PART 2
The days after the photograph arrived, Monday, 12 August, were not days at all. they were distortions. Time dissolved around Arohi Sen like fog swirling over the Hooghly. By the night of 13 August, she had stopped sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the shadow standing at the foot of her bed. Each time closer. Each time taller. Her ears rang with whispers she couldn’t locate. Sometimes they sounded like her own voice. At work, colleagues spoke to her, but their words echoed oddly as if spoken underwater. Conversations felt rehearsed. Repeated. Like someone was looping her reality, making her live the same tiny moments again and again. And no matter where she turned, she felt watched.
The black sindoor mark on her forehead never fully washed off. It faded by day only to return by night. She covered it with makeup until her skin grew raw, but the mark remained, like a bruise from something that had touched not her skin, but her mind.
On 14 August at 3:09 a.m., Arohi woke to a sound. Not a scream or a whisper, but a tap. Just one, at her bedroom door. Tap. Tap. She grabbed her gun, heart hammering so loudly she feared the intruder would hear it. She approached the door with her breath held tight, finger on the trigger. The tapping stopped. Silence pressed against her, thick and oppressive. She flung the door open. Nothing. But then her wall mirror caught her eye. Her reflection wasn’t standing in the same position she was. Her real body was by the door; her reflection was standing behind her. Smiling. A slow smile she felt tearing something inside her mind. She blinked, and the reflection snapped back to normal. Her legs buckled, and she slid down the wall, shaking uncontrollably. “Get a grip, Arohi,” she whispered. But the reflection’s smile burned behind her eyelids.
Later that morning, at 7:42 a.m., she went to the bathroom to wash her face. As she leaned over the sink, the mirror’s surface fogged over though the room wasn’t cold. A single sentence appeared, written backward from the inside: DON’T TURN AROUND. Her breath froze. She felt the air shift behind her, a presence heavy, tall, waiting. Her eyes stayed locked on the mirror. Slowly almost too slowly another figure began forming behind her reflection. A tall silhouette. No features. Only height, and shape, and endless darkness. Her legs trembled, her throat closed, her vision flickered. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned. Nothing. But the smell of cold river water filled the air.
By the evening of 14 August, sleep deprivation had begun warping her sense of time. Hours slipped through her like sand. Every sound seemed amplified. Every shadow stretched too far. At 8:16 p.m., she sat at her desk reviewing case files when she noticed something wrong. The photographs of the victims their eyes had changed. Each one stared directly at her now. Arohi felt something inside her snap. She shoved the photos into the drawer, slamming it shut. Then a knock at her door. Three slow knocks. She froze. Another set. Three again. She approached the peephole. Empty hallway. But when she stepped away, her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number read: “Nice place.” She dropped her phone, heart thundering. Someone had been right outside or something. She grabbed her gun and swung open the door. Nothing. But on the floor lay a strip of black cloth, torn from a coat. Her breathing turned shallow. She lifted the cloth gently, and as she did, a cold hand wrapped around her wrist. Her scream died in her throat. There was no one there. But the grip tightened impossibly, invisibly. A voice seeped into her ear, not spoken but injected into her thoughts: “You’re almost ready.” She ripped her hand away and slammed the door shut, sliding down to the floor with tears burning her eyes. What was happening to her mind?
On 14 August at 11:58 p.m., desperate for clarity, Arohi forced herself back to Princep Ghat. The fog consumed the steps, swallowing the riverbank into a shifting grey void. She stood at the edge of the water. Everything was silent. Too silent. No trains. No cars. No human life. Just the sound of her breathing. Then she saw them: footprints materializing on the steps. Not walking toward her walking through her. She gasped as the air around her rippled, as if something enormous had passed directly through her chest. And then her own shadow detached from her feet. It stretched forward, blending into the larger, taller shadow that had appeared before her. As the two shadows merged, the dark figure materialized slowly piece by piece like a nightmare assembling itself. Tall. Hollow. Impossible.
She stared, paralyzed. He raised a long, skeletal hand and touched the black mark on her forehead. A surge of cold flooded her mind. Memories ruptured. Thoughts shattered. Her voice failed. The shadow bent its head to hers and whispered, “You fear losing your mind. So I will take it.” The world tilted sharp, distorted, wrong. Her vision warped, collapsing in on itself.
On 15 August at 6:14 a.m., she woke in her home. Morning sunlight poured in. Birds chirped. Everything was normal. Too normal. Arohi sat up, shaking, realizing she had no memory of going home. There was a mirror on the wall. She looked at it. Her reflection smiled.
She didn’t.
The days after the photograph arrived, Monday, 12 August, were not days at all. they were distortions. Time dissolved around Arohi Sen like fog swirling over the Hooghly. By the night of 13 August, she had stopped sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the shadow standing at the foot of her bed. Each time closer. Each time taller. Her ears rang with whispers she couldn’t locate. Sometimes they sounded like her own voice. At work, colleagues spoke to her, but their words echoed oddly as if spoken underwater. Conversations felt rehearsed. Repeated. Like someone was looping her reality, making her live the same tiny moments again and again. And no matter where she turned, she felt watched.
The black sindoor mark on her forehead never fully washed off. It faded by day only to return by night. She covered it with makeup until her skin grew raw, but the mark remained, like a bruise from something that had touched not her skin, but her mind.
On 14 August at 3:09 a.m., Arohi woke to a sound. Not a scream or a whisper, but a tap. Just one, at her bedroom door. Tap. Tap. She grabbed her gun, heart hammering so loudly she feared the intruder would hear it. She approached the door with her breath held tight, finger on the trigger. The tapping stopped. Silence pressed against her, thick and oppressive. She flung the door open. Nothing. But then her wall mirror caught her eye. Her reflection wasn’t standing in the same position she was. Her real body was by the door; her reflection was standing behind her. Smiling. A slow smile she felt tearing something inside her mind. She blinked, and the reflection snapped back to normal. Her legs buckled, and she slid down the wall, shaking uncontrollably. “Get a grip, Arohi,” she whispered. But the reflection’s smile burned behind her eyelids.
Later that morning, at 7:42 a.m., she went to the bathroom to wash her face. As she leaned over the sink, the mirror’s surface fogged over though the room wasn’t cold. A single sentence appeared, written backward from the inside: DON’T TURN AROUND. Her breath froze. She felt the air shift behind her, a presence heavy, tall, waiting. Her eyes stayed locked on the mirror. Slowly almost too slowly another figure began forming behind her reflection. A tall silhouette. No features. Only height, and shape, and endless darkness. Her legs trembled, her throat closed, her vision flickered. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned. Nothing. But the smell of cold river water filled the air.
By the evening of 14 August, sleep deprivation had begun warping her sense of time. Hours slipped through her like sand. Every sound seemed amplified. Every shadow stretched too far. At 8:16 p.m., she sat at her desk reviewing case files when she noticed something wrong. The photographs of the victims their eyes had changed. Each one stared directly at her now. Arohi felt something inside her snap. She shoved the photos into the drawer, slamming it shut. Then a knock at her door. Three slow knocks. She froze. Another set. Three again. She approached the peephole. Empty hallway. But when she stepped away, her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number read: “Nice place.” She dropped her phone, heart thundering. Someone had been right outside or something. She grabbed her gun and swung open the door. Nothing. But on the floor lay a strip of black cloth, torn from a coat. Her breathing turned shallow. She lifted the cloth gently, and as she did, a cold hand wrapped around her wrist. Her scream died in her throat. There was no one there. But the grip tightened impossibly, invisibly. A voice seeped into her ear, not spoken but injected into her thoughts: “You’re almost ready.” She ripped her hand away and slammed the door shut, sliding down to the floor with tears burning her eyes. What was happening to her mind?
On 14 August at 11:58 p.m., desperate for clarity, Arohi forced herself back to Princep Ghat. The fog consumed the steps, swallowing the riverbank into a shifting grey void. She stood at the edge of the water. Everything was silent. Too silent. No trains. No cars. No human life. Just the sound of her breathing. Then she saw them: footprints materializing on the steps. Not walking toward her walking through her. She gasped as the air around her rippled, as if something enormous had passed directly through her chest. And then her own shadow detached from her feet. It stretched forward, blending into the larger, taller shadow that had appeared before her. As the two shadows merged, the dark figure materialized slowly piece by piece like a nightmare assembling itself. Tall. Hollow. Impossible.
She stared, paralyzed. He raised a long, skeletal hand and touched the black mark on her forehead. A surge of cold flooded her mind. Memories ruptured. Thoughts shattered. Her voice failed. The shadow bent its head to hers and whispered, “You fear losing your mind. So I will take it.” The world tilted sharp, distorted, wrong. Her vision warped, collapsing in on itself.
On 15 August at 6:14 a.m., she woke in her home. Morning sunlight poured in. Birds chirped. Everything was normal. Too normal. Arohi sat up, shaking, realizing she had no memory of going home. There was a mirror on the wall. She looked at it. Her reflection smiled.
She didn’t.
