The Riddle of Neelbari”



Upon coming to Kumirganj, Rafin leased an ancient chateau called Neelbari — a two-story estate painted in a blurred shade of blue. It stood disconnected, distant from the most town, encompassed by tall trees and hush. An elderly caretaker named Motin Chacha welcomed him at the door.

The minute Rafin entered the house, he felt a bizarre nearness — not debilitating, but unsettling. Amid the day, everything showed up typical. But as night fell, a ghostly stillness wrapped the place. Cold winds whispered through the wooden hallways, and indeed the sound of creepy crawlies seemed to disappear.

The primary night passed uneventfully. But on the moment night, things started to alter.

Around 2 a.m., Rafin all of a sudden woke up. To begin with, he wasn't beyond any doubt why. At that point, he listened — a delicate, heart-wrenching crying, like that of a lady in torment. The sound appeared far off but particular.

He strolled out to the overhang. The moonlit yard underneath was purge. Hush lingered thickly. No lights in Motin Chacha's room either. Befuddled, he went back to bed.

The next morning, he inquired the caretaker.

— “Chacha, has somebody kicked the bucket in this house?”

Motin Chacha stopped, his expression turning genuine. After a minute, he said,

— “This house once had a place to a zamindar, Zainal Sahib. He had a girl named Mehrun — a kind, soft-spoken girl. But some time recently, her wedding day, she vanished. Totally vanished. No one ever found her.”

Rafin was startled.

— “Disappeared? Didn't they investigate?”

— “They did. A few say she didn't need to wed. Others accept she was killed. But there was no confirmation. Ever since, individuals claim to listen to crying at night. Numerous fear the put and do not remain long.”

Rafin chuckled.

— “You really accept in phantoms, Chacha?”

— “Believe it or not, each inhabitant who remained here has seen something they couldn't clarify. Let's see how courageous you are.”

That night, Rafin chosen to set up a camera in his room to capture anything unordinary.

Rather like the night some time recently, his rest broke at precisely 2:20.

a.m. But this time, the wailing was louder. He too listened carefully, in spite of the fact that somebody was strolling within the lobby ground floor.

He grabbed a spotlight and went to examine. Within the fundamental hall, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Within the center of the room stood a lady — dressed in a white saree, her feet not touching the ground. Her long dark hair secured her face. A black out gleam encompassed her.

Solidified with fear, Rafin gazed. Abruptly, she lifted her head.

Her eyes were blood ruddy. Her confront was filled with anguish.

Rafin shouted in dread, and in a squint, the lady vanished like smoke.

At daybreak, he checked the camera film. Everything appeared typical — until 2:

13 a.m., when the screen blacked out for one full moment. No clarification.

Decided to take off before long, he told himself he'd remain fair one more night.

That night, Rafin didn't rest. He sat with his camera and electric lamp, holding up. At 2:20,

a.m., a interesting fog started inching beneath his entryway. He stood up, his heart beating, and opened the entryway.

The lady was back.

But this time, she talked.

— “No one cried for me…”

Rafin, his voice trembling, inquired.

— “Are you… Mehrun?”

She gestured slowly.

— “What happened to you?”

— “They forced me to wed somebody I didn't need. I stood up. So… they choked me. My body was dumped within the ancient well behind the house. I was never found.”

Rafin might scarcely breathe. He inquired.

— “What do you need me to do?”

— “Find me. Bury me appropriately. I fair need peace.”

The following morning, with Motin Chacha's offer assistance, Rafin started burrowing close to the ancient well. Hours afterward, they found bones — and at the side of them, rusted adornments still clinging to the remains.

Police were called, and an examination was opened into a 70-year-old cold case. The bones were affirmed to be human remains. Mehrun's long-lost story was at long last recognized.

She wans given a appropriate Islamic burial. Now not fair a apparition story.

Rafin cleared out the house another evening. Some time recently, he got into the car; he stood at the overhang one final time.

The wind was calm.

No crying. No strides. Fair the black out fragrance of night-blooming jasmine within the discussion.

As the car drove absent, Rafin whispered.

— “Rest in peace, Mehrun.”

The end