Moon at Half Past Noon

Echoes of the Haunted Lens

Mid-August 2024 enveloped the Thakur Ram Singh Haveli in a monsoon’s shroud. The rain’s relentless cadence carved secrets into the slate roofs. The Almora-Bageshwar road was sealed, cloistering the haveli like a whispered curse. Mohan Sharma was ignited by the Singh family’s #NandaDeviHaunt buzz. He prowled the grand hall. He rigged gags to weave a haunted atmosphere for Rohan Sharma’s Haunted Bharat cameras. “Perfect for his clicks!” he chortled. He loosened a tapkeshwar chandelier’s wire to flicker. Additionally, he tied a string to creak the attic door. A bell was rigged to chime faintly in the Bhootnath shrine. His greed flared, “Viral gold, safe as chai!” he muttered. The Killer of Shillong’s weight pressed down on him. Its Thakur poisonings clawed at his paranoia. His brother’s suicide lingered as a shadow. The kath-khuni walls—stone and polished cedar—glowed under marigold-lit chandeliers. The lotus carvings cast intricate shadows on the cedar floors. Their wood-oil scent was a quiet balm. Beyond the porch’s arched glass, the naula orchard’s crimson apples pulsed like veiled fires in the rain-soaked dusk. Their unnatural bloom—Anjali’s Bhootki curse—appeared sharper. It seemed stirred by unseen eyes. Their glow was a silent taunt.

In Almora’s village, near the Bhootnath temple’s rain-slick steps, Rohan Sharma filmed for his five-million-subscriber channel. He was spurred by his earlier email to film Haunted Bharat. He had lingered in village inns chasing tales. His camera swept across chai stalls, tin roofs drumming, locals huddled under awnings, umbrellas swaying like restless spirits. “Yo, subscribers, we’re hunting ghosts!” he crowed, his 22-year-old bravado piercing the hush, his Haunted Bharat logo glinting. Raju, sipping pina, leaned in, “Bhootki strangles with her rope—chokes shadows!” Lila nodded, “Naula’s blood flows—Simran saw it, red as those apples!” Their exaggerated tales thrilled Rohan. “Viral gold!” he exclaimed, his camera glitching, static clawing the screen. “Bollywood horror vibes!” he laughed, unease veiling as villagers added, “Bhootki tears the stars!” Prem murmured, “Her shadow hunts—apples glow like her eyes!” Rohan’s pulse quickened, “Wild, but I’m in!” An old woman, shawl sodden, gripped his arm. Her rasp sent chills through him. “Leave the haveli, boy—Bhootki’s curse will consume your soul!” “Creepy, but I’m not scared!” he retorted, her words—“Consume your soul!”—echoing as he trekked to the haveli, confusion stirring, the apples’ glow cutting the mist.

Rohan stormed the haveli, hauling tripods and EMF meters. His energy jarred the hall’s serenity. Mohan’s lamp flickered. The attic door creaked, and the bell chimed. “This place is lit!” he crowed, marigold light glinting. Bhoot, the shaggy vegetarian dog, yipped, nuzzling Rohan’s leg, tail thumping like a drum. “Hey, pup, you’re my vibe!” Rohan grinned, scratching Bhoot’s ears, the dog’s warmth disarming, his coal-black eyes glinting. Mohan’s eyes flared, “Clicks mean cash!” his gags primed, Killer of Shillong’s Khasi script—“Poison hides truth”—gnawing, his brother’s rope softened by newfound empathy. Krupa hissed, “He’ll wake Bhootki!” Her gaze was sharp. It flicked to Dharma by the lotus fountain. Bhoot growled softly. His eyes were on the apples. Their glow grew fiercer. Anjali’s curse began to stir. “Her curse knits their blaze.” Dharma murmured, his Nepali accent heavy. The apples’ cursed pulse was a weight. His sister’s cinders haunted him. His bond with Krupa was a quiet anchor.

Rohan set up cameras, their whirring clashing with the haveli’s cedar calm, EMF meters beeping. “Yo, streaming—#NandaDeviHaunt!” he shouted, but Wi-Fi choked, his stream dying in static, cameras flashing errors, audio twisting into a guttural hum. “My subs need this!” he flailed, rebooting gear, settings failing. “It’s shredding my sanity!” he choked, confusion mounting, villagers’ tales—“Bhootki’s rope!”, “Naula’s blood!”—swirling, the old woman’s “Consume your soul!” gnawing. Krupa smirked, “Bhootki chews your gadgets!” serving kafuli, its aroma grounding the kitchen, her illiteracy fueling defiance. Dharma, polishing lotus petals, nodded, “Her curse blinds—apples flare.” He shared a Nepali prayer, “My village burned salt,” his bond with Krupa deepening, “Your fire guards me.” Krupa’s eyes softened, “Your faith shields me, Dharma—like my Shillong escape.” Their loss—her husband, his sister—wove resilience, their connection a vow.

Rohan’s research faltered, gear yielding no answers, EMF meters spiking sourcelessly, cameras choking on static. “I feel her, nothing sticks!” he stammered, panning the Bhootnath shrine. Bhoot nuzzled his hand, then stiffened, eyes locked on the statue. A cold hand grazed Rohan’s neck. A whispered “Anjali…” sent a chill, audio warped, and screens went blank. In the attic, a rope tightened. Bhoot’s growl rose. The naula water churned like her vengeance. Cameras caught shadows, but EMF meters flatlined. “It’s gutting me!” he choked, the old woman’s warning clawing—“Consume your soul!” Krupa hissed, “Her curse mocks!” her vendetta burning, Shillong knife glinting. Dharma murmured, “Apples flare, spirits veil,” his sister’s cinders haunting, Bhoot’s whine a warning.

Rohan cornered Mohan, “What’s this vibe, Sharma-ji? Hands, whispers—gear’s dead!” Mohan spun tales, “Bhootki waltzes under the naula!” then laughed, “Stories, boy—haveli’s safe! Friendly ghosts strut for clicks!” His Killer of Shillong dread flickered, Khasi script heavy, eyes darting to a new boar bone with bhootkeshi. “No proof, truth’s locked,” he muttered, dread veiled. Rohan, bewildered, muttered, “Joking, right? Not safe!” Gags—creaking door, lamp, bell—merged with whispers, apples flaring, Anjali’s curse mocking.

The haveli pulsed with life. Marigolds cast golden pools. Lotus carvings whispered calm. Cedar floors felt warm. The orchard’s rain cadence was a quiet allure. The hills hummed. Bhoot whined as Rohan’s camera died in the shrine, static bursting, the abrupt end shaking him, blank footage mocking. “It’s shredding my sanity!” he choked, rope tightening, naula churning, whispers “Anjali…”, Anjali’s curse thwarting proof, the old woman’s rasp haunting—“Consume your soul!” Krupa hissed, “Bhootki spurns!” Dharma nodded, “Her wrath veils,” his bond with Krupa a vow, “Your fire’s my sister’s.” Krupa’s smile flickered, “Your faith guards.”

Village gossip drifted, Raju’s “Bhootki hates cameras!” Lila’s “Blood in the naula!” tied to Simran, a tattered postcard’s Khasi script—“Truth in shadows”—unsettling Mohan, Shillong tightening, boar bone chilling. The haveli’s beauty held—marigold warmth, cedar glow, orchard’s veiled pulse—its calm a bulwark. Krupa’s kafuli grounded the trio, their meal defiance, the hall’s glow a refuge. Mohan muttered, “Truth’s locked,” Killer of Shillong’s truths close. Krupa and Dharma shared a prayer and found solace. Their bond strengthened. The haveli’s starlit embrace held them as Anjali’s whisper faded. It was a static end to Rohan’s lens, with apples flaring.