Nishipur

Mills of God grind slowly, but surely. Happenings that may have, once upon a time, caused great sensations in society, resurface, out of remotest oblivion, because it had stirred the world of spirits, whose unsatisfied souls beacon their successors for redressal and deliveranceWinter, late afternoon. Three boys and three girls, studying in the same district college, are on their way to a forlorn palace in Madhupur, Virat's ancestral village. They come there without any guide, but armed with latest ghost detection equipment: one ghost meter with electromagnetic sensors; one pen style infra-red digital and noncontact thermometer; and finger lites. Incidentally, the palace and its premises sit on a grave yard of notoriety. It takes them nearly three quarters of an hour to reach that haunted palace. Quite dark, all around. They park their bikes outside the entrance gate of the palace compound and walk towards the hall of the palace. One incandescent lamp glowing in the middle of the large hall, hails them. However, the Jharbatis and the candelabrums, remain unlit, for how long nobody knows, making the ambience, inside, spooky. They sit before a moderate-sized mahogany table, round, dusting off piles of dirt and soot, settled on it, for donkey's year. They unfurl the folded heart-shaped planchette, they carried with them, all the way from the district town. Soon after, they hear sounds of broom cleaning the adjacent lawn. There is a custom in Indian villages not to use broom in the even time. An unknown fear grips them. They rise from their chairs leaving that arcane session, unfinished. Enters one man, cowled, on a torn, black coat, broom in hand. The girls feel uncomfortable, looking at the stranger with suspicion and fear. The man, without removing his hood that reached as far down his forehead, almost covering his eyes, tells them, nasalizing, that it is not safe for them to stay in the palace, after sundown. Virat, by far, daring of the lot, himself a brilliant student of Physics and a connoisseur of Shakespeare, challenges the stranger to name the scariest place in the region. Fellow students, ask Virat to call it a day. Just then, the stranger, utters name of Nishipur. The only light inside the hall goes off. The girls scream in fear and dash towards the door imploring the boys to follow them, which they do. To their surprise, they find the main gate of the compound closed. In the light of the hand torches, they see a bunch of keys, lying on the ground, outside the gate, but out of their reach. The lights inside the dark haunted building start blinking, all on a sudden, sending cold shiver through their spines. The hooded sweeper has vanished. To their surprise, the broom they saw in his hand, flies right under their feet, from nowhere, torn to shreds. Horror of horror, altogether different drama, live, albeit, by the agencies of death, unfolds before their very eyes, from ghost dancing to ear-splitting shrieks and shrills of strange creatures, accompanied with sounds of bells from inside the palace, making the whippersnappers sweat in that biting cold. As they sink into abyss of hopelessness, a sudden gush of wind, amidst dead calm, outside, brings the bunch of keys within their reach. They manage to escape. Next day, noon, they gather at Virat's drawing room, jaded, still traumatized. For some unknown reasons they decide to visit the palace, again. Reaching there, they see the gate closed, though they left it open yesterday. Soon, the gate opens of its own. They walk towards the hall like somnambulists responding to the call of some wicked spirit. The planchette is still there on the table, open. Virat hurries to complete the incomplete traces of the pencil, only to experience a severe jerk, throwing him few feet behind. Abhilash and Sudhir, about to take their seats, meet with same fate as Virat. He uses his EMF and spots two invisible entities, in white and yellow, occupying the two chairs.