Short-story
That’s the Spirit

Aliza
Shauraya International School
“Could you hear that”, said Henry in a surprised tone. Smith was neglectful of what Henry said.
“Could you hear that” repeated Henry, pointing towards the machine that kept looking after any paranormal activity? So, Henry, Smith and John were a team working for detecting any supernatural or paranoiac activity.
They received an unknown call the day before, suspecting it from an old building nearby, known for dubious activities. Anyone who enters the premises disappears, and when found after days, they never remember what had happened to them during those days.
Screams could be heard throughout the night as it was haunted. The neighbours were also tense and scared. The law enforcement agencies have been working for almost a decade in cracking such paranormal activities but no success.
John and his team decided to go to the building at midnight as these spirits peak during the night. They equipped themselves well with all safety measures and promised each other in solving the issue courageously.
With a muscular physique, John decided that he would enter the building first and install all the cameras and devices. Henry and Smith hesitated to let him go alone, but John firmly said, “If I didn’t come back in half an hour, go back.” Henry and Smith nodded, but they were sure that they would not return at any cost, not at all will they leave their friend alone
Quarter to an hour had passed, Henry and Smith were still waiting in their van, looking at the monitors. After getting no trace of John, they decided to look out for themselves. Carrying the bottles to catch the spirits, they entered the building, searched out the ground floor entirely but didn’t find John. However, they noticed that John had successfully installed the cameras and machines all over the floor. It was dark all around.
Suddenly Henry and Smith heard cats growling. They were scared for once, but after realising it was cats, they eased. Next, they went on to the first floor, there too, like the ground floor, all instruments were installed. Again, John was nowhere to be found. Suddenly they heard some strange noises. “Could you hear that?” said Henry pointing out towards the handy screen they were carrying? Smith turned towards Henry looking at the screen carefully. “Beep, Beep,” sounded the screen.
A human-like figure dressed in pure white clothes could be seen moving around the top floor. The physique was not of John but someone else. Both Smith and Henry decided to move towards the top floor directly. After rushing there, they could feel the presence of something unnatural and strange. They followed the direction where their equipment was installed and entered the room, which had opened doors. Both Henry and Smith went inside.
“Look there”, said Henry. They were astonished to see John hanging in the air as though someone had carried him from his neck. John was gasping for breath, a few more seconds, and he would die. Smith gathered his composure. Pointing out the bottle in John’s direction, he muttered, “Ashtala Bamaha, Boom Boom, Hash”.
John fell as if the grip of that spirit loosened around his neck. Something could be seen flying towards the bottles smith captured it and locked the bottle. It was a spirit of a man, forced to commit suicide by his enemies. His spirit could not get peace and started wandering in the building.
Henry and Smith ran towards John, who was lying unconscious on the floor. Henry made him have some water; he also splashed some drops of water on his face. John, when was conscious, was shocked to see what happened to him? He just remembered entering the room, and everything that happened after that was vague. His head was heavy, still gasping for breath. Both Henry and John picked him up and took him out of the building. All three could not be prouder with a bottle in the pocket as they had caught the spirit. Now the people could be able to live peacefully without any fear. They returned to their home.
“Seventeen”, John said, placing the bottle on the rack. John, Smith and Henry hugged each other and promised to keep on working hard.
“Hey, Get up, Get up”, said John’s mother. “You will be late for your school”. So, John got up after realizing all the incidents he saw were just a dream.
Short-story
The Abandoned Soul

Short Stories – Kumbh Series
Garvit Agarwal
Lucknow
Writer attended a Creative Writing Course by Takhte Writers and Publishers
The sun hung low over the Kumbh Mela, casting a warm golden hue across the throngs of devotees gathered along the banks of the sacred Ganges. The air buzzed with chants, laughter, and the rustling of colourful saris flapping in the wind. Pulkit and Ragini moved through the crowd, their hands intertwined but their expressions distant.
“Look at them, Ragini,” Pulkit said, forcing a smile as he gestured toward a group of children splashing in the water. “So carefree.”
“Carefree,” she echoed, her voice tinged with bitterness. “Must be nice.” Her gaze drifted to their son, Akash, who stood a few paces behind them, his eyes wide as he took in the chaos around him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, a habit that had grown more pronounced in recent months.
“Let’s just find a spot,” Pulkit replied, his tone clipped. “We can’t stay here all day.”
As they settled near the ghat, the chanting grew louder, drowning out the silence that had settled between them. They exchanged a glance, a shared understanding of the growing weight of their decision.
“Pulkit,” Ragini began, her voice shaking slightly. “Are we really—”
“We have to,” he interrupted, the determination in his eyes hardening. “It’s for the best.”
Hours passed, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows on the ground. Ragini watched as Pulkit knelt beside Akash, who was now fixated on a butterfly fluttering nearby. “Hey, buddy,” Pulkit said, his voice softer than before. “Want to chase that?”
Akash didn’t respond, lost in his world. Ragini felt a pang in her heart but quickly pushed it away. They were here for a reason, after all.
“We should go,” Pulkit said, rising to his feet. “It’s time.”
“Pulkit, I—”
“Ragini, we’ve talked about this.” He took a deep breath, his brow furrowed. “We can’t keep pretending everything is fine.”
With a heavy heart, they turned their backs on their son, leaving him by the ghat. “I’ll be right back, Akash,” Pulkit called over his shoulder, though he didn’t look back.
As they walked away, Ragini felt the weight of their decision settle in her chest like a stone. The laughter and chanting faded into a dull thrum, replaced by the sound of her heartbeat.
Later, as they listened to the preachings of a saint, a shift occurred. The saint’s voice boomed through the crowd, reverberating deep within Ragini. “Love is the greatest sacrifice,” he proclaimed. “To abandon those we love is to abandon our very souls.”
Pulkit stiffened beside her. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes!” she whispered, her heart racing. “We need to go back.”
They rushed back to the ghat, but the crowd had thickened, and panic set in as their eyes searched frantically. “Akash!” Ragini called, her voice rising above the chaos. “Where are you?”
“Stay calm,” Pulkit urged, though his voice trembled. “He can’t have gone far.”
Hours turned into days, and the relentless search for their son felt like a nightmare from which they could not wake. Each day, they returned to the ghat, calling his name until their voices were hoarse.
“Why did we leave him?” Ragini sobbed one evening, her tears mixing with the river’s water as she knelt by the bank. “What have we done?”
Pulkit sank to the ground beside her, his own eyes brimming with regret. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmured, his voice breaking.
“Where is he?” She cried, her heart shattered. “What if—what if he’s alone and scared?”
They were lost in their remorse, the vibrant colours of the Mela fading into a blur of sorrow. The river flowed steadily beside them, indifferent to their pain, as they clung to the hope that somehow, some way, they would find their son again.
Photo Courtesy – Mr Rajesh Balouria by Pixabay
Short-story
Triumph of Connection

Short Stories – Kumbh Series
Rutbik Gupta
Bilaspur, Chattisgarh
Writer attended a Creative Writing Course by Takhte Writers and Publishers
The Kumbh Mela pulsed with life, colours swirling like a painter’s palette. Krish and Shreya squeezed through the throngs of pilgrims, their parents trailing behind, eyes wide with wonder. The air buzzed with chants, the scent of incense thick around them.
“Look at all those people!” Shreya shouted, her voice barely rising above the chaos. “I feel like we are in a river of heads!”
“Just stay close,” Krish replied, his grip tightening around her hand. “We can’t lose each other here.”
Suddenly, a small voice broke through the din. “Mama! Papa!” A boy, no older than six, stood alone, tears streaking his dusty cheeks. Krish’s heart sank.
“Shreya, we have to help him,” he said, kneeling to the boy’s level. “What’s your name?”
“Teerth,” he sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I can’t find my parents!”
“Don’t worry, Teerth. We’ll help you,” Shreya promised, her voice softening. “Where did you last see them?”
“By the river… I was looking at the fish,” Teerth whimpered, glancing around, panic rising. “They were right there!”
“Okay, follow us,” Krish said, standing tall, determination setting in. “We’ll find them.”
They moved through the crowd, the rhythm of drums and chants echoing around them. Krish scanned each face, searching for a hint of recognition. Shreya whispered encouragement to Teerth, who clung to her hand.
“Look!” Shreya pointed, spotting a frantic couple searching through the crowd. “Teerth, is that them?”
Teerth’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Mama! Papa!” He bolted towards them, the sound of his small feet hitting against the ground.
Krish and Shreya exchanged relieved glances, hearts racing. The couple raised Teerth into their arms, tears streaming down their faces.
“Thank you! Thank you!” the mother cried, her voice breaking.
“Thank you so much, children. You’ve been our saviour”, said the father, with teary-eyed.
“No problem,” Krish said, a smile breaking through the tension. “Just doing what’s right.”
As the family embraced, Krish and Shreya shared a knowing glance. The chaos of Kumbh Mela swirled around them, but at that moment, they felt the triumph of connection.
Photo Courtesy – Mr Rajesh Balouria by Pixabay
Short-story
Fury of Tomato

Advika Bhatnagar
Shikshantar School, Gurugram
Grade 3
Alice, a nine-year-old boy, lived in the countryside of Tinseltown with his Granny. He was a stubborn and edgy child. He liked to eat whatever he wanted and didn’t care much about Granny’s words. This made the old lady very sad.
“Granny, Granny, hunger pangs! I want pizza and chocolate ice cream for dinner,” said Alice
“Wait, child, I’m making delicious chicken soup, healthy multigrain bread, and a fresh salad,” answered Granny.
Alice got angry when he saw salad on the dining table. He yelled, “Again, cucumber, bell pepper, carrot, and tomato. Is that what I will eat? “No, no, no, never, not at all. No dinner tonight.” Granny got worried and left the house to get his favourite food.
Alice was all alone. In anger, he picked up the tomato and threw it at the wall. The red pulp of the tomato almost covered the mid-wall. He was shocked to see the pulp turning into a monster.
“Ha, Ha, Ha, you stubborn boy. Every day I see you trouble your Granny for food. When you hit me against the wall today, I felt hurt. I will teach you a lesson. I am the new king of vegetables. I rule the meals,” said the tomato monster. And then the monster followed him everywhere in the room.
Alice was so scared that he was running in different directions. Sitting under the table, he quietly prayed, “Oh God, please save me from this deadly monster.”
Alice rushed to his Granny’s room, wears her hat and robe. He picks up the embroidered, favourite napkin of the Granny and moves slowly towards the wall. He wipes the tomato pulp, and the monster disappears right away.
Alice gets the lesson of his life to value all food. He vows to take care of Granny, as her belongings protect him. When she was back, he hugged her and said, “I love you so much. I will eat whatever you cook for me.”
The writer attended Takhte Writers & Publishers’ Story Writing Writeshop at Kalasthali, Gurugram.
Photo Courtesy – Andre Taissin (xRUJcUTEp6Y) Unsplash
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