I parked my car at the pavement infront of Anant Vraj and entered in. Narodji stood beside the desk, his hands shaking. He knew I was seeking answers now and something about his body language screamed of fear. A fear of something so powerful and omnipresent that nothing could escape its sight. No whisper could go unheard. It was as if the entire town was merely breathing at the mercy of this grotesque being.

  “ Where is she?” I asked him. He started looking around as if to divert my attention away from his fear-stricken eyes. I kept my accusatory gaze intact trying to force an answer out of him.

  “Now don’t harass the poor old man Divyansh. It doesn’t befit a wise man like yourself.” I heard her voice from behind. “I’m sure we can have a conversation and sort this out like adults” Anashya’s voice curled from behind, smooth as velvet but with a barb tucked in its folds. She was wearing a long, slate-gray kaftan with a subtle sheen, its loose silhouette flowing like a shadow,

  I turned, a sly grin curling my lips, my stance loose and easy, as if we were merely resuming one of our late-night chats. “Anashya, ever the beacon of civility,” I said, lacing my tone with playful warmth, a nod to our earlier banter. “You’re right, no need to unsettle Narodji. I’m just a tired wanderer, fresh from Leh’s finest interrogation room—quite the local charm.” I chuckled, drifting toward the drawing room, hands tucked casually in my pockets. “How about we dust off that old vintage again? Your wit’s the only thing sharp enough to slice through the haze of this day.”

  Her green eyes gleamed with a cautious spark, but she indulged me, gesturing toward the wine cabinet with a faint, guarded smile. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, the words carrying a flicker of amusement. “One drink, but don’t expect me to unravel your riddles.”

  I trailed her, my demeanor light, as if we were just trading idle gossip. “Wouldn’t dare,” I said, picking up a glass, twirling it absently, catching the chandelier’s glow. “Must be a tightrope, though, keeping this place breathing with all its… echoes. The whispers that cling to the walls, the shadows that linger. That whole tragedy with Esha Mehta.” I let her name fall softly, like ash settling on snow, my voice still breezy, but my eyes darted to hers, probing for a fracture.

  Anashya’s fingers hesitated—a mere breath—before grasping the bottle, a subtle tremor betraying her poise. “Ancient history, Divyansh,” she said, her voice a polished surface, reflecting nothing. “Best left undisturbed.”

  “Undisturbed, sure,” I nodded, leaning back, swirling my glass as if lost in a stray thought. “Strange how some ghosts refuse to sleep. Like that odd little book I picked up at the market. Worthless, probably, but it’s got everyone acting like I’ve smuggled a storm in my bag.” I gave a mock laugh, feigning curiosity. “Narodji looked ready to bolt when I mentioned it. And you—last night, your eyes did this funny dance when I pulled it out. What’s the deal? Just a moldy relic, or am I holding something that bites?”

  Her grip on the bottle tightened, the glass creaking faintly under her fingers. She poured with practiced grace, sliding my glass across the table, her smile a touch too taut. “You’re chasing shadows,” she said, dismissing it with a wave. “Some vendor’s idea of a cheap trick.”

  I sipped the wine, nodding slowly, then leaned forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, like we were swapping secrets. “Maybe. But I’ve got this habit of noticing threads. Like how this place seems to knot itself around every strange twist in Leh. Esha’s final hours. That thud I heard at 3:30 AM, right when some girl’s life unraveled. And that book, just… finding its way to me.” I tilted my head, eyes locked on hers, my tone still playful but edged with something sharper. “Feels like someone—or something—is weaving a pattern, and I’m just tripping over the stitches.”

  Anashya’s smile held, but her free hand drifted to her sleeve, fingers brushing the fabric over her hidden wound, a fleeting, almost instinctive check. She caught herself, lifting her glass for a measured sip, but the gesture lingered—a quiet confession cloaked in elegance. “Patterns, Divyansh,” she said, her voice too deliberate, like a door bolted shut. “You’ve stared into the dark so long, you see shapes where there’s only dust.”

  I leaned back, my grin sharpening, eyes pinning her like a moth to a board. “Or maybe I’m just starting to trace the lines someone’s trying to erase.” I let the words settle, watching her fingers twitch again toward her sleeve, a subtle slip that whispered of secrets she hadn’t meant to stir.

  Then, I shifted gears, my voice softening, almost wistful, as if retreating from the chase. “You know, I’ve seen things—bones that whisper, places that hold grudges. But nothing like this town. It’s like the air here hums with something… unfinished.” I paused, setting my glass down with a faint clink, my gaze drifting to the window, then back to her. “Take that boy in Jammu, years back. Hanged himself, they said, but the ground told a different story—etched with symbols, like a stage set for something older than sin. Then Esha, here, under this very roof, her last moments choreographed like some grim ballet. And now this girl, Preetika, strangling herself at the exact moment I hear a book hit the floor.” I leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper, eyes boring into hers. “And my fingerprints, Anashya, on her neck. Like I was invited to the dance without stepping foot in the room. Tell me, does that sound like dust to you, or something stitching itself together in the dark?”

  Anashya’s eyes narrowed, her composure a polished mask, but a shadow flickered across her face—something ancient, wary, like a deer catching the scent of a predator. She set her glass down, the faintest tremor in her wrist, and leaned back, crossing her arms as if to anchor herself. “You weave a vivid tale, Divyansh,” she said, her voice a low, measured cadence, each word chosen with care. “But you’re stitching scraps into a quilt that doesn’t exist. Esha’s tragedy was a wound this place still carries, yes. I was there, and I’ve borne the questions ever since. The girl today? A sad coincidence. As for your book, perhaps it’s just a mirror, reflecting your need to find meaning in chaos.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Her words were smooth, but her fingers, now resting on her arm, pressed lightly against the sleeve, as if shielding the wound beneath—or something more. The gesture was fleeting, but it was enough—a crack in her facade, a silent admission that the book, the deaths, the shadows, were more than she let on.

  “ You were with Esha on her last day “ I asked.

  “She was staying here so I think that’s a given”

  “Then tell me how does a perfectly normal girl with no history of any sort of erratic behavior end up mutilated in the middle of nowhere amongst the remnants of some strange ritual relic”

  Anashya gave me a frown then squinted

  “You better not be suggesting that ….”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, I am just showing you an array of dots and hoping that you could connect them for me” I said.

  Anashya gave me one exhausted and fed up look then sipped her drink quickly and began to walk towards the kitchen. I followed her as I said

  “Why did you try to destroy the book last night?” that was the final nail in the coffin. Anashya turned around and said in a deep femme fatale voice “We have been nothing but gracious hosts to you and its rather ungrateful and inconsiderate of you to be hurling baseless accusations at me after what we’ve been through over the years and what we’ve done for you despite your entanglements with the law.”

  “Wow, it was sure easier to break Randhir than you” I said. At this point I knew I had her rattled. “He surely had a lot of questions to ask but was probably a little shy of his ex”

  Anashya gave a puzzled look and said “That’s why he is my ex. Just like you he couldn’t stop imagining black ponies in thin air”

  I wasn’t able to break past the wall she had that was hiding the secrets of two murders. There was definitely a higher power at play here and it was apparently watching everything. Anashya had witnessed it but it wasn’t clear whether she was a serving party or maybe a really talented criminal. Either way it was high time that I unearthed the truth because there were going to be other targets as well. At the same time I didn’t want to send Anashya even more deeper into her shell.

  “You really don’t know anything about this do you” I said trying to hint at the fact that I was convinced.

  “I’m afraid I cannot give you the answers you were hoping to hear.” She said. She was not convinced.

  “ Very well, I guess I’ll just be glad that it doesn’t involve me anymore.” I walked away in my room as I said that leaving Anashya to ponder.

  “ TAKE CARE OF THAT WOUND ANASHYA” I said in a higher volume as I climbed the staircase. Dead silence. I was hoping she would do something that would open room for an error, a slip that would ultimately lead to the truth.

  As I looked back at Anashya, I could feel my sympathy for her fade away. She knew that I had figured out what happened that night yet she wouldn’t be honest with me. I entered my room, shut the door, placed my bag on the chair next to the window and lay on my bed. As it began to get duskier, my brain started to get weary. So much information to process. Yet no answers whatsoever.

  As I dozed off, I planned on leaving this entire charade for later. Tensions had risen in the guesthouse and I knew I had trespassed into a region where I did not belong. Why was I nagging Randhir to let me in on this investigation? Why did Anashya’s quick wit and closed attitude all of a sudden bother me? Why did all of this matter suddenly? I ought to do what any other tourist would. Roam around click a few pics upload them on social media, not that I used any. I would rather have a ghost tail me than a Harvard dropout technocrat in a hoodie.

  I was so deep in my slumber that I didn’t notice that the book was in my room kept on the side table of the bed. I had kept it on the side cabinet next to the fireplace. Maybe Narodji kept it back.

  I woke up when I heard a few chattering voices coming from downstairs. It sounded like people talking. Anashya’s voice and three others, two women and a man. I stepped out of the bed and opened the door of my room. The voices kept getting clearer as if they were coming right there. Then the four of them appeared. Anashya looked at me, she had her “ pleased to meet you” face on. One of the women was tall, had dark complexion and straight black hair that reached her legs. She had a suave and confident appearance and displayed by the brown blazer with huge buttons, the gold watch and her boots. The other woman was the opposite. Short, frail looking with a hideously disfigured face.

  “ Divyansh, meet our new guests. Sharon, Chelsea and Daniel. They’re from Mumbai, came here for a week long escape.” Said Anashya with an excited voice. “ Maybe from the traffic and humidity” The tall woman said and gave a heavy laughter.

  The man was bald, had a bulky physique and was wearing a sweater that couldn’t hide his juiced up muscles.

  “ Glad to see the business booming” I muttered. As Anashya showed them their rooms and came out, I asked her “ Was the short one in some accident?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Anashya with a confused and annoyed look.

  “ Sorry to insensitive, I just noticed the damage on her face, the scars and all.”

  “What scars?” she asked. “ She probably has smoother skin than I do”

  “You’re joking right?” I said, puzzled.

  “You need to stop these strange antics. I won’t have you being a nuisance to my other guests. Finally I’ve got this place running and I would like to keep it that way” saying that she walked away. Narodji appeared from where she was leaving carrying fresh sheets. I gestured him to come to me and asked “ The shorter woman , you saw the scars and disfigurements on her face, did she mention how that happened?”

  “What are you talking about sir? She’s so beautiful that she could win a Miss India Pageant” he said as puzzled as Anashya. “Let me set the room for our guests. Dinner will be served at 9” he said and walked away leaving me in a complete state of confusion. I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I knew what I saw. The woman was nowhere near pretty but these two were adamant on her supposed beauty. Was this some sick joke? Or an attempt to be empathetic. Atleast they could pretend. Worst case scenario, either I was seeing something they couldn’t see or the other way around. Who were these people? Were they involved in the malice that had been creeping its way? It almost seemed that everytime I came close to an answer,an altogether new question came into being.

  I stood alone in the hallway, the laughter downstairs growing softer—like a tape winding backward. And in the quiet that followed, the book on my nightstand exhaled, as if it had been listening all along. hey saw beauty where I saw ruin. And as the lights flickered once—just once—I realized I was no longer the only one watching.

  “They saw beauty where I saw ruin.”

  Chelsea, whose grotesque face is visible only to Divyansh—marks a pivotal shift. The horror is no longer atmospheric. It’s personal. It’s observable. It’s in the room.

  ontological isolation—he’s not just being gaslit by others, he’s being gaslit by reality itself. The truth he’s carrying is not only unbelievable, it’s incompatible with the consensus. Which means the more he sees, the more alone he becomes.

  exhaling. That breath isn’t a metaphor. It’s a promise. Something is awakening through it—or perhaps watching through it. Whether it’s the Crimson Widow, or the lingering psychic residue of past rituals, or a sentient pattern forming within the structure of Anant Vraj itself, the outcome is the same: Divyansh is no longer an outsider.

  connected too many dots. And when you start to trace a shape that shouldn't exist, eventually the shape begins to trace you back.

  ritual echoes, summoned to serve some hidden rite. The scars on Chelsea’s face aren’t just deformities. They’re glyphs in flesh, reminders that beauty in this place is a mask worn by monsters. And monsters smile, not out of kindness, but to keep you from hearing what the dark is whispering beneath their skin.

  laughs.

  surviving the question.