The Endless Chase (1970s)
Whispers in the Dark
Author
December 8, 1976 | The Island – Meera’s Room
[The storm outside howls against the wooden walls, but inside, the air is thick—heated, tense, suffocating. Meera sits on the edge of the bed, her wrists raw from the silk ribbons that had once held her down. She should be afraid. Every fiber of her being tells her to run. But then there’s him.]
[Andarin stands in front of the mirror, shirt half-unbuttoned, his fingers tracing the fresh red lines on his skin—her marks. He doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks… amused. Satisfied.]
Meera
(whispering) "Why me?"
[He turns at her voice, his dark eyes holding something unreadable. Something dangerous.]
Andarin
(softly) "Because you’re the only one who matters now."
[Her breath catches. The words should terrify her, but they do something else instead. Something worse.]
[He moves toward her—slow, predatory, the floor creaking under his weight. She doesn’t shrink back. She should. But she doesn’t.]
Meera
(muttering) "You’re insane."
[His lips twitch in a ghost of a smirk as he kneels in front of her, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading them apart just enough to make her shudder. He’s warm—too warm, searing through the thin fabric of her dress. His hands slide upward, bunching the silk around her hips.]
Andarin
(whispering against her skin) "Then why do you shiver for me?"
[Her stomach twists, heat pooling deep inside her. She hates him. She hates the way her body betrays her more.]
[His fingers press against her lips, silencing her. His other hand slides up her thigh, deliberate, teasing, leaving fire in its wake.]
Andarin
(darkly) "Shhh… Let me ruin you."
[Her pulse pounds, her skin burning as his mouth replaces his fingers, kissing, biting, devouring. A gasp escapes her, swallowed by the storm raging outside. Her world narrows down to him—his touch, his hunger, his control. And she hates how much she wants it.]
Author
December 8, 1976 | The City – A Forgotten Library
[Aarav flips through the yellowed pages of an old registry, the dim candlelight casting shadows across his face. The silence is heavy, broken only by the sound of turning paper. His informant’s words still echo in his mind—They don’t exist.]
[He doesn’t believe it. Can’t believe it.]
[His fingers trace over a name. One of the girls. Anjali Mehta. The ink is faded, the handwriting careful. But there’s something wrong. The dates.]
Detective araav
(muttering) "This doesn’t make sense…"
[A soft voice interrupts his thoughts. The librarian—an old woman with watchful eyes—stands near the doorway, her hands folded.]
librarian
"Looking for ghosts, detective?"
[He doesn’t respond. Not yet. He turns another page, his fingers pausing over an entry—another girl, another name. Meera.]
Detective araav
(quietly) "Who was she?"
[The librarian hesitates. Then, slowly, she steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper.]
librarian
"She was taken. A long time ago. They said she vanished into thin air."
Detective araav
"Vanished?"
[She nods, lowering her voice even more.]
librarian
"Like the others."
[He exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. Nothing about this case makes sense. The girls are real—but they shouldn’t be. His gut tells him he’s close to something. Something wrong.]
[And then, in the dim candlelight, his eyes land on a final detail in the registry. A year.]
[The air in the library turns cold. The candle flickers. The librarian watches him, something dark flickering behind her old, tired eyes.]
librarian
(softly) "Some stories aren’t meant to be uncovered, detective."
[Aarav clenches his jaw. But it’s too late. He’s already in too deep.]
Author
December 8, 1976 | The Island – A Stalker’s Message
[Meera sits alone in the candlelit room, wrapped in silk sheets. Her skin still burns from Andarin’s touch, but her mind is restless. Something is wrong.]
[A small folded letter sits on the wooden desk. The paper is old, slightly yellowed, as if time itself had tried to erase it. The ink is smudged in places, but the words remain, sharp and clear.]
Author
*Message:
"He’s not what you think. You are not what you think. Wake up before it’s too late."
[Her breath hitches. The handwriting is eerily familiar, but she can’t place it. Her fingers tremble as she turns the page over, expecting a name. But there is none. Only an initial. A single, meaningless letter.]
[She reads the message again, her mind racing. Was it meant for her? Was someone watching? Was someone warning her?]
[Outside, the storm rages. The wind howls through the cracks in the wooden walls, carrying whispers that don’t belong to the living.]
[And in the darkness, someone is watching.]
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