Buried Daughter: The Cupboard Never Forgets / Chapter 4: The Return
Buried Daughter: The Cupboard Never Forgets

Buried Daughter: The Cupboard Never Forgets

Author: Vivaan Joshi

Chapter 4: The Return

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Back home, the lights flickered as I stumbled in, sweat drenching my shirt. I collapsed onto the sofa, the lingering smell of agarbatti and fear in the air.

When I finished my story,

Meena sat in stunned silence, hands clamped over her mouth. Her face was drained of colour, the room suddenly colder.

Her first reaction was disbelief.

She shook her head, eyes wide. "Arjun, bas karo. Tumhare dimaag ka dhoka hai. Bhooton ki koi baat nahi hai."

"Arjun, tum bas bahana bana rahe ho, na? Kiran ko dafnane se darte ho, isliye yeh sab kahani suna rahe ho? Duniya mein aisi bhayanak cheezein nahi hoti."

She glared, arms crossed, but her fingers twisted the end of her saree, betraying her fear.

I pleaded, "Meena, main sach keh raha hoon. Maine Kittu ki awaaz suni. Yeh sab main nahi bana raha."

But Meena wouldn’t believe me.

She looked away, lips pressed tight, the silence heavy between us.

Finally, she snapped, "Tumse kuch nahi hoga. Main khud jaa kar Kiran ko dafnane jaaungi."

She wrapped her dupatta tight, muttering under her breath, and slammed the door so hard the Ganesh idol on the shelf rattled.

She left, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. I sat, stunned, shadows pressing in.

Not long after,

The phone rang—my in-laws, asking about wedding preparations and the pandit. Their voices were bright, laughter and clinking glasses in the background. I lied, saying Meena was unwell and we’d visit the pandit soon.

They were particular about muhurat, reminding me again to get everything right. I nodded along, heart racing.

After the call, I opened a beer, desperate to numb my nerves.

The cold liquid burned my throat, but dulled nothing. The TV flickered in the dark, images blurring.

I kept thinking about the cupboard, unable to piece it together.

If it was a person, how could she survive? If a ghost, why was she trapped? The questions circled endlessly.

Eventually, I fell into a heavy sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept. The house was silent, only the wall clock ticking.

Suddenly, someone shook me violently.

"Arjun, uth! Uth jaldi!"

I opened my eyes. Meena stood before me, hair wild, saree torn at the hem, dust and fear clinging to her like a second skin.

She collapsed beside me, clutching my arm, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Night had fallen again, and Meena had returned from the old house.

Her eyes were wild, face streaked with tears. She looked truly broken for the first time.

I knew she’d heard the voice too.

I squeezed her hand, searching her eyes. She nodded, lips trembling, fear shining in her gaze.

"Toh main jhooth nahin bol raha tha, na? Tumne bhi Kiran ki awaaz suni. Yeh sab sach hai."

Meena stared blankly, still in shock. "Maine suna... suna. Nahin, sirf suna nahi—maine... maine almari bhi khol di."

Her voice was a whisper, but her words sent a fresh wave of terror through me. She rocked back and forth, hands pressed to her temples.

"Kya!"

I grabbed her shoulders. "Kisne bola tha kholne ko? Kya tha andar?"

Meena’s eyes darted to the door. "Woh... woh abhi darwaze par hai."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and final. I turned, dread coiling in my stomach, as the sound of small, shuffling footsteps echoed in the corridor.

The game of hide-and-seek was not over. Our Kiran—our Kittu—had finally been found.

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