The rain clawed at the guesthouse walls like an angry beast, each gust of wind rattling the windows
as if demanding to be let in. I had come to Mussoorie to write, to escape the city, but tonight the old
wooden guesthouse felt like a trap.
The power had gone out an hour ago, leaving only the occasional flash of lightning to slice through
the darkness. I had lit a single candle, its flame quivering with every groan of the house. That s
when I heard them.
Two male voices, hushed and sharp, coming from the lounge downstairs.
We can t keep the body here much longer, one whispered.
The storm is working in our favor, the other replied, calm and cold. Tomorrow, we move it. No one
suspects a thing.
What about the girl? She saw him leave with us.
Then she s a problem we ll deal with later.
My breath hitched. My heart thudded so loudly I was sure they would hear it. A flash of lightning briefly lit
the lounge, and I saw them through the stair railing, the two men in rain-soaked coats, one gripping a
shovel streaked with mud and blood.
The stairs beneath my foot creaked.
Did you hear that? one asked sharply.
I bolted.
I stumbled back to my room, slamming the door shut and locking it, my breath ragged. My phone
was useless no signal in the storm. The candle flickered violently as though even it sensed the
danger.
A sudden knock made me jump.
Three soft taps.
I raised the heavy brass lamp from the bedside table, my only weapon.
Aanya? A girl softly whispered.
Relief crashed over me—it was Nisha, the guesthouse owner’s teenage daughter. My shaky hands yanked the door open as if clinging to the last bit of hope I had.
She stood there drenched, her hair plastered to her pale face, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Water dripped steadily from her clothes, pooling at her bare feet. Her lips trembled as she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the howl of the wind, "We need to leave. Now."
Something in her tone made my stomach twist. She didn’t just sound frightened—she sounded broken.
We slipped into the narrow service corridor, the air damp and unnaturally cold, biting at my skin like invisible claws. The wooden walls groaned with each gust of wind, as if the old house itself was warning us to run.
Nisha clutched my arm, her grip ice-cold. Her head jerked toward the lounge as if expecting someone to leap out at us at any moment.
"I heard them too," she whispered, her words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "They checked in under fake names. My father…" Her voice caught in her throat; she bit her lip hard, her entire body shaking.
"My father tried to stop them." Her voice broke into a sob. Then, almost like she was forcing herself to say it, her words spilled out in a whisper so sharp it felt like a blade slicing the silence:
"They killed him, Aanya. They killed my father." The words punched through me, leaving me frozen, breathless.
"We’re next."
My chest tightened until I could hardly breathe. "How do we get out?" I managed, my voice cracking.
"The back door’s locked," she said, her teeth chattering so hard I thought they might break. "But there’s a window… in the storage room… it leads to the garden."
Her eyes darted nervously to the end of the corridor, and for the first time, I realized she wasn’t just scared of the killers. She looked terrified of the house itself.
The storage room smelled of wet wood and something else something metallic and sharp. Blood.
I tried not to look at the dark stains on the floor as we climbed through the narrow window.
The rain hit us instantly, cold needles piercing our skin. The garden stretched out before us, wild
and overgrown. Nisha grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the back fence.
Stop them! A man s voice roared from the house.
We scrambled up the fence, slipping on the wet wood. One of the men charged across the garden,
his boots splashing through mud.
Hurry! Nisha cried.
I hauled myself up, my hands slipping on the slick wood. Nisha pushed me, and we both tumbled
down the steep hill beyond the fence, crashing through wet grass and rocks until we hit the main
road.
Headlights blinded us. A car screeched to a halt, and the driver rolled down the window, shocked.
Help us! I gasped. Call the police!
Minutes later, the police arrived. The two men were caught trying to escape.
The storm cleared by morning, but the guesthouse was cordoned off with yellow tape. I sat on a
bench, wrapped in a blanket, watching sunlight break through the mist. Nisha sat beside me, silent,
her hair still damp, staring at the house with a distant expression.
A police officer approached. You re lucky, ma am. Those men were dangerous. They killed the
owner last night. Brave man he tried to fight them off.
Nisha lowered her gaze.
The officer sighed. His daughter was brave too. Tried to protect him. Poor girl she didnt survive.
My heart stopped. What?
The officer looked at me, puzzled. Nisha Sharma. Sixteen. They found her body in the storage
room this morning.
I turned slowly to the girl beside me, but the bench was empty. The spot where she sat was wet, as
if someone had just been there. A trail of faint, muddy footprints led away, stopping abruptly a few
feet ahead.
My throat tightened. I looked toward the garden where we had climbed over the fence hours ago,
and there she was just for a moment. Nisha stood in the mist, her hair dripping, her eyes soft and
sad.
Then she was gone.
I whispered into the quiet morning, Thank you, Nisha.
A cold breeze rustled the wet grass, almost like a reply. For the first time since last night, the world
felt still.
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