Chapter 2: The Store Room Secret

I tapped the notification bar and saw:

"Please judge which is not a lie: 1. Your mother will die; 2. You yourself will die; 3. There will be a ghost in your store room."

The words leapt out at me, as if the phone itself had turned into some cursed talisman. My scalp tingled; I could feel the hairs on my neck stand up.

These three options made my scalp tingle again.

The familiar chill was back, stronger than before. It was as if the room had dropped several degrees in temperature, the air thick with dread.

Two options were the same as last time, the ones I hadn’t chosen—and would never choose.

My mind circled the possibilities, fear rising with every loop. The third option was new, but no less terrifying.

Clearly, I was being forced to pick the third option.

I clenched my teeth, fighting back tears. The sense of being trapped grew heavier, like an invisible chain tightening around my chest.

But just now, I had really seen a ghost at Rohan’s place…

I bit my lip, the memory of her face burned into my mind. Was it real? Or had I lost my senses?

Does this mean that female ghost is coming to kill me?

A wave of panic crashed over me. Was this how it ended? Alone, at night, no one to help.

Just like she killed Rohan.

My eyes filled with tears, the guilt gnawing at my insides. If only I had picked differently…

But that’s not right.

I forced myself to think, to reason through the terror. If it was just about killing me, why these games?

If she only wanted to kill me, there’d be no need for this game of choices.

It felt like being in one of those old Akbar-Birbal riddles, except the price for a wrong answer was someone’s life.

She could just come and kill me, couldn’t she?

Exactly—so why not? What was the point of these twisted riddles?

The female ghost must have some reason for doing this.

I chewed my thumbnail, a nervous habit from childhood. The logic was shaky, but it gave me a sliver of hope. There must be a reason—some pattern, some way out.

I noticed—

My eyes flickered back to the screen, scanning the latest message for clues. Maybe, if I could understand the rules, I could survive.

This time, the multiple-choice question included a specific place: "store room."

My mind snagged on that detail. Why now? The other questions were vague, but this one pointed to a place—a place in my own home.

Previous messages never mentioned a location.

I scrolled up, double-checking. True—this was the first time. My heart thudded harder, hope and dread warring inside me.

But this time, it did.

Maybe it was important, a clue or a warning. The thought gave me purpose, even as fear gnawed at my belly.

There must be something special about it.

I remembered Maa’s warning, her superstitions about certain corners of the house. There was always something a little off about that store room.

Maybe it’s the key to all these strange things happening tonight.

I gripped the phone tighter. Maybe, just maybe, the answer lay there. My fear was still strong, but curiosity began to flicker, too.

Should I go check it out?

I swallowed, wiping sweat from my brow. Was this bravery or foolishness? My hands shook as I tucked the phone into my pocket, readying myself.

While I hesitated, I also noticed some other hidden rules—

I stood by the bedroom door, mind racing, searching for a pattern in the madness. My inner voice sounded like Maa’s—always looking for sense, for a reason.

First, only after the answer I chose became reality did the next message arrive.

I replayed the events—first power cut, then Rohan’s death. No messages until after. That meant the game would wait for my answer. That was something.

Second, the messages didn’t specify a time limit for answering, so maybe I could choose not to answer, or at least not rush?

It was a thin hope, but hope all the same. Maybe if I stalled, I could think of a way out, or at least buy time.

With this in mind, I got up to look for the store room key.

The house was silent except for my own footsteps, muffled against the tiles. I padded past the kitchen, the darkness swallowing every corner.

Speaking of the store room, my mother never let me go in—she always kept it locked.

She said it was because of the rats, but I never believed her. The lock itself was old and heavy, the kind you saw on temples or ancestral homes. I always imagined there was something hidden inside—treasure, or maybe a secret. Tonight, I’d find out.

But I was clever enough to know where she hid the key, tucked behind the old mixer-grinder in the kitchen.

My hands moved almost on their own, groping behind the dusty mixer. The kitchen still smelled faintly of last evening’s tadka, and for a moment, the normalcy was a comfort.

I found it easily, went to the door, and unlocked it.

The key clicked with a reluctant groan, as if the door itself was warning me not to enter. My breath caught as I twisted the handle.

As I pushed the door open, a musty smell of old neem leaves drifted out.

The air was thick with the smell of old neem leaves and mothballs—like visiting a relative’s house during summer holidays. The neem was sharp and bitter, the mothballs medicinal. Childhood memories flickered in my mind.

When I was a child, my mother told me neem could ward off evil.

Her voice echoed in my memory, reciting age-old stories of rakshasas and chudails defeated by the power of neem. For the first time, I hoped she was right.

Because of the power outage, I could only use my phone torch to look around.

The harsh white light sliced through the darkness, making every shadow look deeper, every corner more mysterious. The silence was thick, broken only by the creak of the door.

Inside were all sorts of old things—tables, chairs, suitcases, lamps—stuff we didn’t use anymore.

It was like a museum of our lives—childhood toys, broken stools, a plastic Krishna idol missing an arm, forgotten Diwali diyas. The air was thick with dust and memories.

My eyes were drawn to a dark red almirah—

It stood in the corner, regal and ominous, paint peeling in places. My heart skipped a beat, drawn to it like a magnet.

The store room had been locked for so long, but the almirah door was slightly ajar.

A shiver ran through me. Who had opened it? Maa hadn’t been in here for months, at least. The gap looked like a mouth, waiting to swallow secrets.

I took a deep breath, walked over, and gently opened the door…

The hinges groaned, a long, keening sound that raised the hairs on my neck. My fingers trembled as I pulled the door wider, expecting the worst.

Thankfully, there wasn’t a terrifying head suddenly popping out.

My heart slowed, just a little. I let out the breath I’d been holding. Maybe it was just old things, after all.

Inside were some even older items—

Stacks of letters tied with red thread, broken glass bangles, a brass lota, and what looked like ancient puja items. The smell of camphor mingled with the dust.

Faded red sarees.

They were folded neatly, though the colour had dulled to the brown of dried blood. I remembered Maa’s stories about wedding sarees passed down from mother to daughter.

A bronze mirror covered in strange Sanskrit markings.

It was heavy, rimmed with designs I couldn’t read. The glass was so tarnished, my reflection looked more like a ghost than a person.

And also, a thick…

Stack of papers, tied with string so old it threatened to snap if I touched it.

Marriage agreement—

The words curled across the page in that old-style Hindi, the kind even my mother squinted at during temple announcements. It didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen in real life. Not like the blue-and-white computer printouts we use today.

It really looked like an old wedding document, not the kind of marriage certificate we have these days. (In old Indian tradition, a marriage agreement was sometimes written up for arranged marriages.)

The paper felt brittle, as if it would crumble with one wrong move. I ran my fingers over the embossed seal—two elephants facing each other. My heart thudded faster.

But why would my family have something like this?

Questions crowded my mind. Was it my grandparents’? Or someone even older? Maa never spoke about our family history. I felt a chill, as if the room itself was holding its secrets close.

I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up and opened it.

My hands shook, the rustle of old paper loud in the silence. The phone torch made the ink gleam red, almost alive.

Inside was a black-and-white developed photograph—

The photo was grainy, edges curling. Two figures, a man and a woman, sat close together. The woman’s face was eerily familiar.

A man and a woman sat side by side in the picture.

Their posture was formal, but their eyes seemed to look straight through the lens, straight at me. I shivered, goosebumps rising on my arms.

The woman was smiling; she looked very much like my mother.

The resemblance was uncanny—the same nose, the same dimple in the left cheek. It was like looking at a version of Maa from another lifetime.

But the photo was so old, I couldn’t be sure if it was really her.

The clothes, the setting—everything looked decades out of place. My mind raced, trying to place the time period.

The man’s face, however, had been repeatedly blacked out, making it impossible to tell who he was.

Thick strokes of ink crossed over his features, over and over, as if someone was determined to erase him from existence. The effect was unsettling.

The strangest thing about the photo was their clothing—it looked very much like burial garments.

The fabric was stiff, embroidered with symbols I didn’t recognise. It looked less like wedding attire, more like something out of a funeral procession. My stomach churned.

Below were the personal details of both people, but those too had been blacked out.

Every name, every date—scratched out so fiercely the paper was torn. Someone had wanted to wipe away all traces of who they were.

What on earth was this?

I felt as if I’d uncovered a curse, not just a family secret. My mind whirled with possibilities—old enmities, forbidden love, something even darker?

At that moment, my phone vibrated again.

I jumped, startled by the sudden sound in the suffocating silence of the store room. My pulse raced as I grabbed the phone.

I quickly checked and saw a message had come in:

"5:"

The number stared at me, stark and cold. What was it counting down to? My breath caught in my throat.

This number made me pause.

My mind flashed to school exams, the invigilator counting down the last seconds. Except this felt more deadly, more urgent.

Immediately, another message arrived:

"4:"

Panic spiked in my chest. Was it a warning? A threat? My hands trembled so badly I almost dropped the phone.

I was shocked.

This wasn’t a prank anymore. The rules were changing, becoming more dangerous.

So if I didn’t answer after a certain time, it would start a countdown to force me to answer.

A wave of dread crashed over me. This was no longer a game. The consequences felt real, heavy.

I turned to run, wanting to get out and answer later.

I scrambled for the door, almost tripping over a broken chair. My breaths came out ragged and quick, as if I’d been running for miles.

Because I could only choose 3.

It was the only option that didn’t guarantee someone’s death. I clung to that, desperate for any hope.

But at that moment, I suddenly found the door wouldn’t open.

I twisted the handle, banged on the wood. It didn’t budge. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would burst.

Another message came:

"3:"

Somewhere outside, a stray dog howled, and I could hear the rhythmic thump of a dhol from a distant baraat, eerily out of place. I flinched, every muscle tensed. The numbers were a countdown to doom, echoing in the silent room.

Panicking, I kept shaking the doorknob…

My hands were slick with sweat, slipping on the cold metal. Tears pricked my eyes, fear clawing up my throat.

The phone vibrated again, but I didn’t check—I was too flustered.

The vibrations felt like aftershocks, the room itself pulsing with menace. I wanted to scream, to call for help, but no sound came out.

I knew it must be "2."

The inevitability of it crushed me. The countdown was ticking, and I was trapped.

I didn’t even know what would happen if I didn’t answer in time.

My mind supplied horrors—would someone die? Would the ghost appear? My imagination spun out of control.

But it definitely wouldn’t be good.

I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering a prayer under my breath, hoping for a miracle.

Just as the phone vibrated for the last time, the door suddenly opened.

The suddenness made me stumble backwards, nearly falling over a broken stool. Relief and fear tangled inside me.

But standing in the doorway was a figure…

The outline was tall, familiar. My heart stuttered, fear fighting hope. I squinted into the darkness, holding my breath.

I jumped in fright.

For a second, I was sure it was the ghost, come for me at last. My legs threatened to give way.

Luckily, what she said next instantly calmed me: "What are you doing in the store room? Didn’t I tell you not to go in?"

The voice was unmistakable—warm, tired, full of love and exasperation. My knees buckled with relief. It was Maa.

It was my mother’s voice.

She looked the same as always, her hair pulled back in a loose plait, worry lines etched deep on her forehead. I almost wept with joy.

I hurried out of the room, stumbling as I explained: "No, I… something happened here…"

My words tumbled out, but she cut me off with a glare. I stumbled over my own feet, half-sobbing, half-laughing in relief.

My mother cut me off: "You never listen to me, always like this…"

She grabbed my ear, twisting it gently the way she did when I was little. "I told you, na, never go inside!" I shrank to the side, trembling as I listened to her scold me.

The phone in my pocket stopped vibrating.

I reached down to check. No more messages, no more countdown. I let out a long, shaky breath, feeling my body relax for the first time all night.

Could it be that not making a choice had no punishment?

My mind buzzed with possibilities. Maybe I’d broken the cycle, or maybe the rules were changing again. I didn’t know, and for once, I didn’t care.

That didn’t seem realistic.

A tiny voice whispered that it couldn’t be that easy. But right now, I just wanted to be safe, with Maa by my side.

But since my mother was here, all my fear gradually faded…

Her presence was like a shield, strong and familiar. I leaned into her, the familiar scent of Pond’s talcum powder and masala chai calming my nerves.

"You have to listen from now on, understand?"

Her tone softened, the lines on her face easing. She patted my head, the way she used to when I was small and scared of thunder at night.

I nodded.

It was automatic, but genuine. For a moment, I was a child again, safe in my mother’s world.

After scolding me, she turned and walked towards the living room.

Her steps were slow, deliberate. The shadows lengthened behind her, and I felt a strange chill, as if something was out of place.

Since the power was still out, I kept feeling there was something strange about her back.

The way she moved—stiff, almost robotic. My mouth went dry, and I watched her, uneasy.

Suddenly I remembered—wasn’t she supposed to be on a work trip these past two days?

The thought hit me like a slap. She had called just yesterday, saying she wouldn’t be home till Sunday night. So how was she here now?

And it was over a hundred kilometres away.

The hospital was in Aligarh—at least a two-hour drive, even with empty roads. No trains, no buses at this hour. My skin prickled.

So I asked her, "Maa, weren’t you supposed to be working? How did you get back in the middle of the night?"

My voice trembled, the words coming out too soft, too afraid. I didn’t want to hear the answer, but I had to ask.

She suddenly stopped.

She stood, unmoving, at the threshold of the living room. Her back seemed even stiffer now, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

And the more I looked at her back, the more uneasy I felt.

Something about the way her kurta hung, the way her shadow flickered in the light of my phone torch—it all felt wrong, as if the world had shifted sideways.

She said, "Because I have something urgent to tell you."

Her voice was the same, but there was a flatness to it—a lack of warmth. My heart pounded, fear surging up again.

I was puzzled: "What is it?"

I took a cautious step forward, eyes fixed on her. My mind spun with possibilities, each one more frightening than the last.

She still faced away from me and continued, "It’s about your papa."

The word landed with the weight of a thunderclap. For a moment, I forgot everything else—the ghost, the messages, even my fear.

At that moment, I perked up and even forgot to tell her about the weird things that had just happened to me.

Papa. The word I’d rarely heard in our house. My mind raced with questions I’d carried for years, locked away like secrets in the store room.

Because I never had a father growing up, and my mother never let me ask about him.

Whenever I tried, she would brush it off, her eyes growing cold, her mouth tightening into a thin line. It was a forbidden subject, one I’d learned not to touch.

Every time I asked, she got angry.

She would snap, change the topic, or sometimes even leave the room. I learned to keep my curiosity buried deep, where it couldn’t hurt either of us.

Why did she suddenly want to tell me now?

My breath quickened. Had something happened? Or was it connected to everything that had happened tonight?

"Maa, did something happen?" I took a few steps forward, but found my mother still hadn’t moved at all. "Why don’t we talk in the living room?"

The urge to see her face, to be in the light, was overwhelming. I wanted to believe everything was normal, that the world hadn’t shifted beneath my feet.

Actually, I was still a bit scared at the time, afraid more strange messages would come.

My phone felt heavy in my pocket, a reminder that the nightmare might not be over. I wanted Maa to turn around, to look at me with her real eyes.

But she shook her head: "It doesn’t matter where we talk, I’ll just say it now."

Her voice was final, brooking no argument. My mouth went dry, fear and anticipation warring inside me.

"When I was pregnant with you…"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "There’s something you never knew about your papa. And tonight, you must listen—no matter what happens next."