The Dark Side: Anthology of Short Stories exploring the dark side

A Pocket Full of Roses ...

Lonavala, a small hill station nestled in the Sahyadri mountain range, was known for its breathtaking beauty. Tourists often flocked to see its cascading waterfalls, mist-laden hills, and dense forests. The air was crisp, and the cool breeze carried the fragrance of wet earth and blooming flowers. But beyond this scenic paradise, a sinister shadow had fallen over the heart of the town—a shadow that lurked in the corridors of St Patrick's Boarding School.

The school was perched on a hill, surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees and overlooking a sprawling valley. The children, mostly from the city, would often gaze out of their classroom windows at the rolling green hills, their laughter blending with the chirping of birds and the distant sound of gushing streams. But recently, that laughter had turned to silence, and the once serene school was now haunted by a palpable sense of dread.

It all began with the first murder, a little boy named Aarav. He was found lifeless on the playground under the large banyan tree, his eyes wide open in horror. There were no visible wounds, no signs of struggle—just the faint smell of roses lingering around his body. The police ruled it as a heart attack, an unfortunate but explainable tragedy. But then, more children started to die.

Each murder followed the same pattern—no visible injuries, no suspects, and always the scent of roses. The children spoke in whispers about the deaths. Some claimed to hear a voice at night, singing a familiar nursery rhyme, "Ring-a-ring o' roses, pocket full of roses." They said the voice was soft at first, like a lullaby, but it grew louder and more menacing as the night wore on. The headmistress dismissed it as childish imagination, but the rumours persisted.

One stormy evening, the headmistress, Mrs. D'Souza, received a frantic call from the school's night guard. Another child had gone missing—this time, a girl named Rhea. The school was immediately put under lockdown, and a search party was sent out. The rain poured down in sheets as the teachers and staff combed through the dark, foggy woods surrounding the school.

It was Rhea's best friend, Meera, who found her. She was lying by the edge of a small waterfall, her body soaked in rainwater, and again, that unmistakable scent of roses filled the air. But what chilled Meera to the bone wasn't the body—it was the faint sound of a voice, carried by the wind, whispering the same song: "Ring-a-ring o' roses, pocket full of roses, ashes, ashes, we all fall down."

As the investigations deepened, a dark history began to unravel. St Patrick's Boarding School had once been the site of a deadly plague outbreak in the 1800s. It was believed that children had perished en masse, their bodies buried in an unmarked grave somewhere on the grounds. The rhyme, once a song of innocence, had taken on a sinister meaning. It wasn't "pocket full of posies" as the children sang—it was "pocket full of roses," the fragrant flowers left as offerings on the forgotten graves.

The entity—whatever it was—was angry. It sought revenge, killing the children one by one, using the haunting melody of the nursery rhyme to lure them into its grasp. The teachers and the police were at a loss. How could they fight something that wasn't human, something that belonged to the shadows?

It was Meera, a standard 9th student who made the connection. The roses, the rhyme—it all pointed to the plague victims buried under the school. She gathered the remaining children in the dormitory one evening and, with a shaking voice, told them what she believed. The entity wasn't just a ghost; it was the collective fury of all the children who had died so unfairly, left without peace.

The children, terrified but resolute, decided to take action. They made their way to the banyan tree in the dead of night, guided only by the light of a full moon and their determination to put an end to the killings. They carried with them a wreath of roses, hoping to offer it as a token of peace.

As they stood beneath the massive branches, the air grew cold, and the soft hum of the nursery rhyme began again. "Ring-a-ring o' roses..." The voice was no longer distant—it was all around them, swirling in the wind, growing louder with every second. The leaves rustled, and the ground beneath them trembled as if the very earth was alive.

Meera stepped forward, holding the wreath in her trembling hands. "We're sorry," she whispered. "We didn't know. Please... forgive us."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, the wind stopped, the air grew still, and the scent of roses faded. The ground beneath the banyan tree seemed to breathe a sigh, as if the restless spirits had finally been laid to rest.

From that night on, the killings stopped. But the memory of those dark days lingered in the hearts of the children who survived. They would never forget the nursery rhyme that had once been a symbol of innocence and play, now forever linked to the whispers of Lonavala and the dark entity that had taken so many lives.

And sometimes, late at night, if you listen closely, you can still hear the faint echo of that haunting melody on the wind.

"Ring-a-ring o' roses, pocket full of roses...