Whispers Beneath the Neem

...SOMETHING IS STILL BREATHING...

It had been nearly a year since the locket was buried, since Rukmini vanished beneath the neem tree, and peace returned to Devgarh. Tara grew stronger, more joyful, and Meera and Raghav began to believe the worst had passed.

But peace, in places like Devgarh, is always temporary.

One sweltering summer night, Tara woke up sweating. The windows were closed, the fan spinning steadily — but she felt cold breath on her neck.

A whisper.

A single word:

“Run.”

She jolted upright. No one was there. But in the silence of the room, the walls creaked as though someone was pressing against them from the other side.

...THE ROOTS ARE NOT SILENT...

The neem tree had grown unnaturally large. Its roots had begun cracking through the stone wall behind the house. The leaves shimmered oddly even without light. Meera had noticed it first: birds avoided the tree. No nests. No chirps. Just silence.

Raghav, worried about the roots damaging their water pipes, called a contractor to remove them.

But when the workers began digging near the base, the earth bled.

Not water. Not mud.

Blood.

They stopped immediately.

That night, every worker who touched the roots had nightmares — of eyes in the soil, and long-nailed fingers crawling through their dreams.

One of them vanished by morning.

Only a single shoe was found by the tree.

...SHE WASN’T ALONE...

The priest, now old and frail, visited Meera’s home after hearing of the blood-soaked roots. He whispered a deeper truth.

“Rukmini was never the only one. There were others.”

He opened a journal — old, bound in leather and marked with symbols no one could decipher.

“Shyamlal was only one of many who practiced the burial rites. The forest holds dozens of graves. Some incomplete. Some still waiting to rise.”

Meera gasped. “You said the curse was lifted!”

He closed the book slowly. “Rukmini’s was. But others… woke up when she did.”

The priest looked to Tara.

“She still hears them, doesn’t she?”

...THE EYES IN THE MIRROR...

Tara had been drawing again. Meera discovered her sketches tucked inside her pillowcase. They were of people — children and adults — all with hollow eyes and open mouths, their faces pressed against what looked like glass.

“Where did you see them, Tara?” Meera asked gently.

Tara looked confused.

“In the mirror.”

The mirror in Tara’s room had cracked weeks ago. They’d replaced it, but the new one always looked… warped. As if something was behind it.

That night, Meera covered the mirror with a cloth.

At 3:17 a.m., the cloth fell.

And fingerprints appeared on the inside of the glass.

...When The Wind Whispers Names...

Tara began muttering names in her sleep. Names Meera and Raghav had never heard: “Bhavan.” “Choti Kaki.” “Dulari Ma.”

The priest confirmed: “These are the names of those buried in unmarked graves… souls sacrificed to that ancient tree long before Shyamlal.”

“Why is Tara saying them?” Raghav asked.

The priest looked grim. “Because they’re calling her. Rukmini opened a door. Tara became the path. The others are trying to come through her.”

Raghav shook his head. “Then we’ll stop them!”

The priest’s voice dropped. “To stop the dead… one of the living must go back in their place.”

...THE MIRROR RITUAL...

There was only one way to seal the breach: a reverse-mirror ritual, binding the spirits using their real names. But the names had to be spoken inside the mirror world, by the one being called.

It had to be Tara.

The priest built the altar. The neem tree swayed violently though the wind was dead. The mirror was placed beneath its roots, half-buried in the soil.

At midnight, Tara stepped in front of the mirror and whispered the first name:

“Bhavan.”

Her reflection smiled back — but it wasn’t Tara.

It was Bhavan.

And as the next name left her lips, Tara’s body slumped to the ground.

...TRAPPED BETWEEN WORLDS...

Inside the mirror, Tara stood in a dark version of her village. The air was thick with ash. Shadows followed her. The dead had come — not just Bhavan, not just Rukmini’s forgotten companions, but dozens. Hundreds.

Each stepped forward, repeating their names, asking:

“Do you remember me now?”

Tara was calm.

“I remember all of you.”

A light flared from the locket around her neck — the same one Rukmini had once buried. She held it high. The names she spoke burned like fire through the mirror world.

Outside, Meera sobbed, holding Tara’s limp body.

Suddenly, Tara gasped.

Her eyes opened.

...ONE NAME REMAINS...

The ritual worked.

The mirror cracked and fell into dust. The neem tree stopped swaying. Tara was safe.

Or so they thought.

That night, Meera tucked her in. Tara whispered, “They’re quiet now.”

“Good,” Meera smiled, relieved.

Then Tara added:

“Except one. The one I didn’t name.”

Meera froze. “Who?”