Chapter 2: Chained Secrets

2

I ran desperately back toward the village.

My slippers slapped against the rocky ground, sweat pouring down my back even in the cool night. Every shadow seemed to leap at me; the forest was alive with unseen eyes.

I stumbled home, the sky already pitch dark.

The whole village was silent, only the faint barking of stray dogs and the hum of a distant generator breaking the stillness. My heart pounded so loudly I was afraid it would wake the whole street.

The guests were asleep. Only the bulb in the verandah was on, leftovers still on the plastic stool near the tube light.

A few flies buzzed around the plate, but I barely noticed. My hands trembled as I scooped cold dal into my mouth. The tube light flickered, and somewhere a mosquito whined near my ear.

I ate a few bites at random. My mind was a mess. The scene I’d glimpsed on my way down the hill kept flashing before my eyes:

Every time I closed my eyes, those stockinged legs, the heavy iron chain, the utter stillness inside the tent—all came back, sharper and sharper.

On Mushroom Point at night, two dark silhouettes drew close, pressed tightly together.

And those stockings, the chain at the ankles, those motionless legs—they haunted me.

The words of the old women in the village rang in my ears: "What happens in the mountains, stays in the mountains."

Uncle Nilesh camping alone at Mushroom Point. Yesterday I’d brought a woman there, and I’d even thought Ritu was Uncle Nilesh’s daughter.

How could a daughter be lying in a tent like that?

Something was terribly wrong. The way the villagers respected him, I never would have suspected—until now.

Today I brought another, and she was snuggling up to Uncle Nilesh—what exactly was their relationship?

And tomorrow?

There were still three women in the guest room. Their leader, called Didi Anya, had been the one to ask me to bring Ritu and Meera to Mushroom Point.

Maybe Didi Anya was the real boss here, not Uncle Nilesh. In every story, there’s someone pulling the strings.

Didi Anya was an elegant woman—her skin meticulously cared for, delicate features, everything about her expensive. Clearly not someone who came for trekking.

She looked like someone from one of those Page 3 parties—saree draped just so, gold chain around her wrist, the kind who never gets mud on her shoes. But her eyes were sharp, always sizing up the room.

But the four women with her, each beautiful in their own way, all dressed like travellers.

Ritu: baseball cap, ponytail, cropped kurti, cargo pants, trekking shoes.

She reminded me of the girls who ride scooties to college in Pune, hair flying, always ready with a witty comeback.

Like a college girl, though I’d never actually met a college girl.

Meera even brought a huge bag of toiletries.

She unpacked more creams and face washes than I’d ever seen in my life. The bathroom smelled of imported soap all day.

The other two: one called Yuvika, a beautiful mixed-race woman; the other, Asha, the oldest—over forty, but kept in great shape.

Yuvika’s Hindi was flawless, but she spoke English like it was her mother tongue. Asha wore her age with pride, lines of laughter around her eyes, hair always pulled back in a neat bun.

I’d been a local guide for over half a year, and rarely saw female tourists. If there were any, they always came with their husbands—never a group of women like this.

In our village, women travelled in family groups, never just friends. This group was different; they moved with confidence, their laughter louder than the local boys.

The way Ritu’s lower half never moved kept replaying in my mind.

Unmoving?

Could Ritu already be dead?

The thought hit me like a bucket of cold water. I wiped my face with my sleeve, but it wouldn’t go away.

I was the one who brought her there. The more I thought, the more terrified I became.

A wild idea took root in my mind, growing more and more out of control:

Every horror story I’d heard in childhood suddenly seemed possible. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Mushroom Point. I had to go back and see for myself.

The old stories say the forest spirits come out at night, but I didn’t care—I had to know the truth.