Reader Advisory: The following story contains intense and unsettling themes. It may not be suitable for all readers. Proceed with caution if you’re sensitive to dark or disturbing content.
Disclaimer: All the stories under #StorySutra are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author does not intend to malign any individual, group, or organisation.
© Lekhak Anurag. Any unauthorised reproduction, personal or commercial, without permission is prohibited. For reproduction or commercial use of the story, please ping me on mailme[at]lekhakanurag.com.
“Who’s calling at this hour, Ankush? Please don’t answer!” Shreya pleaded with her husband, urging him not to take the call just as they were about to start dinner.
“But it could be an important story. I can’t miss it. You know how my job works! It’ll only take two minutes, I promise!” Ankush replied, picking up the phone. “Hello, Ankush speaking.”
Ankush heard a faltering, rusty voice on the other end. “Ankush ji, I saw your interview today on YouTube and got your number from there. I have a case for you to investigate. It will change your life forever. Can you come to Gulfam Haveli in Karnaipur village?”
“I can! May I know your name? And would it be possible to share some details about the case? I’ll need to discuss it with my editors before making the trip. Even a small hint will do—I understand if you don’t want to reveal much over the phone,” Ankush asked without hesitation.
“Certainly. I am Zahira. People have been disappearing from my small village for years without a trace. The police don’t know. The locals don’t know. But I know who is behind it and how it has been happening. Since the 1970s, about 140 people have vanished into thin air. I am on my deathbed. I can’t leave this world without sharing the truth, and I believe you’ll be able to do justice to the story. Otherwise, the souls of those 140 people will never let me rest in peace…” Zahira’s age was apparent in her voice, but she breathlessly conveyed her urgency. The desperation was unmistakable.
“Okay, Zahira ji, I’ll get back to you by 8 in the morning. Will that work for you?” Ankush said as Shreya watched him angrily. He gestured “just a few more seconds” with his hands before ending the call.
“Try to get back to me within the next 30 minutes. I don’t have much time, Ankush ji…” Zahira said anxiously.
“Alright, alright… just give me two minutes. I’ll call you back,” Ankush said before disconnecting the call and immediately dialling his editor, ignoring Shreya’s glare.
“Ma’am, I need permission to go to Karnaipur, UP,” Ankush said, skipping any formal greeting as he quickly recounted Zahira’s story.
” Stop calling me ma’am, Ankush! It’s been a month since I joined the organisation. And yes, go ahead. Ask Sandeep to arrange the tickets. When do you plan to leave?” Divyanshi, who had been woken up by the call, spoke in a low, tired voice.
“Apologies, ma’am—force of habit. Don’t worry about the tickets; I’ll handle them myself. I’ll leave early in the morning,” Ankush said hurriedly, trying to placate Shreya’s growing irritation.
“Alright, take care,” Divyanshi said before hanging up. Ankush called Zahira back and informed that he would be coming.
Ankush, 29, was a well-known crime journalist based in New Delhi. Over the past year, he had covered six investigative stories that shook the nation. These stories, involving grisly murders across the country, had not only helped authorities solve the cases but also made Ankush one of the most renowned investigative journalists of his generation.
“If you’re finally done with your calls, can we PLEASE eat now? I don’t want to reheat this for the third time,” Shreya said, her tone a mix of frustration and hope.
“I’m so sorry, but you understand, don’t you?” Ankush said, serving her food.
“Yes, unfortunately, I do…” Shreya replied with a resigned smile.
The journey
The next morning, Ankush set off for Karnaipur. He caught an early morning flight to Lucknow, followed by a three-hour road trip to the village. During the journey, he began researching the village and any reports about the missing persons, if they existed. Karnaipur, a small village in Jaisinghpur, Sultanpur district, Uttar Pradesh, had a population of fewer than 1,000. Ankush assumed navigating such a small community would be straightforward, but he had no idea what awaited him at the end of this trip.
Gulfam Haveli belonged to Nawab Zakir Khan and was named after his son, Nawab Gulfam Khan. To Ankush’s surprise, Zahira was the great-granddaughter of Gulfam Khan. Once a prominent tourist attraction, Gulfam Haveli housed a museum of weapons and artefacts. However, in the 1980s, after Zahira took charge of the Haveli following her father Aftab Khan’s death, she handed over the collection to the state government.
According to historical records Ankush found, Zahira had told the government that maintaining and preserving the artefacts was beyond her means. The Uttar Pradesh government later built a grand museum in Lucknow, the Mughlai Riyasat Museum, which still attracts many tourists. Zahira had signed an agreement with the government entitling her to 10% of ticket sales revenue, enough for her sustenance and to maintain the Haveli.
“‘The dark secrets of Gulfam Haveli.’ Now, what’s this?” Ankush muttered as he stumbled upon an old blog claiming to expose dark secrets about Zahira’s ancestral property. The blog stated, “It is still unclear how the Haveli is connected to the disappearances, but I am sure it is connected.” While the rest of the post was only 300-400 words and seemed incoherent to Ankush, this particular line caught his attention.
He recalled Zahira’s words about people vanishing into thin air in the village. Upon landing in Lucknow, Ankush found a taxi waiting for him. The moment he mentioned his destination, the driver, Jayant Jha, became expressionless. “Saab, rukna to nahi hai na?” (Sir, you’re not planning to stay there, are you?) Jayant asked anxiously.
“Bhai, rukna to padega hi. Mujhe kuch din ka kaam hai. Bataya to tha tumhein phone par ki 5-7 dino ke liye chahiye taxi,” (I’ll have to stay. I already told you on the phone that I’d need the taxi for 5-7 days) Ankush replied, slightly irritated.
“Ji saab, bataya to tha, par mujhe location pooch leni chahiye thi. Aapko raat ko bhi chahiye taxi ya raat mein main paas wale gaon mein apne rishtedaron ke paas ja sakta hun?” (Yes, sir, you did mention it, but I should’ve asked about the location. Do you need the taxi at night, or can I stay at my relatives’ house in the nearby village?) Jayant asked while starting the car.
“Ek kaam kareinge, main tumhein drop kar dunga tumhare gaon mein aur tum wapas subeh khud aajana. Mujhe car ki zaroorat hogi,” (Here’s the plan: I’ll drop you at your village, and you can return in the morning. I’ll need the car) Ankush said, trying to stay composed.
“Arre nahi saab. Main jaane ka arrangement kar lunga. Mera bhai le jayega mujhe. Thank you, aap samjhe,” (No, sir. I’ll make arrangements. My brother will pick me up. Thank you for understanding) Jayant replied, visibly relieved that he wouldn’t have to stay overnight in Karnaipur.
This conversation, however, made Ankush uneasy. ” Par baat kya hai, bhaiya? Tumhe itna darr kyun lag raha hai?” (But what’s the issue, brother? Why are you so scared?) Ankush asked.
” Saab, bahar ke log wahan gayab ho jaate hain. Kis shakti ka saaya hai, pata nahi. Bas raat mein apna kamra zaroor band kar lena,” (Sir, outsiders vanish there. I don’t know what kind of force looms over the place. Just make sure to lock your room at night) Jayant said in one breath.
Ankush found it amusing. “Yeh sab andhvishwas hota hai bhaiya… waise aapka naam kya bataya aapne?” (This is all superstition, brother… By the way, what did you say your name was?) he asked.
“Jayant… aap kaise bhi samjhein. Aap naye khayalon wale lag rahe hain. Fir bhi, saavdhan raheiyega,” (Jayant… You can think what you want. You seem like a modern thinker, but still, stay cautious) Jayant said as he sped up the taxi.
It was already noon, and he was eager to reach the village, hoping to head to his relatives’ house in a nearby village before nightfall.
The haunted atmosphere
Ankush returned to his research during the journey. They reached the village sooner than expected. “Aapne to uda ke hi pahuncha diya, Jayant ji! Par lagta hai gaon mein aake mood kharaab ho gaya aapka?” (You brought us here so quickly, Jayant! But it seems your mood soured as soon as we entered the village?) Ankush said in amusement.
“Hmmm,” was the only reply he received from Jayant, who looked visibly uneasy since they had entered the village. Ankush noticed the villagers staring at the taxi, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and suspicion, as though it carried an omen of doom. The intensity of their stares sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
“Zahira ji? I’ve reached the village and should be at the Haveli in about five minutes,” Ankush informed Zahira over the phone.
“Yes, please. Durgesh will be waiting for you at the main gate. He’ll guide you to your room. You can freshen up there and have lunch. I’ll meet you after that. I hope that’s fine,” Zahira said in the same low, restrained voice.
“Yes, of course. I am a bit tired. I’ll eat and rest for an hour. Let’s meet at 5:30 PM. Does that work for you?” Ankush saw an opportunity to rest before starting his work.
“Yes, sure,” Zahira replied and disconnected the call without any further pleasantries.
When Ankush arrived at the Haveli, he immediately felt something was off. The atmosphere around it seemed haunting. A man in traditional attire stood at the gate, waiting.
“Ankush sir?” the man asked as the taxi came to a halt and Ankush rolled down the window.
“Yes, Durgesh?” Ankush confirmed while stepping out of the car.
“Yes, sir. Please hand over your luggage and follow me. The taxi can be parked here,” Durgesh said, pointing to a designated parking area just inside the gate.
Jayant quickly parked the car and joined Ankush as they followed Durgesh.
“The land this Haveli stands on spans over 25 acres. It used to be more than 100 acres, but after independence, most of it was given to the government. We have farms in that direction,” Durgesh gestured, “and the produce is used exclusively for the Haveli. There are 45 people working here, all living with their families. They contribute as much as they can to support Madam ji.”
“By Madam ji, you mean Zahira ji, right?” Ankush asked, admiring the rustic yet elegant Haveli. “This is stunning. I wonder why Zahira ji never considered turning it into a resort. It could’ve been a hit with filmmakers and the wedding industry.”
“Yes, we all call Zahira ji ‘Madam ji.’ As for your question, we all encouraged her to consider it, but she was adamant. We wanted her to enjoy a more lavish life, but her decisions are final,” Durgesh said, leading Ankush through the maze-like Haveli with ease.
“This place feels like a labyrinth. What if I want to leave on my own?” Ankush asked, curious if this was some kind of trap.
“To be honest, it’s tricky to navigate. But look to your right—above this statue. See the arrow? These arrows are placed all around and lead to the main gate where you entered,” Durgesh explained.
“Oh, that’s clever. Jayant, what’s your plan? If you want to leave, you can go now and return tomorrow morning,” Ankush said, turning to Jayant.
“I’ve already messaged my brother,” Jayant replied, his voice tinged with fear.
“You’re not staying here?” Durgesh asked, glancing back.
“No,” Jayant replied curtly, avoiding eye contact.
“Are you scared of the stories?” Durgesh asked with a chuckle.
Jayant looked away, silent.
“I don’t understand who spreads these rumours. Our families have lived in this Haveli for generations—even before Nawab Zakir Khan purchased it from Maharaja Randhir Singh,” Durgesh said, a note of pain in his voice.
“Wait, this Haveli wasn’t built by Zakir Khan?” Ankush stopped in his tracks.
“Nawab Zakir Khan. No, sir. It was built by Maharaja Veerbhadra Singh, grandfather of Maharaja Randhir Singh. Later, Maharaja Randhir Singh moved to another Haveli in Mathura district. Zakir Khan purchased this one in the early 1800s,” Durgesh explained.
“Fascinating,” Ankush murmured. “This information isn’t mentioned anywhere in the online history of this Haveli,” he said, examining the intricate stone carvings more closely.
“Yes,” Durgesh said, opening the door to Ankush’s room. “Here you are, sir. If you need anything, there’s a bell next to your bed,” he pointed to a button. “I’ll take my leave now. Have a good day, sir.”
Durgesh left, and Jayant prepared to do the same. “I’ll be back in the morning, sir. My brother has arrived outside the Haveli,” Jayant said and walked away without waiting for a response.
Fifteen minutes later, Ankush’s lunch arrived. After eating, he decided to rest for a while, knowing he still had a couple of hours before his scheduled meeting with Zahira.
The meeting raised more questions
“Ankush sir, Ankush sir!” Ankush woke to a gentle knock on the door and someone calling his name. “Just a minute,” he replied, getting up from the bed. As he opened the door, a dusky-skinned, young, and charming woman greeted him.
“Namaste, Ankush sir. I am Fatima. Madam ji is waiting for you,” she said, peeking inside over Ankush’s shoulder.
“Yes, yes. Give me five minutes. I just need to freshen up,” Ankush said, turning away, leaving the door ajar.
“I’ll wait here,” Fatima said, settling into a chair placed outside the room. Within five minutes, Ankush was ready.
“Let’s go,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Ankush ji! I am Zahira. Come, sit here,” Zahira greeted Ankush enthusiastically as he entered the lavish room and gestured for him to sit on a couch next to hers.
Ankush smiled and took his seat, glancing around the room. It was one of the most opulent setups he had ever seen. Everything shimmered with luxury, each item clearly bearing a hefty price tag. Ankush, accustomed to modest living, was shocked by the sheer wealth concentrated in a single space.
“Ankush ji, are you interested in art?” Zahira asked, noticing how he was taking in the surroundings.
“Not exactly, but I am curious to know how much these paintings are worth!” he admitted hesitantly.
“Each piece is valued anywhere between 10 lakhs and 10 crores, depending on the artist,” Zahira replied matter-of-factly. Ankush sat in stunned silence, his awe mingling with disbelief as he counted at least 20 such paintings in the vast room.
“Anyway, let’s get to the point,” Ankush said, pulling himself together. “Zahira ji, you mentioned—”
“Wait, Ankush ji, wait… Fatima, bring some tea and snacks,” Zahira interrupted, asking Fatima to step out. Ankush noticed Fatima’s reluctance as she left the room, her discomfort evident.
“Now you may ask,” Zahira said, settling back comfortably on the couch and lighting her hookah.
“Yes, I wanted to delve into the details you mentioned on the phone. You said you have information about 140 people who disappeared from this village without a trace,” Ankush said, opening his diary.
” I do, Ankush ji. Before we begin, observe that velvet box,” Zahira said, her finger trembling slightly as she pointed to the rectangular purple velvet box at the centre of the table. “Inside it lies something that could rewrite what you think you know. But to open it, one must first earn the right,” she added, her tone heavy with an unspoken challenge.
“I will tell you everything, but it won’t be that straightforward. First, you must prove your worth to uncover the dark history of this village,” Zahira’s tone turned serious, and Ankush felt a chill run down his spine, again. Her words, combined with her demeanour, made him uncomfortable. Despite his experience with grim cases, he struggled to maintain his composure.
“Ankush ji, the Haveli has witnessed centuries of joy and tragedy,” Zahira said, her eyes gazing into the distance. “It’s a legacy I inherited, but it doesn’t feel like mine to keep. Every stone here holds stories—some beautiful, others dark and painful. My family did what they thought was best, but the weight of these walls is heavier than you can imagine. Some truths demand to be told, but others…” She trailed off, her voice faltering. For a moment, Zahira seemed lost in thought, as though wrestling with whether to say more. “You’ll understand when the time is right,” she finally added, her expression unreadable.
“I understand. Tell me, how can I convince you?” Ankush asked, steadying himself.
“May I come in?” Fatima’s voice came from outside.
“Come in, but don’t place anything on the table,” Zahira instructed while puffing on her hookah.
Fatima brought tea on a trolley and served Ankush before leaving the room.
“Aren’t you having tea?” Ankush asked, taking his first sip.
“I will, in a couple of minutes,” Zahira replied, setting the hookah aside. “Durgesh! Durgesh! Take this away,” she called. Durgesh promptly entered, took the hookah, and exited within moments.
“Ankush ji, people began disappearing from this village in the 1950s. Over the past 70 years, 140 people have vanished. During my time managing this Haveli, I witnessed about 100 of these disappearances. The police, the administration, detectives—everyone came and left without answers. But I know what happened to them,” Zahira said in one breath while pouring herself some tea.
“Listen, Ankush ji, this could be the biggest story of your life. But I’m not ready to hand it over so easily. As you can see, I don’t have any material desires—I have more than enough. My only concern is ensuring that you’re the right person to narrate this story without bias,” Zahira said, her eyes full of expectation.
“Ankush ji, I’ve lived with this burden my whole life,” Zahira began, her voice tinged with melancholy. “When I was a child, my father often spoke of the ‘curse’ on Gulfam Haveli. He believed our ancestors had taken something sacred from the land when the Haveli was built. But my father was a devout man; he believed prayers could protect us. After he passed, I struggled to keep the Haveli standing and the villagers safe. Every time someone disappeared, I felt I was failing them. You see, Ankush ji, this isn’t just a story—it’s a wound that won’t heal. I don’t want it to be forgotten after I’m gone.”
Ankush was puzzled. He couldn’t quite grasp the situation.
“Alright, Zahira ji. Please tell me what I need to do,” Ankush said, setting his teacup down.
“You must visit the village and speak to the locals. Hear their versions. Gather clues. Piece together a chronology of events that ultimately led you here. At some point, you will find your way to a special room in this Haveli and discover the velvet box there. That moment will provide you with enough answers, and I will fill in the gaps,” Zahira said, pointing to the box.
“It sounds like a treasure hunt,” Ankush remarked, trying to lighten the mood.
“More like a detective quest, I’d say. But Ankush ji, if you fail to reach the room by the evening two days from now, I will tell you nothing, and you will have to leave without another chance,” Zahira explained, laying out the terms.
” Alright, Zahira ji. I’ll take my leave now. I need to prepare for tomorrow,” Ankush said, standing up reluctantly, the weight of Zahira’s cryptic words lingering in his mind. As he turned to leave, Zahira’s voice stopped him mid-step. “Ankush ji, remember this: the answers you seek could cost you more than you’re ready to pay.” Her words echoed in the quiet room, leaving Ankush with a sense of foreboding that refused to fade.
“Very well. I’ll have your dinner sent to your room. Best of luck, Ankush ji,” Zahira said, still seated on the couch.
The meeting left Ankush feeling confused. As he walked back to his room, he scrutinised the paintings and artefacts with greater interest.
“Sir, sir! Ankush sir!” Durgesh called from behind, stopping him. “Let me guide you to your room; otherwise, you’ll get lost,” Durgesh said, moving ahead to lead the way. Ankush followed silently, his mind swirling with questions.
The quest for the truth
“Jayant, what time will you be here?” Ankush sent a message to Jayant while getting ready. He had woken up early, unable to sleep deeply—a rarity for him. Throughout the night, Ankush woke up multiple times, his mind racing with thoughts of what he might uncover. As he finished preparing, Jayant messaged that he would arrive in 30 minutes.
“Saab?” Jayant called softly as he knocked on the door.
“Come in!” Ankush called back.
“Jayant, take this bag with you,” Ankush instructed, pointing to a packed bag. “It has my camera and recorder, plus an extra set of clothes. I don’t trust the inner village roads much—I might need them. Put them in the car; we’ll leave in about 20 minutes,” he said while jotting something down in his diary.
“Not so soon, Ankush sir!” Fatima interrupted as she entered the room. “Bring it in,” she instructed someone outside, who promptly brought in breakfast.
“Wow, this isn’t just breakfast—it could double as lunch too!” Ankush joked, smiling. After eating and getting some food packed for the day, he and Jayant left.
“Jayant, let’s stop at a tea stall first. I’ll explain why later,” Ankush said, his tone firm.
“Saab, wahan kuch bhi milna mushkil hai. Sab log ya to chhupte hain ya bhaag jaate hain,” (Sir, it’s hard to get anything there. People either hide or run away,) Jayant replied, hesitating to pull over.
“Bas roko. Har chhoti baat ek clue hoti hai,” (Just stop. Every little thing is a clue,) Ankush said with an air of determination. “Aur yahan ke log jo chhupa rahe hain, wahi toh mujhe samajhna hai,” (And whatever the villagers are hiding, that’s exactly what I need to figure out.)About ten minutes into the journey, they found themselves on the surprisingly well-maintained village roads. Jayant noticed a fairly busy tea stall.
“Saab, there’s one,” he said, pulling the car towards it.
“Tea stalls and pan shops are the best places to pick up local gossip in villages like these, Jayant. You must know that—your village is nearby,” Ankush said, grabbing his backpack with his camera and recorder.
“Hopefully, sir,” Jayant replied while parking the car. He still seemed tense, likely due to the village’s dark reputation.
“Bhai, do chai dena,” (Brother, two teas, please) Ankush said as he sat on a bench outside the tea stall.
“Aap yahan ke toh nahi lagte? Yeh highway bhi nahi hai. Kisi se milne aaye hain aap?” (You don’t seem to be from around here. This isn’t a highway either. Are you visiting someone?) the tea stall owner asked, handing over the tea.
“Haan, woh Gulfam Haveli pe ek story kar raha hoon. Zahira ji ko toh jaante hi honge aap,” (Yes, I’m working on a story about Gulfam Haveli. You must know Zahira ji.) Ankush replied casually.
The tea stall owner’s expression immediately darkened.
“Haan, jaanta hoon. Toh aap hain Ankush babu. Koi kahani nahi hai saab idhar. Kyun apni maut ko bulate ho?” (Yes, I know her. So, you’re Ankush. There’s no story here, sir. Why invite your death?) the tea stall owner said bluntly. Around them, the chatter stopped, and the crowd fell silent at the mention of the Haveli.
“Kehna kya chahte ho?” (What do you mean?) Ankush asked, intrigued. “Aur tumhein mera naam kaise pata? Aapka naam?” (And how do you know my name? What’s yours?)
“Saab, main Gokul. Chhota sa gaon hai… mushkil se 1,000 ghar hain idhar. Aapko kya lagta hai kitna samay lagta hoga poore gaon ko pata chalne mein ki koi naya aaya hai?” (Sir, I’m Gokul. This is a small village, with barely 1,000 homes. How long do you think it takes for everyone to know when a stranger arrives?) Gokul replied, making another round of tea.
“Yeh baat toh theek hai,” (Fair point.) Ankush nodded. “Gokul ji, can you tell me anything about the people who’ve disappeared?” he asked, sensing an opportunity.
One of the men at the tea stall finally spoke up, his voice trembling. “Saab, yeh jagah hamesha ajeeb rahi hai,” (Sir, this place has always been strange.) he said, glancing nervously at the others. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai jaise hawa bhi yahan alag chalti hai,” (Sometimes it feels like even the wind moves differently here.) He hesitated before continuing, “Log toh bas kahte hain ki yahaan ka mahol hi galat hai, par asli wajah kisi ko nahi pata.” (People just say that the atmosphere here is wrong, but no one knows the real reason.) His vague words, combined with the anxious stares from the others, painted a picture of a place steeped in whispered stories and hidden fears, yet devoid of tangible answers. As he spoke, people started to leave.
“Saab, chai piyo aur jao… Aapke ek sawaal ne dekho mere saare grahak bhaga diye,” (Sir, drink your tea and leave. Look, your one question scared away all my customers.) Gokul said angrily, pointing out the empty stall. He wasn’t wrong—people had scattered the moment Ankush asked about the disappearances.
“Maafi chahta hoon aapka nuksaan karwane ke liye. Yeh 500 rupay rakhiye. Main chalta hoon,” (I apologise for causing you losses. Here, take this ₹500. I’ll leave now.) Ankush said, handing him a note, which Gokul accepted without hesitation.
“Saab, there was no need to give him so much money,” Jayant said as they got back into the car.
“Hmm, it’s fine,” Ankush muttered, his mind occupied by the villagers’ strange reactions. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he murmured to himself.
For the rest of the day, Ankush and Jayant roamed the village, leaving the car parked in one place. But no matter whom they approached—men, women, or children—everyone either avoided them or outright ran away. Ankush’s frustration grew with every passing hour.
“Uncle, UNCLE!” A young voice called from behind, and Ankush felt a small hand tugging at his shirt. He turned around to see a boy, no older than six or seven, standing there.
“Hello! Kya kar sakta hoon main tumhare liye?” (Hello! What can I do for you?) Ankush asked, ruffling the boy’s hair.
The child grabbed Ankush’s hand and began pulling him in a specific direction. Without hesitation, Ankush followed.
“Saab, where is he taking us? I don’t think this is safe… Are you listening, Saab?” Jayant whispered nervously.
“Relax. Let’s see where he’s taking us, then we’ll decide what to do,” Ankush replied, more focused on uncovering the truth than his safety.
“Saab, mujhe kuch theek nahi lag raha,” (Sir, I don’t feel good about this.) Jayant murmured again.
“I said RELAX!” Ankush snapped, irritated by the constant interference. “Do one thing—call your brother. I’ll handle it from here,” he added.
“Suno, bachche… ek minute rukoge?” (Hey kid… can you wait a minute?) Ankush said, gently pulling the boy back.
“Imran naam hai mera,” (My name is Imran.) the boy replied, tugging at his hand impatiently.
“Bas ek minute…” (Just a minute…) Ankush told him, turning to Jayant. “Jayant, head back to the tea stall where we started. Wait for your brother there.”
Jayant left without a word.
“Haan, ab chalo,” (Alright, let’s go now.) Ankush said with a smile. Imran led him to an elderly man sitting outside a small house.
“Chacha, laao mere 5 rupay,” (Uncle, give me my 5 rupees.) the boy demanded his ‘fee’ for bringing Ankush. After receiving the money, Imran ran off instantly.
“Baithiye, saab,” (Have a seat, sir.) the elderly man said, pointing to a chair beside him. “Main Hariman Jha hoon. Maine suna aap logon ke gayab hone par koi kahani kar rahe hain?” (I’m Hariman Jha. I heard you’re working on a story about the disappearances?) he continued without waiting for a response.
“Main bata sakta hoon aapko sab kuch, agar aap interested hon toh,” (I can tell you everything, if you’re interested.) Hariman offered, locking eyes with Ankush.
Finding the links
Ankush took out his recorder. “Baba, main hamare beech hui baat record karunga. Aapko koi aitraaz to nahi na?” (Baba, I’ll record our conversation. You don’t have any objection, do you?) he asked.
“Nahi, nahi. Aap kar lo record. Bas naam mat daaliyega mera kahin bhi,” (No, no. Go ahead and record, but don’t mention my name anywhere,) Hariram replied, looking at Ankush with hope.
“Aap woh chinta mat kijiye. Achcha, baba, ab aaram se, shanti se mujhe bataiye ke chal kya raha hai yahan,” (Don’t worry about that. Alright, baba, now calmly and peacefully tell me what’s going on here,) Ankush reassured him, placing the recorder on the stool between their chairs.
“Beta, main yahin isi gaon mein paida hua tha, 1962 mein. Yahan sab kuch shant aur bahut hi badhiya chal raha tha. 1976 mein, jab main 14 saal ka tha, tab pehla insaan yahan se gayab hua,” (Son, I was born in this village in 1962. Everything was peaceful and wonderful here. Then, in 1976, when I was 14, the first person disappeared.) Hariram began, his voice heavy with emotion.
“There used to be a police outpost here, and the officer-in-charge, who was from Lucknow, suddenly vanished. People searched everywhere. A team of police officers from Lucknow was even called in, but he was never found. This happened in March—I remember it well. After that, every four months, someone else would disappear.
“Over time, we realised that only outsiders were vanishing. Not a single local had disappeared,” Hariram said, narrating the events in one breath.
“Shant ho jao, baba. Main kahin nahi bhaag raha,” (Calm down, baba. I’m not going anywhere,) Ankush said with a reassuring smile.
“But I am in a hurry, Mr Ankush,” Hariram suddenly said in fluent English, catching Ankush off guard.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Hariram continued. “Let me tell you my story first. But remember, I must remain here and wait for someone to trust with the entire truth. I cannot rely on anyone from the administration either.”
Hariram paused, looking around cautiously, and then resumed, “When I was 23, I left this village in search of better opportunities. I moved to Delhi, where I found a job, learnt English, and continued my education while doing odd jobs. I married a beautiful, educated woman, Nisha. After spending five years in Delhi, we decided to return to the village in 1992, hoping to revitalise it.”
Hariram’s expression shifted with each memory—sometimes smiling, sometimes sombre.
“Nisha and I decided to open a small school. By then, Zahira had taken over the Haveli. I had never known that Aftab had a daughter. You know Zahira’s father’s name, right?” Hariram paused, and Ankush nodded.
“We went to Zahira for financial support to set up an English school. She liked the idea and immediately gave us ₹5 lakh—a huge sum at the time. We established the school and ensured we had the best books. Do you see that wall behind me? That’s the school… look at its condition now,” Hariram pointed sadly to the dilapidated building.
“Despite the school, life in the village remained overshadowed by the disappearances. By 1999, it was common knowledge that outsiders were vanishing. Officers refused postings here, and the police outpost was relocated. Fear gripped the village, yet the locals stayed silent. Investigators came and left, unable to stay long. I’m sure you’ve felt the eerie atmosphere yourself,” Hariram said, and Ankush nodded again.
“On 29th June 2001, Nisha went to fetch groceries from a shop just 100-150 metres away. It was 12:30 PM. By 1:30 PM, when she hadn’t returned, I went to the shop, but Bhola, the shopkeeper, denied seeing her. Nisha became the next victim. I was devastated. She was part of the village, not an outsider.” Hariram’s eyes welled up with tears.
“After four months, I realised the pattern had changed. Women who had married into the village were now vanishing. Reshma disappeared on 30th October 2001, just like Nisha. Families began leaving the village. By 2003, only 1,000 families remained out of the 2,500 who once lived here,” Hariram explained, his voice heavy with despair.
“Dada ji, aap kya kar rahe hain?” (Grandfather, what are you doing?) A woman stepped out of the house, her eyes narrowing as she saw Ankush.
“Dada ji, aapko pehle bhi bola tha. Aap please andar chalo. Aur aap,” (Grandfather, I’ve told you before. Please go inside. And you,) she turned to Ankush, “Aap abhi ke abhi yahan se jaiye. Rudra! Rudra bahar aao!” (Leave immediately. Rudra! Rudra, come out!)
A tall man stepped out, and the woman whispered something to him.
“Aap abhi ke abhi yahan se chale jao. Dada ji ko aapse kuch aur nahi kehna,” (Leave immediately. Grandfather has nothing more to say to you,) Rudra said firmly, practically carrying Hariram back inside.
Ankush left without a word, heading straight to the police station. After briefing the station in-charge, Wasim Khan—while omitting Zahira’s role—Ankush requested the files on unsolved cases.
“Vasu, bring the files,” Wasim instructed his constable. Ankush was expecting a large stack but was handed a thin 200-page folder.
“That’s it?” Ankush asked, surprised.
“Yes. There’s little to go on. Every case is the same—person vanishes, locals search, police investigate, and nothing comes of it. Cameras were installed at exit points, but even they revealed nothing. The last person to vanish, four months ago, was Dhriti Kumari, a social worker. We warned her not to come here, but she didn’t listen,” Wasim said, pulling her file from the folder.
“Nishant Jha, the previous in-charge, even requested a high-level investigation by the NIA or CBI, suspecting terrorism or organised crime. But instead of support, he was transferred,” Wasim added, leaning back in his chair.
The curious case of the purple flower
“Can I read the files here? I won’t take them or make copies,” Ankush asked.
“Sure. Vasu, arrange some tea for Ankush. You can sit in the next cabin,” Wasim said, pointing to the empty room nearby.
In two hours, Ankush combed through the files, taking notes. He noticed a peculiar detail: every disappearance occurred in the last week of the month. In each case, investigations would intensify but abruptly die down after someone from the Haveli was questioned.
One peculiar detail stood out—a flower was mentioned in the 105th case for the first time, found near the missing person’s bed. A photograph of the flower caught Ankush’s attention—it was something he had seen before.
“Wasim sir, I’ll take my leave now. I’ll meet you the day after tomorrow, hopefully with some answers,” Ankush said, closing the file and leaving without waiting for a reply.
The flower Ankush saw in the folder was a shiny purple one, the same flower he had noticed in Zahira’s room. He was certain there was a connection between Gulfam Haveli and the disappearances. As he entered the village, he spotted Hariram sitting on a bench. Ankush immediately stopped the car and rushed to him.
“You went to the police station, didn’t you? You saw the flower? You know, right?” Hariram asked hurriedly, his voice trembling.
“Yes, I noticed it. Did you ever tell anyone about the flowers?” Ankush asked.
“No, not exactly. I’ve been trying to find connections myself since Nisha disappeared. Ankush, beta, please find answers for me. I want to die peacefully. I need to know—did Zahira kill her? Did someone else? There’s no reason for Nisha not to come back to me otherwise,” Hariram’s desperation was palpable.
“Please, find the answers and come back to me… please…” Hariram pleaded as he noticed Rudra approaching in the distance. “You should go, or my grandson will kill you,” he warned, urging Ankush to leave.
Ankush headed straight to the Haveli. “Durgesh, can I meet Zahira ji?” he asked Durgesh, who was seated at the entrance.
“Not now. Tomorrow. She’ll meet you at 3 PM. She has some work to finish until then,” Durgesh replied without making eye contact.
“Alright. Just let her know I may have some answers,” Ankush said as he entered the Haveli. Durgesh watched him for a moment before rushing to Zahira.
“He may know…” Durgesh said without any greeting.
“Let’s see. Is everything ready?” Zahira asked calmly.
“Yes…” Durgesh confirmed.
Meanwhile, Ankush wandered through the Haveli, observing the tense expressions of those who had previously been friendly to him. Returning to his room, he documented everything he had uncovered about the Haveli and the missing persons.
“Shreya? Haan… I’m coming back tomorrow. This looks like a good story. I’ll tell you everything once I’m back. Just relax. I’m fine. Have dinner and rest,” Ankush sent a voice note to his wife before going to bed.
The discovery
The next morning, Ankush woke at 6 AM and decided to take a walk around the Haveli. As he strolled towards the back, he noticed a cluster of shiny purple flowers. He took out his phone to compare them with the photograph in the police files—it was a perfect match. Smiling, Ankush examined the flowers closely.
As Ankush knelt to examine the cluster of shiny purple flowers, he noticed something peculiar—a faint, sweet aroma emanating from the blooms. The scent was almost hypnotic, tugging at a memory he couldn’t quite place. He snapped a few photos before spotting an engraved stone partially buried beneath the flowers. Brushing off the dirt, he found a single word carved into the stone: “Varunium.” Curious, Ankush made a mental note to research the term. Was it the name of the flower, or did it signify something deeper? For a fleeting moment, the air seemed to thicken, as though the village itself was watching his every move.
A few minutes later, he noticed a door leading to a basement, with a glass replica of the same flower embedded into it. The door was so well-hidden that anyone walking casually would have missed it.
Looking around to ensure no one was watching, Ankush tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Determined, he retrieved his lock-breaking kit and carefully broke the lock, slipping inside undetected.
As Ankush descended, a chill ran down his spine. The air in the basement felt heavy, similar to the eerie atmosphere he had felt in the village and Zahira’s room.
The basement was a long, dimly lit space. As Ankush walked, he realised it was as large as the main section of the Haveli. “So, this Haveli is built on these pillars… fascinating,” he murmured, continuing deeper into the space.
At the far end of the room, a table caught his attention. On it rested a box under the faint glow of a dim light. As he approached, he recognised it—it was the same velvet box Zahira had mentioned.
The velvet box
Adrenaline coursed through Ankush’s veins as he reached for the box. This was the special room Zahira had spoken of. Hundreds of questions swirled in his mind as he slowly lifted the box.
As he picked it up, the room’s lights flickered on, revealing a sight that froze Ankush in his tracks and made his blood run cold.
The walls were meticulously lined with human skulls, each one staring back at him with haunting precision. Ankush almost dropped the box in shock.
He quickly placed the box back on the table and video-called Shreya. “Shreya, don’t ask any questions. Just look around,” he said, panning his phone to show her the horrifying scene.
“What the hell? Ankush, get out of there! Ankush… don’t stay there. Please come back,” Shreya begged, her voice breaking.
“I will. I’m leaving now. But wait… I need to see what’s inside the box first. Shreya, hold on,” Ankush said, placing his phone down but keeping the call active.
He opened the box with trembling hands. Inside was a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he found a list of names—every person who had vanished from the village. At the bottom of the list was his own name.
Before he could react, a blow landed on the back of his head.
“Ankush! ANKUSH!” Shreya screamed as she saw a hand disconnect the call.
The aftermath
Shreya immediately alerted the police. Given Ankush’s reputation as a journalist and their connections with high-ranking officials, including the Chief Minister’s office, a full-scale investigation was launched.
The police discovered that Ankush had left the village and boarded a train from Sultanpur three days after his last call to Shreya. After that, he vanished without a trace.
Shreya informed the police about the room with the skulls, but no evidence of its existence was found. The Haveli was thoroughly searched, yet no sign of the basement or the flowers was uncovered. The investigation eventually went cold.
Six months later, Zahira passed away. She was buried on the Haveli premises. The news of her death and the village’s history of disappearances made it to a few newspapers but only as minor reports buried deep inside the pages.
A new beginning?
“Daniel? Is that Daniel?” a voice asked over the phone.
“Yes, this is Daniel. Who’s calling?”
” I have a project in Karnaipur village, Uttar Pradesh. The pay is excellent, and it’ll only take a week,” the voice said.
“Sure, but may I know more about the project so I can give you an estimate?” Daniel asked.
“Money isn’t a concern. I need the best interior designer. I want my room redecorated with some modern art. Your name came highly recommended. I’ll send you the address. Be there next week. You’ll be paid upon arrival,” the voice said before disconnecting.
“Pooja! Pooja, I think I’ve got a big project. I need to go to UP. I’ll leave the day after tomorrow,” Daniel told his wife.
“Ankush sir, dinner is ready,” Durgesh said, entering the room as he scrolled through Daniel’s profile on his phone.
“Thank you. We’re redecorating this room,” Ankush said with a smile.
“Okay, sir. I’ll get the guest room ready,” Durgesh replied with a grin, leaving the room.
Ankush’s reflection in the ornate mirror above the fireplace didn’t feel like his own. His eyes, once sharp and determined, now bore a strange detachment, as though they belonged to someone else entirely. The Haveli’s air felt suffocating, yet oddly soothing, as if the walls themselves had embraced him. He wasn’t sure when the shift had happened—when his quest for truth had morphed into an inexplicable loyalty to Zahira and the secrets she guarded. Somewhere deep inside, a voice screamed for him to leave, but it was drowned out by the intoxicating pull of the velvet box, the Haveli, and whatever power they possessed. He wasn’t the 141st. He was, the next “Zahira”…
Ankush placed the ornate hookah aside—a habit he didn’t remember acquiring. The air felt heavy yet comforting, like an old friend. “The velvet box doesn’t just reveal the truth—it claims you. Zahira knew this, and now… so do I,” a though wandered in Ankush’s mind as he dimmed the lights while his reflection in the mirror faded into shadow. The Haveli chooses its keeper. It always has. It always will. Shreya’s voice, once so vivid in his mind, now felt like a faint hum in the background. The names in the box weren’t just a list. They were his responsibility.
© Lekhak Anurag. Any unauthorised reproduction, personal or commercial, without permission is prohibited. For reproduction or commercial use of the story, please ping me on mailme[at]lekhakanurag[dot]com.
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