Moon at Half Past Noon

A labyrinth of Shadows

Mohan’s kurta, stained with pina and curry, clung to him, cold and uncomfortable. He watched the Singh family, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension, marvel at the haveli’s lotus fountain. The fountain, illuminated by the soft glow of solar-powered tapkeshwar chandeliers, shimmered with an ethereal beauty. But the water’s surface was disturbed by fleeting, pale shapes that could have been reflections… or something else.

The chaos of the Harela feast still lingered, a bitter taste in Mohan’s mouth. The villagers had bled him for ₹57,000. They made demands for pujas and offerings. Their uninvited songs echoed behind the departing SUVs. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being manipulated, a pawn in a game he didn’t understand. A nagging detail gnawed at him: a tampered projector wire, discovered during the feast’s climax. A child’s frightened whisper echoed in his memory – “I saw a shadow… it cut the wire!” A villager’s angry accusation rang in his ears – “You fixed it yourself, Sharma-ji!” Was it sabotage? A deliberate attempt to undermine his efforts? Amidst this turmoil, the Singhs’ boisterous laughter offered a fragile glimmer of hope. It was a chance at financial redemption. He hoped to outrun the haveli’s shadows, both real and imagined.

His brother’s suicide was driven by a desperate need to repay debts tied to a dark secret of the haveli. It fueled Mohan’s ambition. His obsession was to succeed. “You’ll sell our soul for this,” his brother had warned, in a final, despairing message. But now, whispers followed Mohan. They were insidious and unsettling. Was he staging these “haunted” events? Was he exaggerating the scares to attract guests and achieve viral fame? Was he hiding a more sinister truth beneath the guise of a modern hotelier?

The Singhs, oblivious to Mohan’s inner turmoil, eagerly explored the haveli. They were quickly disoriented by its labyrinthine layout. It was a maze of winding corridors and hidden staircases. Rooms seemed to shift and change with every turn. Their shouts and laughter were swallowed by the thick kath-khuni walls. The ancient stone and deodar wood were layered without mortar. This created an unsettling sense of isolation. The intricate lotus carvings adorned the walls. They seemed to leer at them. Their stylized beauty took on a sinister edge. It resembled the malevolent gaze of the Bhootki in the villagers’ tales.

The teenagers were initially excited by the prospect of a “haunted” adventure. They were the first to succumb to the haveli’s unsettling atmosphere. Playing a game of hide-and-seek, they stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten room near the veranda’s intricately carved jhalars (decorative latticework). In the center of the room, a rusted suit of armor stood tilting precariously, its joints groaning with age. The helm was empty, yet the shadows within seemed to watch them, following their every move. “Junk!” one of the teenagers scoffed, trying to mask their unease with bravado. A sudden, sharp creak echoed from the far corner of the room. A dark shadow darted past the doorway. It was too quick and fleeting to be a trick of the light.

Even the adults were not immune to the haveli’s unsettling influence. The patriarch, a normally jovial man, hesitated before a locked attic door, his booming voice subdued. “Djinns,” he admitted, a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes, referencing the malevolent spirits of his native Amritsar. “They scared me as a child. This place… it feels similar.” The matriarch was usually a picture of unwavering strength. She comforted one of the younger children. Her voice softened as she murmured about a lost sibling in Punjab. It was a tragedy she rarely spoke of. For a moment, her composure wavered, revealing a vulnerability that belied her forceful demeanor.

Despite the growing unease, the Singhs were also captivated by the haveli’s unique beauty. They marveled at the atrium’s living wall. It was a vibrant tapestry of bhaang (cannabis), tulsi (holy basil), and mint. Its fragrant aroma mingled with the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. They admired the serene atmosphere of the library. The ancient Bhootnath shrine dominated it. Its intricate carvings and faded murals whispered tales of forgotten gods and forgotten rituals. They appreciated the unexpected comforts of their en-suite rooms. The heated floors provided a welcome respite from the monsoon chill. One of the teenagers, momentarily forgetting the spooky tales, grinned and declared, “At least the Wi-Fi’s ghost-proof!” – a statement that proved to be tragically premature when the connection abruptly died a few hours later.

Seizing the opportunity, Mohan launched into a carefully rehearsed pitch, emphasizing the haveli’s historical significance and eco-friendly design. “Thakur lords built this haveli centuries ago,” he explained, his voice regaining some of its earlier confidence. “We’ve restored it with sustainable practices, blending tradition with modern eco-luxury!“

But his words were undercut by the haveli itself. A sudden gust of wind howled through the corridors. It carried with it a faint, mournful whisper. The whisper sounded suspiciously like his brother’s voice.

Krupa, her eyes gleaming with a knowing amusement, smirked and gestured towards the intricate lotus carvings that adorned the walls. “Follow the lotus,” she advised, her voice a low purr, “or you might just vanish… become another ghost story.”

Dharma’s face was pale and drawn. He sprinkled a protective circle of salt around the group. His lips moved in a silent prayer. “Restless spirits,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the shadows that danced in the corners of the room.

Mohan overheard a snatch of Dharma’s haunting lullaby, the melody strangely familiar and unsettling. “That song,” he asked, his voice hushed. “Your sister…?“

Dharma nodded. His eyes met Mohan’s for the first time with a flicker of shared vulnerability. A fragile trust formed amidst the pervasive dread. “She sang it,” he confirmed, his voice thick with unshed tears, “before… before the fire.“

As the day wore on, the Singhs’ initial excitement began to mingle with a growing sense of unease. They experienced a series of unsettling encounters. Each was ambiguous and open to interpretation. These events blurred the line between genuine haunting and overactive imaginations.

One of the teenagers was exploring the darkened corridors near the Bhootnath shrine. They swore they saw a figure in white. It was a fleeting glimpse of a flowing gown. The figure disappeared around a corner. Shaken, they posted a shaky video on X (formerly Twitter), captioned “Ghost or nah?” The video quickly gained traction, its view count spiking with every passing hour, much to Mohan’s dismay.

Later that evening, a long, heavy rope creaked ominously in the attic above. Its sound echoed through the haveli like a mournful sigh. The teenagers, gathered below, initially laughed it off as the wind, their bravado masking their growing apprehension. But their laughter faltered. A set of heavy footsteps, seemingly disembodied, began to pace the floorboards above. Their rhythm was slow and deliberate. It was like someone counting out the steps to a final, tragic dance.

One of the younger children was wide-eyed with fear. They swore they saw the lotus-crowned statue in the shrine move. Its stone lips curled into a sinister smile. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural light, like burning coals. The matriarch, trying to soothe the child, scoffed at the suggestion, attributing it to an overactive imagination. “It’s just the light, darling,” she insisted, her voice trembling slightly. But as she spoke, her silk shawl caught on a sharp edge of the statue’s lotus carving. It tore with a loud rip. This sound echoed the tearing of fabric in Anjali’s tragic tale.

Mohan, his senses on high alert, noticed a faint, sweet scent in the air. It was the unmistakable fragrance of Krupa’s distinctive ghee incense. This was the one she used during her evening prayers. But the scent was too fresh, too strong, as if the incense had been recently lit near the statue. A cold suspicion coiled in his gut. He surreptitiously searched the shrine. His heart pounded in his chest. His fingers traced the intricate carvings. He was searching for any clue. He found a small, carefully concealed sprig of bhootkeshi. This was the same herb that Radha, the village herbalist, had been selling at the feast. His mind raced, trying to reconcile this finding with his growing unease. He also found a torn page from an old ledger. It was hidden beneath a loose stone. It listed a series of payments for “bhootkeshi” to an unknown villager. Then came the final and damning piece of the puzzle. He discovered a hastily scribbled note in his brother’s familiar, frantic scrawl: “Anjali’s rope… it wasn’t hers.”

The implications of the note hit Mohan like a physical blow. Anjali’s death wasn’t a suicide, as the legends claimed. It was murder. But who? And why? A chilling realization washed over him. He remembered a drunken whisper from a villager at the feast: “You fixed the wire yourself, Sharma-ji!”

Doubt gnawed at him. Had he been wrong all along? Was he the unwitting pawn in a much larger game? In his desperation to attract guests and save his homestay, had he inadvertently planted the bhootkeshi sprig himself? Was he staging these “haunted” events to create a viral sensation? The thought was repulsive, yet a terrifying possibility. He remembered Dharma’s missing hammer. It was the tool capable of such precise tampering. He also recalled Dharma’s cryptic prayer earlier that day – “Sister, I’ll guard this house.” Those words now seemed less like a lament and more like a vow. And then there was Krupa. Her silk scarf, identical to the one she wore, was caught on a sharp nail near the shrine. The lingering scent of her ghee incense clung to its delicate fabric. Her earlier confession about her husband – “Herbs failed him, not poison” – rang hollow in his ears. He now interpreted it more sharply and sinisterly. It seemed to be a carefully constructed lie to mask her true motives. Her bitterness towards the Thakur family was evident. Her cryptic warning that “this haveli buries truths” now seemed less like folklore. It appeared to be more like a personal vendetta.

The night deepened. The villagers were emboldened by pina. They felt a growing sense of collective purpose. The villagers began to arrive at the haveli uninvited. They came bearing offerings of marigold garlands and chanting ancient Harela songs, their voices echoing through the darkness. Prem, the young villager who had challenged Mohan earlier, ignored Mohan’s repeated pleas to stay away from the pina. He swaggered through the halls with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Mohan noticed him surreptitiously slipping a long, thin tool into his belt, its sharpened edge gleaming in the dim light.

The villagers spun increasingly elaborate tales of the Bhootki’s wrath. “Anjali’s rope sways in the orchard. It is a warning to all who disturb her peace!” they declared, their voices rising in a dramatic chorus. They banged on their thalis with spoons. This created a cacophony of sound. They scattered bhootkeshi smoke throughout the haveli. Its bitter scent mingled with the aroma of incense and fear.

Mohan, his patience stretched to the breaking point, snapped. “Out! All of you! This is my property! You have no right to be here!“

But the Singhs, far from being intimidated, were energized by the spectacle. The patriarch, filled with a strange delight, began singing along to the Harela songs. His booming voice belted out Punjabi folk tunes with gusto. He challenged Ganga Ram to a “ghost song duel.” This was much to the old man’s bewilderment and amusement. The matriarch felt her initial unease turn into a thrill-seeker’s curiosity. She scribbled down Krupa’s recipe for bhatt ki churkani on a napkin. She was determined to recreate the “haunted” dish back home.

Mohan’s gaze, however, remained fixed on Ganga Ram. He had seen the elder linger near the fuse box earlier. The elder held his lathi in hand. His explanation – “Guarding the haveli from evil spirits” – sounded increasingly hollow. A cold suspicion settled in Mohan’s mind. Did Ganga, with his intimate knowledge of the haveli’s ancient wiring, tamper with the fuses? Did he orchestrate the power outage to further terrify the guests? Was it to solidify the villagers’ belief in the supernatural?

The teenagers, meanwhile, were in their element, documenting the unfolding chaos for their social media followers. They filmed a shaky montage of the “Harela Ghost Party.” It included snippets of the puja, close-ups of the villagers’ frenzied dancing, and glimpses of the haveli’s shadowy corners. These were interspersed with their own wide-eyed reactions. One of the teenagers was a budding filmmaker. They captured a fleeting image of Krupa’s distinctive scarf near the Bhootnath shrine. The intricate embroidery was eerily illuminated by the flickering candlelight. The video, captioned “#HarelaGhostParty: Haunted but Lit!,” was destined to go viral.

The younger children were initially frightened. Now, they were twirling through the halls. Their laughter echoed through the darkness. Their small hands were outstretched to catch the swirling shadows cast by the lotus carvings. They transformed the haveli’s sinister beauty into a macabre playground.

Krupa watched the scene unfold with detached amusement. She quipped, “It seems my little puppet show has become Mohan’s worst nightmare.” Her voice was laced with a hint of dark satisfaction.

Mohan’s face was pale and drawn. He retorted with his voice trembling with exhaustion. Dread grew as he said, “I’ll burn this haveli to the ground.” He refused to let the ghosts win. He stumbled over a discarded thali, nearly falling, his earlier bravado replaced by a desperate, cornered fury.

Dharma, witnessing Mohan’s near-fall, darted forward to steady him, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Careful, Sharma-ji,” he murmured. His voice was a low rumble. The Kumaoni lullaby for his sister was a silent plea on his lips. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Mohan saw a flicker of genuine concern in the Nepali’s usually stoic gaze. A fragile bond formed between them amidst the escalating chaos.

The Singhs, far from being deterred by the night’s events, were thoroughly entertained. The patriarch was nursing a glass of pina. He was also sporting a marigold garland around his neck. He slapped Mohan on the back with a hearty laugh. “Best damn vacation ever, Sharma-ji! We’ll be booking again next year, for sure!” he declared, his booming voice echoing through the halls. The matriarch, equally enthusiastic, showed off a short video. She had taken it of Krupa preparing the bhatt ki churkani. She praised its “haunted deliciousness.” She vowed to recreate it for her next dinner party. The teenagers were already editing their “Harela Ghost Party” montage. They were eager to share their thrilling experience with their followers. The experience was slightly terrifying. They assured Mohan that the video would hit at least 500,000 views. This prediction was a digital stamp of approval. It both thrilled and horrified him.

But amidst the drunken revelry and the online frenzy, a disquieting discovery went largely unnoticed. One of the Singh teenagers, a tech-savvy girl named Priya, reported her phone missing. She had been using it to film the events of the evening. She captured every chaotic moment. She filmed every spooky encounter and every suspicious detail. The last video she had recorded was of someone tampering with the fuse box in the main hall. She recalled this with chilling clarity. Their face was obscured by the shadows.

A new wave of panic washed over Mohan. The missing phone had incriminating video footage. It represented a potential disaster. It was like a smoking gun in a game he didn’t even know he was playing.

He took advantage of a lull in the festivities. He surreptitiously made his way to the fuse box. His heart was pounding in his chest. The air crackled with a faint electrical charge, and the smell of burnt wiring filled his nostrils. A closer inspection confirmed his worst fears. The fuse had been deliberately tampered with. Its wires were cut and then reconnected. This would cause a short circuit and plunge the haveli into darkness. Dharma’s missing hammer lay on the floor nearby. It was almost hidden in the shadows. Its heavy head gleamed ominously in the dim light. A cold dread settled over Mohan. Was Dharma, the seemingly loyal and superstitious caretaker, responsible for the sabotage? His earlier, cryptic prayer – “Sister, I’ll guard this house” – sounded like a threat now. It no longer seemed like a lament.

Or was it Krupa? Her silk scarf, with its distinctive Kumaoni embroidery, was found snagged on a sharp nail near the Bhootnath shrine. Its delicate fabric reeked of her signature ghee incense. Her earlier, unsettling confession about her husband – “Herbs failed him, not poison” – rang hollow in his ears. A growing suspicion replaced it. He suspected that she was driven by a deeper, more vengeful motive. Her repeated warnings about the haveli’s hidden truths painted her in a sinister light. She had intimate knowledge of its layout. Her understanding of its secrets added to the suspicion. Was she using the ghost stories? Was she using the haveli’s labyrinthine architecture to mask her own machinations? Did she want to settle an old score with the Thakur family by destroying their ancestral home?

The faces of the villagers, flushed with pina and excitement, swam before Mohan’s eyes. Ganga Ram had intimate knowledge of the haveli’s workings. He was earlier near the fuse box. His lathi could be a potential weapon. Prem, with his volatile energy and his surreptitious tool, his motives shrouded in drunken bravado. Any one of them could be responsible. Or all of them, puppets in a larger, more sinister game.

Even the Singhs, with their seemingly innocent enthusiasm, were not entirely beyond suspicion. Their eagerness for a “spooky adventure” seemed increasingly contrived. Their nonchalant acceptance of the haveli’s unsettling atmosphere felt a little too convenient.

As the revelry continued around him, a grotesque parody of Kumaoni hospitality and modern tourism, Mohan felt increasingly isolated. He was trapped in a nightmare of his own making. The line between reality and illusion had blurred beyond recognition. Was he chasing ghosts, or were the ghosts chasing him? Was he a victim, or a perpetrator?

The laughter and music swirled around him, a macabre symphony of drunken celebration and creeping dread. The ancient stones of the haveli pulsed with a dark energy, promising answers, yet offering only more questions. The orchard loomed beyond the veranda, its apple trees swaying like skeletal figures, their branches heavy with secrets. And above it all, the attic creaked and groaned. The sound of Anjali’s rope echoed in the darkness, or perhaps it was something far more sinister.