Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: Shadows in the Mist

Vikram couldn't shake the cemetery from his mind. Days blurred into nights filled with restless tossing, the girl's sob echoing like a song stuck in his head. His tiny Pune apartment felt smaller now, walls closing in. Bills still loomed, but that unsigned check sat heavy in his drawer, a guilty secret. "Just my imagination," he'd tell himself while sipping chai at his desk, trying to focus on job applications. But objects moved when he wasn't looking—a pen rolling off the table, his photo frame tilting just so, as if nudged by invisible fingers. Sleep brought dreams of fog and water, always water, cold and pulling him down.Curiosity won over fear. "One more visit," he promised himself. "To prove it's nothing." He bought a small brass om pendant from a street vendor, the kind meant to ward off bad luck, and grabbed his voice recorder along with the usual tools. The drive to Kabra felt shorter this time, the hills welcoming him with open arms. Dusk painted the sky deep purple as he reached the village tea stall. The old men were there again, but they just shook their heads silently when he asked about the kabristan. No warnings this time—only pity in their eyes.The gates swung open smoothly, like they'd been waiting. The fog was already there, thicker and glowing faintly silver under the rising moon. Vikram's heart pounded, but he pushed forward, recorder on, flashlight steady. "Testing, testing," he said into it, voice firmer than he felt. The graves looked the same—quiet mounds, faded stones—but the air buzzed now, like distant bees. He headed straight for the stone building, the mausoleum, its door still ajar. Inside, dust floated like tiny stars, and the slab's words seemed to shimmer: Sulochna Mistry. Beloved Daughter.Kneeling, Vikram touched the cold stone, a pang of sorrow hitting him again. Who buries someone so young and calls them "beloved" with such finality? His fingers traced the date—1910. Over a hundred years ago. The om pendant warmed against his chest, comforting. But then the recorder hissed static, and voices broke through—soft, layered, like women praying far away. Pani... pani... return what was taken. His breath caught. "Wind," he whispered, but chills ran down his spine.Behind the slab, he spotted the trapdoor—rusted iron, half-hidden by dirt. Heart racing, he pried it open with his tool kit. A stone staircase spiraled down into black nothing. "Stupid idea," his mind screamed, but his feet moved anyway, drawn by that sad pull. The walls down there were damp, roots poking through like veins, air thick with mold and something sweeter, like old jasmine. At the bottom, a wide well yawned, its water still as glass, reflecting his flashlight like a mirror from another world.He leaned closer, and that's when he saw them—not his face, but eyes. Pale, glowing orbs staring up from the depths, dozens of them, unblinking. A hand rose slowly—slender, pale, fingers pruned like they'd been too long in water. It gripped the edge, and up came a figure: a woman in a flowing white sari, soaked and clinging, long hair dripping like black rivers. Her face was beautiful but wrong—skin too white, eyes too wide, lips blue. Sulochna. She locked onto him, mouthing silent words: Witness me.The air exploded with sound—wails, cries, men's shouts from long ago. Shadows peeled from the walls: translucent people in old clothes, some in uniforms, others in simple wraps. They moved like actors in a tragic play—hands pushing, splashing, drowning each other in the well. Plague masks flashed, swords clashed in silent wars. Vikram stumbled back, knocking his flashlight. It rolled into the water with a plop, beam dying below.Panic took over. He scrambled up the stairs, slamming the trapdoor, heart hammering like it would burst. Outside, he tripped over something hard—a small locket, silver and tarnished, half-buried in the dirt near a child's grave. The same date etched on it: 1910. Without thinking, he pocketed it and ran for the gates, fog chasing him like breath. Bursting onto the road, he gasped for air, the village lights distant comforts.Back home, Vikram showered hot water until his skin pruned, but the cold stayed inside him, a knot in his chest. He played the recorder: the voices clear now, pleading, angry. Come back. The locket lay on his table, warm to the touch, almost pulsing. That night, his mirror fogged on its own. When it cleared, his reflection smiled—a sad, knowing smile that wasn't his. Scratches appeared on his arm by morning, faint but real, spelling three words in wobbly script: She waits for you.Vikram sat frozen, tears stinging his eyes. Fear mixed with pity—for her, for whatever pain kept her trapped. He wasn't a believer in ghosts, but this felt real, human. The locket called to him, soft as a heartbeat. Kabra wasn't done with him yet.