Chapter 1: Shadows of the Past

The storm rolled in just as the old farmhouse came into view, its weathered walls cloaked in mist and shadow. Anshika groaned as she wrestled with her umbrella, the wind yanking it out of her hands.

“Typical,” she muttered, brushing her damp hair out of her face. “We couldn’t just meet somewhere normal, could we?”

Shreya stepped out of her car, her sharp eyes scanning the isolated property. “This isn’t a vacation, Anshika. It’s closure,” she said, her voice clipped. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, already regretting her decision to come.

Apoorva followed behind, clutching her bag as though it might shield her from the oppressive atmosphere. She avoided eye contact, her steps hesitant on the uneven ground.

The farmhouse loomed before them, its broken shutters rattling in the wind. The place belonged to Ratna’s uncle, though no one had stayed there since her death. Manasvi, already inside, opened the creaky door to greet them. Her face lit up in relief.

“Finally,” she said. “I thought the storm would keep everyone away.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame,” Shreya said dryly, stepping inside.

The air was heavy with the smell of damp wood and mildew. The group trickled in, the sound of their wet shoes squelching on the floor. Misty arrived last, shaking water from her umbrella before closing the door firmly behind her.

“Alright,” Misty said, her tone brisk. “We’re here. Let’s get this over with.”

The farmhouse was dimly lit, the single bulb in the living room casting long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The place hadn’t been maintained; cobwebs hung in the corners, and the faint hum of the wind slipping through cracks made it feel alive.

“Doesn’t this place creep anyone else out?” Anshika said, crossing her arms. She glanced at the covered furniture and old photos on the walls. One photo, in particular, caught her attention—a group picture from years ago. Ratna was in the center, her smile wide and self-assured.

Manasvi shivered. “Let’s just… focus on why we’re here.”

They settled into the living room, tension simmering beneath the surface.

“This doesn’t feel like closure,” Shreya said, eyeing Anshika. “This feels like one of your stunts to get attention.”

Anshika bristled. “Excuse me? I didn’t pick this place—Ratna’s uncle offered it when I mentioned we were planning to get together.”

“And you thought that was a great idea?” Misty asked, her voice tight. “You think we’re supposed to sit here and reminisce about her, what… happily? After everything that happened?”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Apoorva shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her gaze fixed on her hands.

“I didn’t want to come either,” she mumbled, almost too quietly to hear.

“None of us did,” Shreya snapped, her patience wearing thin. “But since we’re here, let’s at least be honest. Ratna wasn’t some angel. She was manipulative, she lied, and—”

“That’s enough,” Misty interrupted, her tone cutting. She glanced at Apoorva, who had shrunk into her seat. “We all have our reasons for being here, Shreya. Just don’t assume yours are the most important.”

The door creaked open, and Officer Devesh stepped in, his raincoat dripping onto the floor.

“Ah, nothing like a good reunion in the middle of nowhere,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Remind me—did you all sign up for the ‘haunted farmhouse murder mystery’ package, or was this a special offer?”

Anshika rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you too, Officer.”

Devesh smirked, taking in the group with a critical gaze. “Don’t mind me. Just stopping by to let you know the case has been reopened. Thought you might want a heads-up, seeing as you’re all here, cozy and convenient.”

“What do you mean reopened?” Misty asked, her voice sharp.

Devesh shrugged. “New forensic evidence. Old cases have a way of bubbling back up, don’t they?” He tapped his temple and added, “Funny thing about guilt—it leaves traces, even when people think they’ve washed their hands clean.”

The group stared at him, their discomfort palpable.

“Anyway, enjoy your stay,” Devesh said, turning to leave. “Storm like this, I wouldn’t wander off alone if I were you. You never know who—or what—you might run into.”

Later That Night

The storm had grown worse, the wind howling through the cracks in the farmhouse like a living thing. Apoorva sat in the corner of the living room, fiddling with a thread on her sleeve while the others spoke in low tones.

The lights flickered once, then twice, before plunging the house into darkness.

“Great,” Anshika muttered, pulling out her phone for light.

“I’ll check the fuse box,” Misty said, standing.

“No,” Shreya said quickly, glancing toward the hallway. “We should stick together.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Misty said, grabbing a flashlight. Her words hung in the air, heavier than she intended.

The group waited in uneasy silence, the only sound the distant rumble of thunder. Minutes stretched on, and Misty didn’t return.

“Why is she taking so long?” Manasvi whispered.

A sudden crash echoed from the back of the house, followed by a muffled shout. The group froze, fear flashing in their eyes.

“That didn’t sound like the fuse box,” Shreya said, her voice low.

Apoorva stood, her hands trembling. “We should check on her.”

Reluctantly, the group moved toward the sound, their footsteps slow and cautious. The hallway was darker than they expected, the flashlight beams barely cutting through the shadows.

They found Misty near the kitchen, leaning against the wall. Her flashlight was on the floor, flickering weakly.

“What happened?” Anshika asked, her voice trembling.

Misty’s breathing was shallow. She pointed toward the back door, which was wide open, the wind and rain streaming in.

“I thought I saw… someone,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They were standing outside, just watching.”

Cliffhanger:

The group closes the door and locks it. As they turn to leave, Apoorva glances at the floor and stops.

“Wait,” she says, pointing to a trail of muddy footprints leading from the door into the house.

The footprints stop at the edge of the living room rug—but no one else is there.