PART—1
Cold fog rose off the Hooghly River the night Detective Arohi Sen arrived at Prinsep Ghat. The rhythmic lap of the river against the stone steps usually soothed her, but tonight the air felt wrong—as if the city itself was holding its breath.
The body lay on the third step from the water, a young woman dressed in a simple white kurti. Her eyes were wide open, frozen in a terror Arohi recognised instantly. But what made her blood run cold was the mark across the victim’s forehead:
A thin streak of black sindoor.
Arohi frowned. No one used black sindoor—not in any normal ritual. And the way it shimmered… almost oily… unsettled her.
As the forensic van arrived, Arohi scanned the fog-drenched ghat. That’s when she saw him—or it. A tall silhouette in a long coat, standing unnaturally still near the archway. The moment Arohi took a step toward him, the figure dissolved into the fog like ink in water.
“Ma’am?” a constable called. “We found her ID.”
Shristi Basu.
Young. Healthy. No history of threats.
But on the back of her ID photo, someone had scribbled in jagged handwriting:
HE SEES YOU.
Arohi’s pulse quickened.
Later that night, reviewing CCTV footage from Prinsep Ghat, her breath caught. In a single blurry frame, the tall figure appeared behind Shristi—taller than any normal man, posture unnaturally rigid, head tilted as if studying her.
And his shadow… The shadow didn’t align with the light.
It bent the wrong way.
The next death came two days later.
A young man was found near Rabindra Sarobar, sitting against a tree, his face frozen in the same terror. Same black sindoor. Same unnatural stillness.
And again—bystanders spoke of a tall man who disappeared the moment someone approached.
Arohi traced soil samples from the second victim’s shoes and found something unusual—tiny granules of black dust. Not ash. Not charcoal. Something else.
Something older.
While examining CCTV feeds across the city, Arohi finally caught a clear trail—three clips showing the tall figure moving through Kolkata’s night streets, always just out of focus. The last clip showed him slipping into an old colonial mansion:
Harrington House. Abandoned. Condemned. Rumored… haunted.
Arohi didn’t call for backup.
Something inside her whispered this was hers alone.
The mansion’s door creaked open like a dying animal when she pushed it. Dust swirled in her flashlight beam. The floorboards moaned beneath her boots. A cold draft slithered down the hall, carrying a smell of dampness and something metallic.
Then she heard it.
A dragging sound. Slow. Deliberate.
She followed it into a room barely lit by a single lantern. There, hunched over a table, was the tall figure.
He turned slowly.
Not a man.
Eyes too deep. Face too pale. Movements too smooth. A coat too long. And behind him… the shadows didn’t match his body. They twitched. They stretched. They curled like living things.
On the table lay photographs.
Shristi. The Sarobar victim. Two other people she didn’t recognize. And last— Arohi Sen.
Her own photo, taken recently, printed clearly.
Her stomach dropped.
The figure spoke in a voice that scraped like metal on stone. “You’ve come early.”
Arohi raised her gun. “What are you?”
He smiled. Slowly. Horrifically. “A shadow that outlived its owner.”
Before she could fire, the lantern flickered violently. The shadows on the walls stretched upward, then peeled off the surface like ink lifting from paper.
They gained shape.
They turned toward Arohi.
A coldness hit her chest so suddenly she staggered back. Her flashlight died. The room plunged into an unnatural darkness where she couldn’t even see her own hands.
She felt it before she heard it— A presence so immense it crushed the air.
A whisper curled around her ear:
“You’re marked.”
A sting burned across her forehead. When the lantern finally flared back to life, the tall figure was gone.
Only a patch of black sindoor remained on the floor—glowing faintly, as if alive.
Arohi wiped her forehead with a trembling hand.
Her fingers came away black.
Over the next days, Kolkata changed for her.
Mirrors showed shadows that didn’t move with her. Objects in her home shifted when she wasn’t looking. She woke twice to find streaks of black dust on her pillow.
And then—the notebook appeared on her desk.
Not hers. Old. Leather-bound. Pages brittle.
Inside were drawings of the tall figure. Pages of black dust rubbed into paper. Names of victims from decades ago.
On the last page was written:
THE MARK SPREADS. THE MARK CHOOSES. THE MARK TAKES.
And below that:
AROHI SEN.
She slammed the book shut, her breath shaking.
Someone—or something—was telling her she was next.
At dawn the next day, she went back to Prinsep Ghat, seeking answers or perhaps courage. The fog curled low over the water.
That’s when she noticed the footprints.
Bare. Human. Wet.
Leading out of the river.
And next to them—one long, impossibly slender footprint that no human could make.
A cold whisper drifted across the river.
“Soon.”
Arohi spun, gun raised.
Nothing.
Only mist.
But then she saw it—the shadow on the ground behind her. Longer than her body. Much longer. Stretching outward… bending the wrong way.
She backed away, pulse hammering.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number:
“THE LIST CHANGES TONIGHT.”
Below it was a photograph—
Arohi standing alone at Prinsep Ghat.
Taken just seconds ago.
From a height no person could have reached.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
She wasn’t dealing with a killer.
She was dealing with a hunter.
And she was next.
Cold fog rose off the Hooghly River the night Detective Arohi Sen arrived at Prinsep Ghat. The rhythmic lap of the river against the stone steps usually soothed her, but tonight the air felt wrong—as if the city itself was holding its breath.
The body lay on the third step from the water, a young woman dressed in a simple white kurti. Her eyes were wide open, frozen in a terror Arohi recognised instantly. But what made her blood run cold was the mark across the victim’s forehead:
A thin streak of black sindoor.
Arohi frowned. No one used black sindoor—not in any normal ritual. And the way it shimmered… almost oily… unsettled her.
As the forensic van arrived, Arohi scanned the fog-drenched ghat. That’s when she saw him—or it. A tall silhouette in a long coat, standing unnaturally still near the archway. The moment Arohi took a step toward him, the figure dissolved into the fog like ink in water.
“Ma’am?” a constable called. “We found her ID.”
Shristi Basu.
Young. Healthy. No history of threats.
But on the back of her ID photo, someone had scribbled in jagged handwriting:
HE SEES YOU.
Arohi’s pulse quickened.
Later that night, reviewing CCTV footage from Prinsep Ghat, her breath caught. In a single blurry frame, the tall figure appeared behind Shristi—taller than any normal man, posture unnaturally rigid, head tilted as if studying her.
And his shadow… The shadow didn’t align with the light.
It bent the wrong way.
The next death came two days later.
A young man was found near Rabindra Sarobar, sitting against a tree, his face frozen in the same terror. Same black sindoor. Same unnatural stillness.
And again—bystanders spoke of a tall man who disappeared the moment someone approached.
Arohi traced soil samples from the second victim’s shoes and found something unusual—tiny granules of black dust. Not ash. Not charcoal. Something else.
Something older.
While examining CCTV feeds across the city, Arohi finally caught a clear trail—three clips showing the tall figure moving through Kolkata’s night streets, always just out of focus. The last clip showed him slipping into an old colonial mansion:
Harrington House. Abandoned. Condemned. Rumored… haunted.
Arohi didn’t call for backup.
Something inside her whispered this was hers alone.
The mansion’s door creaked open like a dying animal when she pushed it. Dust swirled in her flashlight beam. The floorboards moaned beneath her boots. A cold draft slithered down the hall, carrying a smell of dampness and something metallic.
Then she heard it.
A dragging sound. Slow. Deliberate.
She followed it into a room barely lit by a single lantern. There, hunched over a table, was the tall figure.
He turned slowly.
Not a man.
Eyes too deep. Face too pale. Movements too smooth. A coat too long. And behind him… the shadows didn’t match his body. They twitched. They stretched. They curled like living things.
On the table lay photographs.
Shristi. The Sarobar victim. Two other people she didn’t recognize. And last— Arohi Sen.
Her own photo, taken recently, printed clearly.
Her stomach dropped.
The figure spoke in a voice that scraped like metal on stone. “You’ve come early.”
Arohi raised her gun. “What are you?”
He smiled. Slowly. Horrifically. “A shadow that outlived its owner.”
Before she could fire, the lantern flickered violently. The shadows on the walls stretched upward, then peeled off the surface like ink lifting from paper.
They gained shape.
They turned toward Arohi.
A coldness hit her chest so suddenly she staggered back. Her flashlight died. The room plunged into an unnatural darkness where she couldn’t even see her own hands.
She felt it before she heard it— A presence so immense it crushed the air.
A whisper curled around her ear:
“You’re marked.”
A sting burned across her forehead. When the lantern finally flared back to life, the tall figure was gone.
Only a patch of black sindoor remained on the floor—glowing faintly, as if alive.
Arohi wiped her forehead with a trembling hand.
Her fingers came away black.
Over the next days, Kolkata changed for her.
Mirrors showed shadows that didn’t move with her. Objects in her home shifted when she wasn’t looking. She woke twice to find streaks of black dust on her pillow.
And then—the notebook appeared on her desk.
Not hers. Old. Leather-bound. Pages brittle.
Inside were drawings of the tall figure. Pages of black dust rubbed into paper. Names of victims from decades ago.
On the last page was written:
THE MARK SPREADS. THE MARK CHOOSES. THE MARK TAKES.
And below that:
AROHI SEN.
She slammed the book shut, her breath shaking.
Someone—or something—was telling her she was next.
At dawn the next day, she went back to Prinsep Ghat, seeking answers or perhaps courage. The fog curled low over the water.
That’s when she noticed the footprints.
Bare. Human. Wet.
Leading out of the river.
And next to them—one long, impossibly slender footprint that no human could make.
A cold whisper drifted across the river.
“Soon.”
Arohi spun, gun raised.
Nothing.
Only mist.
But then she saw it—the shadow on the ground behind her. Longer than her body. Much longer. Stretching outward… bending the wrong way.
She backed away, pulse hammering.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number:
“THE LIST CHANGES TONIGHT.”
Below it was a photograph—
Arohi standing alone at Prinsep Ghat.
Taken just seconds ago.
From a height no person could have reached.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
She wasn’t dealing with a killer.
She was dealing with a hunter.
And she was next.
The suspense is unbearable, and Arohi's courage in the face of such terrifying supernatural events is truly commendable. The atmosphere you've created is so vivid and immersive that I feel like I'm right there with her, navigating the foggy streets of Kolkata and the eerie Harrington House. The way the shadows come alive and the mysterious figure's true nature are both chilling and fascinating. I'm on the edge of my seat wondering what's next for Arohi and how she'll uncover the truth behind the sinister forces hunting her. The tension is building, and I need more like part 2
