A Place Where Nothing Bad Was Supposed to Happen
The society I grew up in believed it was protected from evil. Lights stayed on till midnight—not because they had to, but because no one felt the need to turn them off. Children played without counting time. Families laughed loudly, fearlessly.
Every evening, prayers floated through the air—God’s name repeated so often that it felt like a shield.
Fear didn’t belong there. At least, that’s what we believed.
But some places don’t ask permission to exist.
Her house stood slightly apart from the rest, like it had chosen isolation on its own. Always locked. Always dark. No lights, even on festivals.
People didn’t stop walking near it—they stopped talking about it.
They only ever said one thing:
“She’s not normal.”
No one explained what normal meant. And no one dared to ask.
Curiosity Has a Sound
That evening began like every other. Swings creaked under careless weight. Children shouted names that echoed through the tunnel. Laughter bounced off concrete walls—loud enough to feel permanent.
Until it wasn’t.
One evening, we were playing near the tunnel in the park. Swings creaking. Seesaw laughing under weight. My friends left. I stayed back. That’s when I felt it. Someone whispering my name. I turned. She was standing there. Hazel eyes. White skin. Blonde hair. Beautiful… too beautiful to be feared. She smiled. And I followed.
Beauty Makes You Trust What You Shouldn’t
She didn’t look dangerous. That was the first mistake.
Her eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t look curious. They watched me like I was already late.
Darkness Isn’t Always the Absence of Light
Inside, there were no lights. Not broken. Not switched off. Just… none. “Cover your face,” she said. “Mosquitoes.” I did. Her house had a long veranda. Then another gate. Then darkness. Not painted black. Consuming black. No bulb. No lamp. Only her eyes… watching. The floor was wet. Something sticky beneath my slippers. I wanted to leave. She said my friends were inside. She held my hand. I stayed.
The floor was wet. Warm.
I didn’t ask what it was. Some questions feel dangerous even before they’re spoken.
Bang On The Door
The room swallowed sound. Then— BANG. BANG. BANG. The door shook like it was breathing. Suddenly— light exploded inside. And I saw it. A needle. In her hand. In my finger. Blood dripping. Shelves full of beakers. Each filled with blood. Each with a name. Children’s names. My friends’ names. My name.
All I could see then was my mother—standing there with people from our colony and neighbors who had gathered around. The moment I saw her, the fear inside me softened. A strange sense of safety wrapped around me, like a quiet warmth I couldn’t explain. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I felt protected—held by something stronger than fear.
I returned home and slept peacefully that night, as if nothing had touched me. The next day, when I asked my mother about it, she said nothing unusual had happened. She only confirmed that I had come home and fallen asleep. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I wasn’t dreaming.
And yet, whatever it was… it saved me.
Why Did She Do It?
She was beaten badly. Too badly. At first, she screamed. Then she laughed. And finally… she broke. Her voice changed when she confessed. She said she had done black magic on the children of the society. Not to kill them. Not to hurt them directly. But to control them. She made them steal money from their own houses— small amounts at first, notes that wouldn’t be noticed, coins that parents would ignore. She said children were easier. Pure. Unquestioning. They listened. As she spoke, I felt my legs trembling. My heart was beating so loud it hurt. I gathered courage and asked, my voice barely steady— “Maine kya bigaada tha?” What had I done? She looked at me then. Really looked. And smiled. She said some children weren’t chosen because they were weak. They were chosen because they were present. Because they were alone. Because curiosity made them step closer. Because fate needed one more name. I felt cold. Not on my skin— inside. That was the moment I understood something worse than fear: Sometimes, you don’t need to do anything wrong to be pulled into darkness. Sometimes… being there is enough.
Some Things Don’t End
They said I was safe.
But sometimes, in complete darkness— when silence feels too heavy—
I still remember her eyes.
Waiting.