February 17, 1959
In the misty heart of Arunachal Pradesh, between the sweeping emerald valleys of Dibang, stood an old mansion built by the British. Its stone walls rose grandly against the hills, worn and darkened by the passage of time. Vines climbed up the mansion's sides, clinging to its rough stone like secrets refusing to be forgotten. Ivy framed the narrow windows, casting flickering shadows that danced with the slightest breeze, as if the mansion itself were breathing.
The mansion was vast, sprawling over the misty hillside, and each room was heavy with the silence of memories and secrets, the very air thick with something unspoken. Massive oak doors guarded each entrance, carved with faded patterns, worn smooth by the touch of countless hands over the years. Inside, the narrow halls twisted and turned, leading to rooms filled with relics of a distant past—a grand piano in the parlor, its keys yellowed and chipped; old hunting trophies on the walls, eyes staring blankly from another lifetime; and heavy, intricate chandeliers that hung from the ceilings like forgotten guardians.
The grand hall was the heart of the mansion, a place where history seemed to have settled like dust in the corners. It was decorated with relics of an era when the British ruled these lands: two crossed barrel guns mounted on the wall, polished but unused; swords in ornate scabbards; and black-and-white photographs of a family from another time, faces solemn and shadows pooling in their eyes. Against one wall stood a tall grandfather clock, its ticking echoing in the stillness, as if counting down to something that no one could quite name.
On a large, black leather couch sat Vivek, the master of the house. He was nearly forty, his features sharp and handsome, though hardened by the weight of his responsibilities. Dressed in a black suit, Vivek leaned back with an air of distant elegance, his gaze fixed on the curling smoke of the cigarette he held between his fingers. His eyes were thoughtful, his mind perhaps as dark and labyrinthine as the mansion itself. He looked both at ease and deeply haunted, a man caught between past and present, surrounded by the silent witness of his ancestors.
He seemed unaware of Rohila Bai, the housekeeper, as she moved quietly past him. Her presence was a whisper, as if she herself were a ghost within these walls. Rohila Bai had served this family for decades, her frail frame bending slightly from years of toil. Yet her sharp eyes missed nothing, observing with a calm wisdom that only came from long years and many stories. Her every step was purposeful, her every action deliberate, and she knew each creak and whisper of the mansion better than anyone else.
Today, however, there was a different energy to her movements. The weather was dark and foreboding, the sky shrouded in thick, gray clouds that threatened rain and cast an eerie half-light over the valley. A chill lingered in the air, penetrating even the thick stone walls, as if the mansion itself could sense the tension of something unseen. Rohila Bai directed the servants with a quiet but firm hand, overseeing every detail with care, for they were preparing for an important guest.
As she crossed the hall, she passed Sumitra, the lady of the house, draped elegantly in a deep red saree, a few pieces of gold jewelry glinting softly in the dim light. Sumitra was a vision of grace and beauty, yet her expression betrayed a subtle worry, a hint of unease that lingered in her gaze. Her lips pressed into a thoughtful line as she looked at Rohila Bai.
"Rohila Bai," she murmured, her voice low but clear. "Have you finished preparing the guest room? Mr. Roy should be here soon."
Rohila Bai nodded, dipping her head respectfully. "Ji, Malkin. The room is ready, though I still need to fix the curtains."
Sumitra's eyes drifted to the windows, where dark clouds cast an eerie light over the valley. "Make sure the children are inside," she said, almost absently. "I don't want them out there… not with the weather like this."
"Of course, Malkin," Rohila Bai replied, inclining her head. She knew what Sumitra meant. The air carried a strange weight today, a quiet threat that only those who'd lived in the valley for years could feel. She had sensed it too, a quiet chill that seemed to seep through walls, settling in her bones.
She turned and continued down the winding corridors, the familiar creaks of the floorboards and the quiet murmur of servants drifting from nearby rooms.
*
The garden was vast and wild, with beds of flowers that spilled over in a riot of colors, muted now under the overcast sky. Fountains murmured in the distance, their waters reflecting the gray light, while the trees stood tall and silent, their branches reaching toward the clouds as though yearning for something out of reach.
In a corner of the garden, Vijay, the younger of the two children, chased a squirrel around a patch of jasmine. His laughter broke the silence, a bright note of innocence in the otherwise subdued landscape. The gardeners, meanwhile, huddled nearby, their voices a low murmur, occasionally casting nervous glances toward the line of trees that marked the edge of the property.
"Back to your work," Rohila Bai chided softly, and the men fell silent, bending back to their tasks.
"Vijay," Rohila Bai called, her voice both gentle and firm. The boy looked up, momentarily pausing his game with a hint of mischief still lighting his eyes.
"Come inside," she said, her voice calm but unyielding.
He hesitated, glancing at the squirrel as if debating whether to chase it one last time. But her gaze was unwavering, and he relented, trotting over to her with a slight pout.
"Where's your sister?" she asked, casting her eyes over the expanse of the garden.
Vijay pointed toward an ancient oak near the edge of the grounds, where Mahima, his older sister, sat reading a book, lost in her own world. The sixteen-year-old was quiet and contemplative, drawn to stories and secrets, to shadows and mysteries that most people overlooked.
Rohila Bai called out to her, and after a reluctant moment, Mahima looked up, her expression a mixture of mild annoyance and curiosity. She closed her book with a soft sigh, rising to her feet with the poise of someone beyond her years.
"It's peaceful here, Amma," Mahima murmured, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet rebellion. "The air feels… alive."
Rohila Bai gave her a small, knowing smile, though her tone remained firm. "Your mother wants you inside." She reached down and gently took Mahima's hand, pulling her up with a firmness that allowed no room for protest.
Together, the three of them made their way back to the house. As they passed the gardeners, who were busy near a fountain, Rohila Bai cast them a stern look. She could see them muttering to each other in hushed tones.
*
The children's room was cozy, filled with bookshelves, old stuffed animals, and traditional wooden toys. Each bed was adorned with sheer, pale curtains that drifted in the drafty air.
Vijay clambered onto his bed, a small smile tugging at his lips, but it quickly faded. "Amma…" he began, his voice hushed. "What happened to Hira?"
Rohila Bai stilled, her face darkening. Hira had been one of the mansion's most loyal servants, until he was found… or rather, what was left of him, deep in the forest. She looked away, hoping to dismiss the question, but Mahima spoke up before she could say anything.
"They found him dead, didn't they? Near the forest." Mahima asked, her voice steady and fearless.
"Enough of that," Rohila Bai said, her voice sharp but not unkind, her eyes flicking to Vijay, who had pulled his blanket up to his chin, his face pale.
But Mahima, ever curious, looked at Rohila Bai intently. "Why, Amma? Why is everyone so afraid of the forest? What is it that lurks there?"
Rohila Bai hesitated, her gaze softening as she looked from Mahima's determined face to Vijay's wide, frightened eyes. These were the children she had watched grow, their innocent hearts untouched by the darkness that gripped these lands. She wanted to protect them, to keep them from the stories that haunted the valley.
"It's nothing for young ears to hear," she said quietly.
"Please, Amma," Mahima whispered, her voice a soft, urgent plea. "Just one story. Tell us why people say there are… shadows in the forest."
Vijay, too, looked up, though fear was evident in his eyes. He gripped his blanket, his knuckles white, yet his gaze held a quiet trust, with a sigh, Rohila Bai settled herself at the foot of Mahima's bed. She looked at the children, her voice lowered to a whisper. "But not a word to Malik or Malkin, you understand?"
They nodded, faces filled with eager anticipation. Rohila Bai glanced around, as if the walls themselves were listening, before beginning her tale.
"There was a time, many years ago, before the mansion, when these valleys belonged only to the forest. And in that forest… lies a place no one dares tread. It is hidden from sight, lost among the trees. They say that at dusk, a golden light glows within the depths, as beautiful as it is deadly."
The children listened, wide-eyed, as she continued.
"It's said that if you follow that light, it will lead you deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest, until you can no longer find your way back. And as you walk, you begin to hear music… a haunting tune, sweeter than anything you've ever heard. People are drawn in, unable to resist, until… they are lost forever."
Vijay clutched his blanket tighter. "Why can't they leave, Amma?"
"Because it doesn't want them to," Rohila Bai whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's a place that loves its guests. Those who try to leave… only make it angry. And to calm it, to let someone go…" Her voice trailed off, leaving a chilling silence.
Mahima's voice, soft but bold, broke the quiet. "Then why do people still go? Why not leave the forest alone?"
Rohila Bai looked at her with a sadness that ran deep. "Some are drawn to it… as if it calls to them. They say it whispers their names, tempts them with what they long for most. But once they're there, they belong to it, and there is no escape."
The room fell silent, heavy with the weight of her words. Mahima glanced down at the book in her lap, her expression troubled yet thoughtful. But Vijay's face had gone pale, his small hands clinging tightly to the blanket.
After a beat of silence, Mahima looked up, her voice insistent. "But Amma… tell us the whole story. Please."
Rohila Bai hesitated, her gaze softening as she looked into the children's expectant faces. She took a deep breath, then began to speak, her voice lowering to a soft murmur.
"So…" she whispered, her eyes distant as the memory of that place seemed to grip her heart.