The Forgotten Ritual - Chapter 3

 22nd June 2019

Riya checked her phone—buzzing nonstop with notifications. News alerts, emails, and messages from her team all carried the same headline, the same haunting update: "Teens Involved in Disturbing Incident at Abandoned Chitkin House." Ritualistic objects were found. That word—ritualistic—echoed in her mind. It unsettled her. What were these kids trying to do in a place like that? Was it something paranormal, or just a game gone horribly wrong?

The house was supposed to be empty. Forgotten. But now, it was at the centre of something strange. Riya couldn’t shake the questions bubbling in her head. Who were these kids? Why that house? And what exactly did they were doing?

She scoured every article, opened every email, searched the web for anything about Chitkin House. But there weren’t much—just fragments of stories, vague historical notes, a few blurry images. Her friend, Preeti, sensing the unease settling over her, tried to distract her. She cooked breakfast, talked about a new book she’d read, even vented a little about work. When Riya still didn’t budge, Preeti nuzzled the plate toward her and said, “You’re not skipping this.” Riya reluctantly ate, more out of habit than hunger, barely tasting the food. Her mind was stuck in a loop, spiralling around shadows and symbols and unanswered questions. 

Eventually, she closed everything, sat quietly, and with her mind still clouded by heavy thoughts, she got up to help Preeti with lunch. They chopped vegetables, stirred spices, and tried to talk about mundane things—like a new recipe or the weather—just so Riya could pretend everything was normal. She didn’t want Preeti to worry, not more than she already was. They ate together quietly, the silence between them filled with unspoken concern. Later, Riya video-called her mom, nodded through the usual questions, then she and Preeti stepped out for some grocery shopping—another attempt at pretending everything was fine. After they got back, they put on some music and dove into their household chores, even sharing a couple of drinks along the way to lighten the mood. There were small bursts of laughter, moments that almost felt normal. They ended the night on the couch with two spoons and a tub of ice cream between them, silently agreeing to skip dinner. And when the ice cream was gone, so was the energy. Without saying much, they both went to bed—each carrying their own version of the night’s weight.

That night, Riya dreamt again—the same shadow, dark and shapeless, following her like it had before. But this time, something changed. She saw the boy from the news, the same teenager found dead in Chitkin House. His eyes locked with hers, desperate and full of fear. He reached out, calling to her, pleading,

                                                     “Help me… save the town.”

 His voice trembled as he tried to speak, tried to reveal what had caused his death. But before the words could leave his lips, the shadow lunged forward, its dark form wrapping around him. It silenced him, its hand clamping over his mouth as he struggled, wide-eyed. Riya grabbed for his hand, trying to pull him back, her fingers barely brushing his—but the shadow was stronger. It dragged him away into the dark, and her scream echoed into nothingness. She jolted awake at exactly 3:00 AM.

                                                            The witching hour.

Her breath was shallow, heart racing, body trembling beneath her blanket. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the shadows of her room. Something about that dream felt like more than a dream. A warning. A sign. And she didn’t want to think about what it meant.Needing to silence the fear clawing at her chest, she grabbed the bottle of vodka from the kitchen shelf, poured three shots neat, and downed them one after the other. The burn in her throat was oddly comforting. Without another thought, she crawled back into bed—and this time, the sleep came easy, heavy and dreamless.

The next morning, Riya woke up surprisingly fresh, though the dream still lingered at the edges of her mind like a fog she couldn’t shake. She remembered the boy’s face, the shadow’s grip, and that helpless moment. But it was Monday—bloody Monday—and she had overslept. With barely any time to breathe, she jumped out of bed, got freshened up, hurriedly dressed, skipped breakfast, and rushed out the door.

At the office, fate—or something eerier—seemed to intervene. Her manager called her in casually, then handed over a new assignment: cover the Chitkin House incident. For a second, Riya just stared at the screen, heart pounding. This was her first time writing about something real. Something dark. Something that felt… personal. Until now, she had been stuck in the same cycle—tech trends, light-hearted food blogs, entertainment fluff. But this? This was different. Her pulse quickened. It felt like the story had chosen her, not the other way around. Like she was meant to write this. Meant to uncover the truth.

 Fuelled by adrenaline, intuition, and a strange sense of fate, Riya dived back into her research. The dream still haunted her—the boy’s desperate plea, the shadow pulling him away—and now the universe had placed the same story right in her lap. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It felt like a calling. This wasn’t just a blog assignment anymore. It was an opportunity. Maybe even a chance to help the boy’s soul, to uncover what really happened, and to stop whatever darkness still lingered in that house.She began her research afresh, this time more focused, more intentional. Follow-up reports, triggered by yesterday's news, flooded in, filling the morning papers with reporter statements, interview snippets, and speculation. Riya clipped everything that might be useful and began building her own timeline of events. As she read through the details again, a name sparked in her memory—Shruti, an old college friend who was originally from that very town. Without wasting time, Riya called her. After a few minutes of catching up and casual laughter, she brought up the news. Shruti’s voice grew quiet. Yes, she had heard about it—it was all over the local circles. But she quickly clarified that she now lived in the city for work. Her parents, however, still lived in the town. That was enough. Riya hesitated for a second, then asked for a favour: “Can I come stay at your place for a couple of days? I need to be there… I need to see it myself.” Shruti paused, then agreed without a second thought. She even offered to go with her. It would only be a quick trip—two days at most. As the plan formed, things began to align. With Shruti by her side, not only would Riya have a place to stay, but she’d also have someone who could help her navigate the local scene. Even better—Shruti’s brother worked with the town’s police department. If anyone could help her gain access to real facts and avoid the sensational fluff, it would be him. Riya felt a rush of relief. She finally had a way in. And maybe, just maybe, a way to help that boy’s soul find peace.

That evening, Riya came home buzzing with energy. Her eyes were brighter than they’d been in weeks, her steps quick, her thoughts racing ahead of her. She had barely kicked off her shoes when the door swung open and Preeti walked in. Without a moment’s pause, Riya darted toward her, practically bursting with excitement. “Preeti! They assigned me the Chitkin House blog—you won't believe it! And guess what? Shruti, my old college friend? Her parents still live there. Her brother’s in the police! I’m going there, for real!” 

Preeti blinked, surprised, then smiled at the sudden wave of energy. She was genuinely happy for Riya—it had been a long time since she’d seen her this lit up about anything. But that smile faded slightly into concern. She knew Riya too well. She knew how deeply stories clung to her—how even a documentary could weigh on her for days. And now she was diving into something real, something dark and raw.

“That’s amazing,” Preeti said as she set her bag down, walking over to her. “But Riya… are you sure you’re ready for this? I know how these things affect you. And this isn’t just a spooky story—it’s real. You’ll be there. Right in it.” Riya’s smile wavered. She looked down for a second, then met Preeti’s eyes. “I know. And yeah, it scares me. But it’s not just a story anymore. I saw him, Preeti. That boy from the news… in my dream. He asked for help. I don’t know if it’s just my mind playing tricks or something more, but I can’t shake the feeling that he needs me. That this isn’t over. That whatever happened to him… it shouldn’t be forgotten.” There was a heavy silence, the weight of Riya’s words settling between them.

“I don’t want to just write another article,” Riya continued softly. “If there’s even a chance I can help—help him move on, help uncover the truth—then I have to try.”

Preeti stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, holding her a little tighter than usual. “Okay,” she whispered. “But just promise me you’ll be careful. And check in. Constantly.” Riya nodded against her shoulder. “Promise.”

After the emotional rush of the evening, Preeti went to freshen up. Riya, still humming with a mix of nerves and excitement, started pulling ingredients out of the fridge. By the time Preeti returned in her comfy shorts and oversized tee, Riya had already placed a chopping board on the counter. The two of them fell into a peaceful rhythm—chopping, stirring, occasionally bumping into each other in their tiny kitchen. It felt familiar, grounding. The kind of normal that both of them needed, even if just for a moment. As Preeti sprinkled some masala into the pan, she glanced over at Riya and asked casually, “So… when are you leaving?” Riya looked up, caught in the swirl of garlic and ginger-scented steam. “Thursday morning. I want to get there by afternoon, settle in, maybe talk to Shruti’s parents, and check out the area if there’s still daylight.” Preeti raised an eyebrow. “That soon, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Riya said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I don’t want to wait too long. It feels like… the longer I wait, the more the trail goes cold. And something tells me this is time-sensitive. Like the longer I ignore it, the harder it’ll be to understand what really happened.” 

Preeti gave a small nod, chewing her bottom lip. “I get it. Just... promise me again you won’t do anything reckless, okay?” 

“I won’t,” Riya said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’ve got Shruti with me. Her brother’s a cop, remember? And honestly, I just want answers. For the kid. For the story. For myself.” 

They finished cooking in a thoughtful silence, the air filled with the quiet comfort of shared concern, unspoken promises, and the scent of something warm and homemade. As they sat down with their plates, the soft clink of spoons and quiet background music filled the room. For a while, they ate in companionable silence, both lost in their thoughts. As they sat down with their plates, the soft clink of spoons and quiet background music filled the room. For a while, they ate in companionable silence, both lost in their thoughts. Riya took a sip of water, nodding slowly. “A decent amount, yeah. News articles, a couple of witness statements, some vague mentions of the house in older blog archives. There are even a few Reddit threads with people claiming it was haunted years ago, but most of it feels like half-truths.”

Preeti squinted. “Anything about those ritualistic objects they found?”

“That’s the weird part,” Riya said, leaning in, her voice dropping just a bit. “No details. Every article mentions them, but no one describes what they were exactly. No photos either. It’s like someone’s deliberately keeping that vague.” Preeti frowned. “Creepy. So, what’s your angle then? You’re going in blind?”

Riya shook her head. “Not completely. I’ve made a list of all the questions I need answered. Shruti’s dad might know more about the history, and her brother could help me get access to local police records—or at least point me in the right direction.” She paused for a second, then added quietly, “But honestly? It’s not just about writing anymore. I feel like I owe it to that boy… to find out what really happened.” Preeti stared at her for a second longer, then gave a small smile. “You’re such a softie. A determined softie, but still.”

Riya chuckled. “Someone has to be.”

The next morning, even as she got ready for work and moved through her day, the noise around the Chitkin House incident refused to die down. News channels were still running the story in loops—flashing grim photos of the house, recycled expert opinions, and the same set of facts that offered more questions than answers. Her inbox was a flood of alerts. But Riya had stopped expecting new information from them. The police were still figuring things out. That much was clear. And the articles—no matter how dramatic—barely scratched the surface. They offered official statements, vague theories, and the same haunting images. Riya had collected everything she could from those sources, cataloguing notes, clipping quotes, even tracing names mentioned once in passing. But beyond that, it all felt like static. So, she shut the news off.Enough second hand chaos. It was time to move. The days inched by, each one feeling longer than the last. Riya kept herself occupied—writing drafts, double-checking her notes, texting Shruti about the plan. But her mind kept drifting back to the boy in her dream, to the shadow, to the house that seemed to pull her closer with each passing hour. Eventually, Thursday morning arrived. She had packed her bag with essentials—laptop, recorder, notebook, camera, power banks, and a tiny pouch with a few protection charms her mom insisted she carry. She didn’t argue. Not this time. 

Riya ran to catch the 9 AM bus, nearly missing it, heart pounding as the driver gave her a disapproving look. But she made it. She took a window seat, watching the city blur into countryside, the landscape slowly changing—familiar buildings giving way to quiet fields and forgotten roads. By afternoon, the bus pulled into the sleepy town. Riya stepped off, took a breath of the cool, dusty air, and looked around. It was quieter than she had imagined, almost too still—as if the town itself was holding its breath.

A chill crawled down her spine. This wasn’t just another assignment. It was about knowing the truth.

As she reached the town’s small, quiet bus station, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a message from Shruti. "I’m near the tapri—just by the entrance gate of the bus stop. You’ll spot me easily, I’m in a green kurta and dying in this heat 😭". Riya smiled despite herself. She scanned the area and, sure enough, there was a small tea stall just ahead, the scent of boiling chai and fried snacks cutting through the dusty air. Standing beside it, waving dramatically, was Shruti.

Riya waved back, dragging her bag along as she walked toward her. Shruti pulled her into a quick hug. “Finally! Welcome to our little mystery town,” she said with a grin, then added, “And also, seriously, it’s hot. I told you we should’ve come during winter.”

Riya laughed. “Let’s find your place first—before I melt.”

“Come on,” Shruti said, grabbing one of her bags. “Papa’s already told the neighbours we have a guest. They’re probably creating backstories about you already.”

They both laughed as they walked down the narrow street, unaware that the shadows around the Chitkin House had already noticed Riya’s arrival.