The allure of a haunting often lies in the spaces where the past whispers into the present, its echoes ricocheting through shadowy corridors and fractured sense of reality. In this meticulously crafted novella by Abhirup Dhar, these whispers are deafening, reverberating across decades to weave an unsettling tale. Set against the brooding, mist-draped mountains of Darjeeling, the narrative alternates between 1985 and 2016, inviting readers into a labyrinthine structure that is both mesmerizing and, at times, maddening.
The story begins in 1985, with Anuradha and Arnab relocating to an isolated, atmospheric house, a place intended to serve as a retreat from Kolkata’s frenetic pace. Their six-year-old son, Ricky, becomes the unwitting harbinger of the inexplicable as the family is drawn into an escalating vortex of paranormal occurrences. Fast-forward to 2016, when Karma, a professor of parapsychology, and Sakshi take residence in the same house. As the timelines entwine and fragment, the house itself emerges as a malevolent character, its secrets spilling forth with each revelation.
The narrative excels in its use of non-linear storytelling, particularly in the 2016 segments, which oscillate between Karma and Sakshi’s harrowing present and the origins of their relationship. This disjointed approach amplifies the suspense, forcing the reader to piece together a puzzle whose final image is as haunting as it is tragic. The interplay between the two eras is skillfully orchestrated, with fleeting details—an eerie piano chord, a ghostly voice—creating moments of recognition that further excite you.
Yet, the novella is not without its shortcomings. The relationship between Karma and Sakshi strains credulity; their whirlwind romance, forged over a chance encounter and a few eerie jaunts in the mountains, lacks the depth necessary to make Sakshi’s decisions seem plausible.
Thematically, the book delves into profound questions about the fragility of modern relationships. Sakshi and Karma’s interactions expose the fault lines of distrust, impulsivity, and emotional withdrawal, contrasting sharply with the more grounded (if equally tragic) dynamic of Anuradha and Arnab. This subtle critique of human connections in an age of impermanence lends the book a layer of universality, even as its horrors are firmly rooted in the supernatural.
The horror elements themselves are impeccably rendered, eschewing cheap thrills for an atmosphere steeped in dread. The house becomes a tableau of spectral phenomena: a mirror that serves as a portal to another realm, the hollow resonance of a piano played by unseen hands, and the chilling lore of Darjeeling’s haunted past. The author’s restraint is commendable, unveiling just enough to keep the reader teetering on the edge of comprehension without ever slipping into exposition.
Despite these flaws, the book triumphs in its ability to meld two distinct timelines into a cohesive whole, its structural elegance matched only by the vividness of its fear factor. The climactic unravelling is both devastating and cathartic, offering readers a satisfying resolution to the intricate web of events. This is a book that demands patience, rewarding readers who can endure its slower moments with a payoff that lingers long after the final page.