The wet footprints on the marble floor were still fresh. Ananya followed them, her heart pounding against her chest. They didn't lead to the attic this time—they stopped right in front of her grandfather's old bookshelf in the study.
One particular book, a heavy leather-bound volume on Bengali folklore, was slightly tilted. As Ananya pulled it, a hidden compartment behind the shelf clicked open. Inside was a small, dusty diary with a lock. Using the same rusty key from the attic, she opened it.
The diary belonged to Lata. The entries were dated May 1976, just weeks before Malati disappeared.
"June 5th: Father is acting strange. He says the mirror in the attic is a portal, a 'soul-catcher'. He warns us never to look into it at midnight together. But Malati is obsessed. She says she sees another world inside the glass—a world where we are queens, not just prisoners of this house."
The last entry was dated June 20th, the night Malati vanished.
"June 20th: It happened. We looked. The mirror didn't show our reflection; it showed a dark garden. Something reached out and pulled Malati in. I tried to scream, but my voice was gone. Father found me and locked the attic. He told the police she ran away to save the family name. But I know the truth. Malati is still in there. And now, she wants me to join her."
Suddenly, the lights in the study flickered and died. The room was plunged into pitch-black darkness. From the corner of the room, Ananya heard a familiar sound. Clink. Clink. Clink. The silver anklet. But this time, it wasn't a whisper. It was a loud, angry jingle. A cold, wet hand suddenly grabbed Ananya's ankle from under the desk.
"Lata..." a raspy voice hissed from the dark. "You're late."