The "Blue Manor" sat at the desolate edge of the city like a decaying giant, its crumbling stone walls swallowed by overgrown vines and the weight of forgotten secrets. Local legends were unkind to the structure; elders whispered that the house didn't just stand there—it breathed, waiting for the unwary. They said those who dared to step inside left a piece of their soul behind, returning with hollow eyes and shattered minds.
But for Ayan, Neel, and Riko, fear was a secondary emotion, far behind the burning itch of curiosity.
"Are we really doing this?" Riko asked, his voice trembling slightly as he adjusted the strap of his high-end DSLR camera. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, though the air was growing chilly. "The clouds are looking pretty nasty, guys. Maybe we should come back when it's… you know, sunny?"
Ayan, who was already pushing against the rusted iron gates, let out a short, bark-like laugh. "And miss the atmosphere, Riko? This is exactly what the fans on our vlog want to see. Besides, if we find even one relic from the British era, we're set for the year."
"It's not just about the money, Ayan," Neel interrupted, his voice calm and melodic, the polar opposite of Ayan's bravado. He was holding an old leather-bound notebook, his eyes fixed on the manor's gothic architecture. "This place was built on the ruins of an older fort. If the records are right, this land belonged to the generals of King Pratapaditya before the East India Company seized it. There is history here—bloody, unwritten history."
With a piercing screech that sounded like a human cry, the gate swung open. They stepped into the courtyard, where the tall grass brushed against their knees like ghostly fingers. As they reached the main wooden doors, the sky finally broke. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the manor's windows, making them look like jagged, glowing eyes. Then came the rain—a heavy, Kalbaishakhi downpour that forced them to retreat inside.
The interior of the manor was a tomb of dust and shadows. Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, draped in spiderwebs that looked like tattered funeral shrouds. Their footsteps on the rotting floorboards echoed through the hollow halls, a rhythmic thud-creak, thud-creak that seemed to be answered by the house itself.
"Switch on the torches," Ayan commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Three beams of white light sliced through the darkness. They wandered into what seemed to be a study. Toppled bookshelves lay like skeletons on the floor, and the smell of damp earth and ancient paper was overwhelming.
"Guys, check this out," Riko said, his camera shutter clicking rapidly. He was focusing on a series of faded portraits on the wall. The faces were scratched out, as if someone had tried to erase the identity of the inhabitants.
Suddenly, a loud crack echoed.
"Riko!" Neel shouted.
Riko had stepped on a section of the floor that looked solid but was anything but. His leg plunged through the wood up to his hip. He let out a yelp of pain and terror, his binoculars clattering against the floor.
"Don't move! Give me your hand!" Ayan lunged forward, grabbing Riko's arm and hauling him upward with a grunt of exertion.
Riko scrambled back, gasping for air. "I'm okay, I'm okay... I think my pride is hurt more than my leg."
But Neel wasn't looking at Riko. He was kneeling by the hole in the floor. "Wait... there's something down there. Ayan, shine the light right here."
Underneath the broken floorboards sat a small, rectangular box made of darkened brass. It was untouched by the dust of the room, as if the darkness had protected it. Ayan reached in and pulled it out. The metal was cold, unnervingly so.
With a click, the latch gave way. Inside, wrapped in a piece of oil-stained silk, was a thick roll of deer-skin parchment. As Neel carefully unfurled it, their breaths hitched. It wasn't just a map; it was a masterpiece of cryptic cartography. Gold-inked lines traced the mountains of Sonadanga, and in the corner, written in an archaic script, was a warning and a promise.
"The final wealth of King Pratapaditya; only the seeker of truth shall find the strength of old. Beware the heart that covets, for the mountain swallows the greedy."
"This is it," Ayan whispered, his eyes reflecting the golden ink. "The legend of the lost Bengal treasure. It wasn't a myth, Neel. It's real."
The rain outside intensified, hammering against the roof like a thousand drums. They were no longer just three friends escaping a storm; they were treasure hunters on the verge of uncovering a secret that had been buried for four hundred years.