(Prequel to the previous chapter)
It was just past 3 a.m. when the Masked Detective slipped into the grounds of Taraniketan School, her steps silent on the dew-soaked grass.
The fog was thick, pressing against the buildings like a ghostly curtain. Even the street dogs were silent, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
She moved along the edge of the compound, toward the old storeroom—a forgotten structure behind the gardening shed, long sealed and hidden beneath a rusted metal sheet.
Kneeling down, she pried the cover loose.
Beneath it: a narrow stairwell, swallowed in shadows.
She clicked on her torch.
The stone steps were slick with moss. The air grew colder with every descent, heavy with the scent of iron and earth. Her breath puffed faintly in the damp chill.
At the bottom, she found a locked wooden door—rotted but still firm.
She reached into her coat and pulled out a key. Not hers. It had once belonged to Animesh Basu—taken silently from his drawer the night he was arrested.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Inside, the darkness felt... untouched. Sacred. As if no one had stepped inside in years. Dust shimmered in the beam of her flashlight, swirling like spirits disturbed.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles, boxes, and folders—each marked with the same ominous symbol:
> A black rose curled inward, with a crescent moon blooming at its center.
She stepped cautiously.
On one table lay a mess of old photographs—school staff, children in uniforms. Many faces were scratched out, as though erased from memory.
One photo made her stop.
Jayasree Mukherjee.
No glasses. Shorter hair. But the same eyes—cold, calm, watching.
Beneath the table, something gleamed.
A silver box.
She opened it.
Inside: strange ritual items.
A ceremonial blade,
Dried black rose petals,
A bloodstained cloth, carefully folded.
She unfolded it—and gasped.
Embroidered in the corner:
> Ananya.
Suddenly—footsteps.
She shut off her light. Hid behind a shelf.
The door creaked open again.
A faint orange glow emerged.
Someone holding a lantern.
A woman entered—wrapped in a dark red shawl, humming an eerie, almost forgotten lullaby.
It was Jayasree Mukherjee.
She moved to the center of the room. Whispered:
> "Tomorrow is the anniversary.
You will all remember…
Whether you want to or not."
She knelt and lit a candle at the center of the floor.
Around her, drawn in faded chalk, was a ritual circle. The black rose symbol pulsed at the center, and around it—names.
Sanchayita
Ananya
Ishita
Debolina
And one more—
> Aaradhya.
The Detective's heart pounded. Her blood turned to ice.
She took one silent step back—
Crunch.
Her boot landed on broken glass.
Jayasree's head snapped toward the sound.
The lantern swung.
"Who's there?" she called sharply, voice slicing through the silence.
The Detective didn't breathe.
Then—
The candle blew out.
The lantern flickered and died.
Darkness swallowed the room.
A whisper brushed her ear.
> "You're too late."
---
To be continued...