(A/N): Hey guys I just noticed we have reached 200 chapter's land mark.
I have never thought I would write up to 200 chapters.
Thanks for the support!!!
Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.
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After forty minutes, the car slowed before the grand facade of The Leela Palace,
Standing tall beside the shimmering seal.
They stepped out —
The sudden cool air from the hotel's entrance washing over them as attendants rushed forward to take their bags.
Whoosh!
Jojo walked to the counter, his tone polite but clipped.
"Three rooms. Same floor. Preferably near the eastern wing."
The receptionist, a young woman with a bright smile, nodded.
Nod~
"Of course, sir. Welcome to The Leela Palace."
Moments later, keycards in hand, Jojo turned to his team.
"Rest for an hour,"
He said.
"After that, we find him."
Inadu's lips curved slightly.
"No rest for the wicked?"
Jojo smirked.
Smirk~
"We're not wicked,"
He said, pushing open the elevator door.
"Just busy."
The elevator doors slid shut, and the reflection of the three —
A ghost rider, a vampire, and a witch —
"...."
"...."
"...."
Disappeared into mirrored steel,
Leaving behind the hum of luxury and the faint sound of the sea beyond the glass.
Meanwhile in a Unknown House...
The air in the house was thick —
Heavy with incense, dust, and the metallic tang of blood.
Only the dim,
Flickering light of candles pushed back the darkness,
Their flames struggling against the damp air.
The walls were covered in frenzied scribblings —
Long lines of text scrawled in Portuguese,
Some written in black,
Others in deep crimson that gleamed wet under the candlelight.
Words of worship, madness,
And devotion twisted together until they became indistinguishable.
Across the walls hung hundreds of photographs —
Men, women, children.
Faces from different decades,
Strangers bound by one thing:
Each was marked by a black circle drawn over their heads.
Some were crudely crossed out with red strokes,
As if their part in some unseen ritual had ended.
The sound of chains clinking echoed faintly.
Then came the rhythmic crack of leather.
Whip! Ahhhh!
Whip! Ahhhh!
Somewhere deeper inside,
A man was suspended upside down,
His body swaying lightly with every self-inflicted strike of the whip.
His voice was hoarse,
But he continued to chant in broken Portuguese —
Words that trembled between prayer and delirium.
"Pelo rei sem coroa… o rei cego… o que caminha na escuridão…"(For the king without a crown… the blind king… the one who walks in darkness…)
Each phrase was followed by a harsh whisper of pain,
Whip! Ahhhh!
But he didn't stop.
At the far end of the candlelit corridor,
Father Sal Tedeschi stood before a crude altar.
His cassock was smeared with dust and dried wax,
And in his hand, he held a rosary —
"...."
Inverted.
He repeated the same chant the penitent man spoke,
His voice calm and deliberate,
Like a teacher guiding a lesson.
Every word echoed off the walls, low and steady,
Drawing the rhythm of the man's agony into perfect synchronization.
As the final word left his lips,
Father Sal drew a deep breath.
"...."
He reached toward the altar —
Toward a wooden cross that had been hung upside down —
And traced his fingers down its length.
Then, with chilling precision,
He whispered a single word.
"…Nema."
The air seemed to shift.
The candle flames flickered violently,
And a faint hum —
Like the sound of something ancient breathing —
Filled the room.
Father Sal's eyes lifted toward the ceiling,
Where the chained man hung motionless now,
His body still trembling from pain.
"Your devotion pleases him,"
The priest murmured.
"But faith is not enough anymore."
A slow smile crept across his face as he turned toward the altar,
His shadow stretching across the walls,
Merging with the scrawled names and symbols that bled together like veins in the dark.
"Now,"
Father Sal whispered,
"the blind king needs his chosen sacrifice."
The sun was long gone, swallowed by a bruised sky.
Rain came down in heavy sheets,
Meanwhile...
The kind that blurred headlights and turned the streets into rivers of light.
At a near-empty bus stop on the outskirts of Chennai,
Four friends huddled together beneath a rusted tin roof —
Their laughter mixing with the rhythm of the downpour.
Srinivasan, the practical one, was slouched on the bench, scrolling through his phone, his brow furrowed.Vimal, restless as ever, was tossing a pebble into a puddle, watching the ripples chase one another.
Ragavan, the dreamer with unkempt hair and a notebook always in his hand, sat at the edge, lost in thought.
And Sajith, who jumped at his own reflection when it rained too hard, was hugging his backpack like a shield.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Vimal sighed dramatically.
Sigh~
"So this is it, huh? Friday night, and four grown men are stuck in a bus stop, complaining about rent and heartbreak."
Srinivasan didn't even look up.
"You're welcome to walk home in this weather, genius."
Vimal ignored him, grinning.
Grin~
"No, no. I've got a better idea."
He looked around, mischief flashing in his eyes.
"Let's go somewhere. Somewhere creepy. Like one of those 'true haunted places in Chennai' videos you keep watching, da Ragu."
Ragavan looked up, blinking as if yanked out of a daydream.
"What?"
"You heard me,"
Vimal said, clapping his shoulder.
"You're writing that horror script, right? All those ghost stories and cursed houses. You must know a real place — something fun."
Sajith groaned.
Gron~
"Fun? You want to die? This is how people die in horror movies, Vimal!"
Vimal threw an arm around him.
"Come on, da. You're scared of your own scooter's shadow. Live a little!"
Ragavan hesitated for a moment,
Tapping the pen against his notebook.
The rain pattered harder —
"...."
"...."
"...."
A dull, steady drumming that filled the silence.
Finally, he spoke.
"There is one place,"
He said slowly.
"An old colonial bungalow… abandoned since the 1800s. They call it Demonte Colony."
The other three went silent.
"...."
Even the rain seemed to dim around them.
Srinivasan finally looked up, skeptical.
"Demonte Colony? That's a myth, right?"
Ragavan gave a faint smile —
The kind writers wear when they know something no one else does.
"Maybe. But myths usually start with something real."
Vimal's grin widened.
Grin~
"Perfect. Let's go there tonight."
Sajith's eyes went wide.
"What? Now? Have you lost it? That place is cursed! People go missing there!"
"Relax,"
Vimal said, already standing up.
"We'll just look around, shoot a few videos, prove it's all fake, and come back heroes. What's the worst that could happen?"
The thunder rolled across the city,
THUNDER~
Long and low —
As if something ancient was laughing from a distance.
Sajith stood reluctantly,
Clutching his bag tighter.
Ragavan tucked his notebook under his arm, expression unreadable.
Srinivasan adjusted his glasses and sighed.
Sigh~
"If its not worth it, you're explaining this to my fist."
Vimal just laughed, stepping out into the rain.
Haha~
"Deal."
Lightning flashed.
Flash!
"...."
The rain hadn't stopped —
If anything, it had grown heavier.
Sheets of water cascaded down the cracked windshields of two bikes as they sped through the narrow,
Half-flooded roads of Alwarpet.
The streetlights flickered like dying fireflies.
Srinivasan rode ahead with Ragavan clinging behind,
A plastic cover pulled tight over his notebook.
Behind them,
Vimal was shouting over the roar of rain while Sajith,
Drenched and miserable,
Hugged his friend's waist like his life depended on it.
"Vimal, dai, this is madness!"
Sajith yelled.
"Why can't we just go drink tea somewhere like normal people?"
Vimal laughed through the rain.
Kuku~
"Because normal people don't become legends, my friend! You'll thank me when we're viral on YouTube tomorrow."
Sajith groaned.
Groan~
"Or dead in the obituary section!"
A few minutes later...
They slowed near the end of a deserted lane where the fog rolled low over the ground.
Before them loomed the old Demonte Colony gates —
Black, rusted, and hanging half open.
A broken section of the rail made for an easy entrance.
The bikes sputtered to a stop.
Their headlights fell across the colonial bungalow beyond —
"...."
"...."
"...."
Its walls strangled by thick tree vines,
Its windows hollow and black like dead eyes.
Srinivasan took a step forward, water sloshing under his sneakers.
"We're actually doing this…"
Vimal grinned, brushing wet hair from his forehead.
Grin~
"Oh, we're doing this."
Ragavan was silent,
His gaze fixed on the house.
"...."
His writer's instinct kicked in —
Every shadow, every sound was material.
"It looks worse than I imagined,"
He murmured, voice almost reverent.
Sajith stood shivering near the gate,
"...."
Eyes darting everywhere.
"Guys, please. I'm getting a bad feeling. Let's just go back. This place— it's not right."
Vimal gave him a look —
Part amusement, part mischief.
"Then close your eyes, da. You won't see the ghosts."
Before Sajith could reply,
Vimal lunged forward and shoved him —
Hard —
Through the half-open door of the bungalow.
"Vimal!"
Sajith screamed, stumbling into the pitch-dark interior, nearly falling.
His flashlight clattered to the floor,
Its weak beam slicing through the dust and cobwebs.
Outside, Vimal's laughter echoed.
"Welcome to your initiation, brother!"
Srinivasan and Ragavan exchanged looks —
"...."
"...."
Half concerned, half entertained.
Then, like partners in crime, they followed Vimal inside, their laughter bouncing off the crumbling walls.
Inside, Sajith's shaking hands fumbled with his lighter.
He found an old red candle on a broken table, coated in grime.
Out of desperation,
He lit it —
"...."
The small flame flickering violently in the drafty air.
The candlelight painted the hallway in long,
Twitching shadows.
"Guys?"
Sajith called out, voice trembling.
"This isn't funny anymore…"
From upstairs came the sound of footsteps —
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Slow, deliberate.
Followed by a low knock.
Knock~
"...."
Then a giggle.
Giggle~
Vimal, Srinivasan, and Ragavan were upstairs,
Taking turns stomping on the loose floorboards and dragging a metal rod across the railing,
The sound screeching through the air.
Screech!
"BOO!"
Vimal shouted suddenly.
Sajith screamed, clutching the candle so tightly the wax dripped onto his hand.
Ahhhhhh!!!
His breath came in ragged gasps as he backed into the corner of the room.
"...."
But then —
Something changed.
The laughter from upstairs faded… too quickly.
The echo cut off mid-laugh,
Leaving only the sound of the rain tapping on the broken windowpanes.
Sajith blinked, confused.
"…Vimal?"
He heard faint footsteps again —
But these weren't playful anymore.
Thud. Thud.
"...."
They were slow.
Heavy.
Like something dragging its feet across the wooden floor.
The candle flickered once —
Twice.
Sajith froze.
"...."
From upstairs came a low whisper in a voice that didn't belong to any of his friends.
"Who… lit the candle?"
Upstairs, the air was colder.
The rain's rhythm outside was muffled now,
Replaced by the creaking of the old wooden beams.
Vimal was still laughing, leaning against the railing, clutching his stomach.
Hahaha!
"Did you hear his voice, da? He almost dropped dead! 'Who lit the candle?'—
" He mimicked the ghostly tone again, chuckling between words.
Ragavan shook his head, exasperated but smiling.
"You'll give him a heart attack, idiot."
Srinivasan wiped the rain from his cooler's.
"Enough of this nonsense. Let's go down before Sajith really passes out. The fellow's probably crying by now."
But just as he turned toward the stairs,
"...."
He froze.
Every hair on the back of his neck stood up —
That primal warning that something unseen was far too close.
Behind him,
An old curtain fluttered gently from a broken window.
Flutter~
For a second,
It seemed to wrap around… something.
The fabric pressed and stretched as if draped over a person's shape —
A head, shoulders, an arm.
Then, as the wind died, the curtain fell flat.
Srinivasan spun around.
No one.
"...."
Just the empty hall,
Dust motes floating in the faint flashlight glow.
He let out a shaky breath.
"The wind's playing tricks…"
He muttered,
Though his voice sounded unsure even to himself.
Ragavan, meanwhile, was crouched near a table,
Examining an old photograph —
A sepia print of a European family seated stiffly in their Sunday best.
He tilted it toward the candlelight.
"Hey,"
He called,
"this must be the Demonte family, right?"
No answer.
"...."
He glanced up, expecting Vimal to make another joke —
But Vimal was standing completely still, his grin fading, eyes fixed past Ragavan.
"What?"
Ragavan frowned.
Frown~
"Nothing,"
Vimal said quickly, forcing a laugh.
Haha~
"Just… the candlelight's weird here."
But Ragavan felt it too —
"...."
That prickling weight of eyes on the back of his neck.
Slowly, he turned toward the large antique mirror propped against the wall.
He couldn't see much; the mirror's surface was cloudy with age, streaked with grime.
But behind his own reflection, faintly —
Like an image bleeding through time —
Sat a pale woman in an old colonial dress.
Her hands folded neatly on her lap.
"...."
Her face expressionless.
Standing behind her were two maids,
Heads tilted slightly,
Their empty gazes locked directly on Ragavan.
He blinked —
"...."
And the image vanished.
Only his own reflection remained.
A cold shiver crawled up his spine.
He swallowed hard, trying to shake it off.
Gulp~
"Must be my imagination,"
He whispered under his breath.
But from the dark end of the corridor,
Where the shadows pooled thickest,
Came the faintest sound —
Creak~
The slow creak of a rocking chair.
Vimal's flashlight flickered.
Srinivasan turned sharply toward the noise.
"...."
"...."
"...."
None of them spoke.
And downstairs, Sajith —
Who had just stopped crying —
Looked up at the ceiling as dust drifted down.
The sound of the chair's creaking echoed through the entire house.
"Vimal…?"
He whispered again.
The silence inside the bungalow was unbearable.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Even the sound of rain outside felt distant now —
Muffled, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
Srinivasan broke the quiet first, his voice low but uneasy.
"Guys… we've been up here too long. It's been ten minutes. Sajith's probably fainted by now."
Vimal scoffed but his grin was gone.
Grin~
The prank didn't feel funny anymore —
Not after what he thought he'd heard whisper in his ear moments ago.
"Fine,"
He muttered.
"Let's go calm him down before he actually loses it."
Ragavan said nothing,
Clutching his notebook tightly as the three of them made their way down the creaking staircase.
Every step echoed, as though the house was listening.
Downstairs, the air felt heavier —
Colder.
Their flashlights swept across the dust-filled room where they'd left Sajith.
Empty.
"...Sajith?"
Srinivasan called out, stepping inside.
The candle that had been burning earlier was now nothing but melted wax.
The faint smell of smoke lingered.
Vimal frowned, shining his light into every corner.
Frown~
"Where the hell did he go?"
No answer.
Only the faint dripping of water through the ceiling.
Ragavan's voice trembled slightly.
"Maybe he ran outside?"
Just then, a faint voice floated down the hallway —
Broken, shaking.
"Guys… I'm here…"
They turned toward the sound.
"...."
"...."
"...."
It was coming from the same room where they had shoved him earlier —
The one at the far end of the corridor.
Vimal forced a laugh.
"See? The drama king survived."
But even he didn't sound convinced.
The three of them walked toward the room.
The air grew colder with each step.
The moment Srinivasan touched the door handle,
A wave of static tingled up his arm —
Like electricity.
He pushed the door open.
There, in the flickering glow of his flashlight, sat Sajith —
Knees drawn to his chest, trembling violently.
His face was pale, drenched in sweat and tears.
When he saw them, he flinched, backing up against the wall.
"You demons…"
He stammered.
"You left me… you left me here in the dark."
Vimal blinked caught off guard by the out burst.
"...."
Sajith pointed toward the dark corner of the room —
Where the shadows seemed unnaturally thick, pulsing slightly like smoke.
But when they turned to look, there was nothing there.
"Sajith,"
Srinivasan said softly, kneeling beside him.
"There's no one here. It was just us, da. It was just a prank."
Sajith's lips trembled as he shook his head again and again.
"They were watching. A woman… two others behind her… they said your names."
Vimal forced a chuckle, trying to mask the creeping unease in his gut.
Chuckle~
"You probably saw your reflection, man. Come on, let's just go."
He grabbed Sajith's arm and pulled him up.
Sajith didn't resist this time.
He just muttered under his breath as they stepped out of the bungalow, his eyes darting back one last time.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
The street glistened beneath the flickering yellow of the old lampposts.
Ragavan turned to look at the dark silhouette of Demonte Colony one last time —
Its windows black and silent again.
"Let's come again some time,"
He said.
Vimal laughed weakly.
Haha~
"Agreed. Adventure over."
They climbed onto their bikes, the engines roaring to life.
As they sped away through the empty streets,
None of them noticed the faint movement behind the cracked window —
The foreign lady standing there, watching them leave.
Some debts, after all, aren't settled in one night.
They had left Demonte Colony alive…
But their names were already written —
Carved deep into the house's walls —
In the script of the death.
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(Author's POV)
(A/N):
Thanks for reading the chapter!
Please give a review and power stone!!!