The room was heavy with silence. Shadows clung to the corners, and the flickering lantern light seemed to bend toward Mr. Shastri as if it too were listening. He sat stiffly, his hands folded, his eyes distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reluctant, as though each word carried the weight of years.
"After Sanya's death," he began, "our world collapsed. My wife was fading before my eyes—her laughter gone, her spirit broken. I tried everything: medicine, prayer, distraction, but nothing reached her. And then, in the midst of that despair, I began to hear rumors from others who too had lost someone dear. They spoke of forgotten practices, of knowledge buried in old texts and passed down in secret among those who performed them—ancient rituals steeped in dark magic, said to hold the power to call a soul back from beyond."
The three friends exchanged uneasy glances. Aarav leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "You mean you actually believed that? That someone could bring Sanya back? That's not just impossible—it's dangerous."
Shastri's gaze hardened, but behind it flickered the ache of a man who had already lost too much. His voice carried both defiance and despair. "Impossible? Perhaps. But when your wife is slipping away, when her eyes no longer hold light, when every smile you once knew has vanished into silence—you will chase even the faintest hope. I could not bear to watch her fade, to see her spirit hollowed by grief. So I searched. Quietly, carefully, as if each step might betray my desperation. And in the shadows of that search, I found him—a shaman who claimed he knew the way."
Kabir shook his head, his voice low and sharp. "Hope, yes. But this… this sounds like a curse, not salvation."
Riya's voice cut in, trembling but firm. "And what about the others? The innocent girls? Did you even think of them before agreeing to something like this?"
Shastri's shoulders sagged, his face shadowed by the weight of memory. He closed his eyes as though reliving the moment, his voice trembling with regret. "At first, I refused. The shaman told me what the ritual demanded—that he could call Sanya's spirit back, but warned of the terrible cost. If another spirit answered instead, we would be bound to provide living vessels… girls only, one for each spirit that crossed through. I recoiled at the thought. I told him no. How could I agree to such a practice, to stain our grief with the sacrifice of innocent lives? It felt monstrous, unthinkable. I wanted my daughter back, yes, but not at the price of another parent's child. To even imagine such a bargain was to feel the weight of damnation pressing on my soul."
His voice faltered, and for a moment he seemed smaller, diminished. "But my wife… she was deteriorating. Hopeless. Every day she slipped further away. And when I saw her like that, I broke. I agreed."
The friends stiffened, the horror of his words sinking in. Aarav's voice rose, sharp with disbelief. "So every tourist who buys something in your steamhouse… they're part of this ritual?"
Shastri nodded slowly. "Yes. We chose the steamhouse as the place for the possession. The shaman gave us an ancient relic, a box inscribed with symbols older than memory. He taught us the mantra, the chant that would bind the ritual. That is why we sell our own accessories inside the steamhouse—each one already touched by dark magic, each one carrying the echo of that chant."
Kabir's fists clenched. "You turned the whole village into a trap."
Riya's eyes glistened with anger. "You lied to everyone. You used your power to twist the truth."
Shastri's voice dropped to a whisper. "To ensure the ritual would never be interrupted, we reported a false crisis. We claimed the groundwater levels were dangerously low. With my influence, the government declared this village a drought zone. Tourists were ordered to use the steamhouse instead of their own bathrooms. Every visitor who entered became part of the cycle, unknowingly stepping into the web we had woven."
The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across his face. He looked older now, worn down by the weight of his confession. "I did not want this. I did not want blood on my hands. But grief is a cruel master. It bends you, reshapes you, until you are no longer the man you once were."
Aarav's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. "You chose this. You let desperation blind you. And now others suffer because of it."
Kabir added, his tone bitter, "You sacrificed innocence for obsession. That's not grief—it's selfishness."
Riya's words were softer, but no less piercing. "And your wife? Did she know the cost? Did she understand what you agreed to?"
Shastri's eyes glistened. "She knew. But she did not care. She only wanted Sanya back. And I… I wanted her to live again. To smile again. I thought if I gave her hope, even false hope, it would save her. But hope built on darkness is no salvation. It is a prison."
He hesitated, then added with a hollow laugh that carried no joy. "And in chasing that hope, we lost everything else. We poured our fortune into her treatments, into doctors who promised miracles. We were conned by charlatans, fake shamans who preyed on our desperation. One by one, our lodges across the country were sold off to pay for it all. This lodge… this is the only one left. It holds the last memory of Sanya, and so we clung to it, even as everything else slipped away."
The friends sat in silence, the weight of his confession pressing down on them.
Shastri's voice broke the silence once more, softer now, almost pleading. "You must understand. I did not set out to harm anyone. I only wanted my daughter back. I only wanted my wife to live. But the ritual… the ritual demanded more than I could give. And once you begin, there is no turning back."
The friends watched him, each carrying their own storm of disbelief, anger, and fear. The truth was laid bare now, and it was darker than they had imagined. The steamhouse was not just a place of comfort—it was a prison of spirits, a trap woven from grief and desperation. And Mr. Shastri, once a man of wealth and power, was now its keeper.
The lantern flickered again, and the shadows seemed to lean closer. And then, from the quiet, Meera's voice rose—soft, innocent, yet chilling. "Do you remember, Papa? You used to tell me stories when we stayed the night here. I still love them."
The words froze him. His breath caught, his eyes widened. For a heartbeat, the present dissolved, and he was back in those summers—his daughter's laughter echoing through the lodge, her small hands tugging at his sleeve, begging for one more story before sleep.
The confession was complete, but the nightmare was only beginning.