the last. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The world held its breath again.
And then — she pointed.
Not at him.
At the manuscript.
“Write,” she said softly, her voice fractured like broken glass.
Abhishek looked down at the pages. The pen — his pen — was suddenly in his hand, though he didn’t remember picking it up. The manuscript opened on its own to a blank page.
“Write how it ends,” she whispered.
His hand trembled.
The pen hovered.
And somewhere behind him, the world began to unravel. The trees moaned, the stars blinked out one by one, and the doll at the girl’s feet began to grow — stretching, twisting, transforming into something ancient and hungry.
Abhishek closed his eyes. And wrote.
He wrote in desperation. He wrote in blood.
And as the ink bled into the paper — so did he.
No one ever saw Abhishek again.
But sometimes, if the night is still and the wind shifts just right, a voice can be heard whispering through the leaves near that old coastal road. A child’s voice.
“Tell me a story…”
And if you follow it — you just might find a torn page fluttering in the dirt. Still wet. Still bleeding.
Still waiting to be finished.
