The streets of Kashi stretched endlessly before Rahil like veins of some ancient, breathing being. The narrow gullies twisted and turned, spilling into wider streets where the air was thick with incense smoke and the constant ringing of bells. Chantings of "Har Har Mahadev!" rippled across the ghats, mixed with the hum of mantras, conches, and the splashing of water where pilgrims performed ablutions in the sacred Ganga.
Rahil walked slowly, his eyes absorbing everything. His chest tightened—not out of fear, but from the strange divinity that clung to this city.
"Strange…" he murmured, halting near a small mandir draped with marigold garlands. A carved idol stood within, shining under ghee lamps: Mata Parvati, her calm eyes watching over Mahadev.
Rahil froze. His brow furrowed.
"Wait… I almost forgot I'm in a gay world." His voice was a low whisper. "Till now I've never seen a female deity. Japan never had any lady goddess temples when I was there… Only male forms twisted into something else. But here… why is Mata Parvati standing beside Shiva? Why does Kashi still follow the truth of my world, not this one's logic?"
The thought churned in his mind, a worm of doubt wriggling deeper. Something was wrong with this world. Something off.
As he lingered there, questioning, a frail old man suddenly stepped out of the crowd. His back was bent, his white dhoti barely clung to his thin frame, and his eyes gleamed with a strange fire. He looked directly at Rahil.
"Young man," the old man croaked. "Do you want to read books?"
Rahil stiffened. Of all things, books? He hadn't spoken of books, hadn't even thought about them—yet the man's voice carried a weight, almost like command. His instinct told him to walk away, but his body… his body moved forward of its own will.
Without a word, Rahil followed.
The old man led him through twisting lanes, darker and quieter than the vibrant ghats. Finally, they stopped at a building half-swallowed by shadows. Its wooden signboard hung crookedly, the paint nearly peeled away:
"Mysteries Bookstore."
Rahil raised an eyebrow. "Mysteries… huh. Fitting."
He stepped inside. The world dimmed instantly. The place smelled of dust, sandalwood, and something else—something metallic, almost like blood. Books lined the shelves, some bound in cracked leather, others wrapped in yellowed cloth. Cobwebs draped corners like funeral shrouds.
It was less a shop and more a labyrinthine library. The silence was heavy, as though the books themselves were holding their breath.
Rahil wandered aimlessly at first, brushing his fingers across spines that crumbled to the touch. Titles in Sanskrit, Persian, English, even scripts he didn't recognize, stared back at him. But then—something pulled him.
His eyes locked on a dark tome sitting alone on a wooden pedestal. Unlike the others, this one wasn't covered in dust. Instead, it radiated a cold, heavy aura. On its cover, carved in faded gold letters, were the words:
"The Chronicles of Demonte House."
Rahil swallowed hard. A shiver crawled down his spine. This book… it felt cursed.
Almost against his will, he reached out and opened it.
The first page whispered with age as it turned. Words scrawled across the parchment leapt out at him, sharp as daggers:
"The year is 1857. The British Empire, drunk on conquest, set its eyes upon the sacred city of Kashi—not for its holiness, but for their pleasures. They sought to desecrate its ghats, to twist its temples into dens of indulgence, to build their pleasure houses where souls came for liberation."
Rahil's jaw tightened. The story continued, its ink almost alive:
"They built one such place… Demonte House. A mansion of debauchery hidden in shadows, where men of power drowned in wine, flesh, and forbidden games. But beneath its walls, something stirred. Something ancient and wrathful. The House itself began to breathe, to curse all who entered. It became a prison for their souls, forever binding them in torment."
The letters seemed to bleed as Rahil read. His fingertips tingled, the air around him thickening like smoke.
He snapped the book shut.
His heart pounded. He looked around. The bookstore was suddenly darker than before, as though the lamps had dimmed on their own. The shelves loomed like watching sentinels.
"…Demonte House?" he muttered, his throat dry.
A voice—low, almost mocking—slithered from somewhere within the store.
"Yes… the House that should never be spoken of. And yet you… you have opened its door."
Rahil spun around, but the old man was gone. Only shadows remained.
Clutching the book, he felt its weight throb against his palm.
The book Rahil opened was brittle, its pages yellowed, and the ink seemed to bleed with every word. The Chronicles of Demonte House did not read like a normal record—it felt alive, whispering from the page as though the house itself was narrating its own damnation.
Long ago, in the late 1700s, when the British Raj had begun to extend its grip over India, the Demonte family rose to power in Madras. Their estate was vast, their wealth endless, and their appetites unrestrained.
At the center of it all stood Lord Alexander Demonte, a man whom history described as charming and eloquent, but whom the whispers of servants, peasants, and even priests remembered only as a beast dressed as a man.
Demonte was not content with wealth or political sway—he hungered for domination of the flesh. His family records showed that he married not for love, nor lineage, but for lust and control. His first wives were not strangers from noble families but his own cousins—sisters to one another, bound by blood and forced into his household. Marriage to him was not sacred, but a means to satisfy his twisted pleasures.
But the corruption of Demonte did not stop there.
As the British army secured more villages, Demonte would send soldiers to capture men—young, strong, and helpless under the rule of foreign power. These men were dragged to the mansion, stripped of dignity, and broken into slaves of desire. In a world where chains of iron were common, Demonte forged chains of shame.
He had no boundaries—servants, clerks, prisoners, even priests—anyone could be dragged into the dark chambers beneath Demonte House. Some resisted, and they vanished. Some yielded, and they became husks of men, their souls drained by humiliation.
The house itself began to absorb this agony. Walls groaned with muffled screams, and the floors soaked in blood and sweat. What began as pleasure became obsession, and what became obsession turned into ritual.
It is said that Demonte once stood in the prayer hall of the house and declared:
"No god rules here. Only I, Demonte, rule flesh and spirit."
From that day onward, the house changed. Servants whispered of shadows moving on their own, of faces staring from mirrors, of whispers at night that sounded like sobs and moans overlapping.
The final curse came when Demonte, blinded by power, attempted to enslave a young man who was secretly a devotee of Lord Shiva. When the boy refused, chanting the Lord's name even as he was beaten, something stirred. The man died under torture, but with his last breath, he cursed Demonte:
"You have defiled men. You have defiled kin. You have defiled dharma itself.
This house will never know peace. Your name will rot. Your soul will wander in torment.
And every man who walks through this mansion shall feel the weight of your sins."
Soon after, Demonte was found dead in his chamber—his body contorted, his face frozen in terror, as though something had dragged his soul from within and twisted it.
But death did not end his rule. The chronicles said his spirit lingered, prowling the mansion, continuing his endless hunger. And the victims—those he had enslaved—also lingered, bound in chains of agony, trapped in the very place of their torment.
Thus, Demonte House became a cursed prison, a monument not of colonial wealth but of inhuman cruelty. Even the British abandoned it in fear. Locals said that at night, if one listened closely, they could hear weeping, followed by mocking laughter, as if the victims and their master were still locked in an eternal cycle of torment.