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

Murders in Every Shades

Shimla had always been a retreat for the weary, a quiet place where the bustling city noise dissolved into the serenity of the hills. But the isolated mansion in the woods was far from serene tonight. The biting cold wrapped the landscape in silence, while a storm raged outside, snow piling up against the windows, cutting off all contact with the world. Inside the grand mansion, five people sat in uneasy silence, knowing that one of them wasn't who they claimed to be. One of them was a murderer.

The weekend getaway had started with excitement, promises of relaxation, and laughter by the fireside. Riya Verma, the sharp and ambitious journalist, had been invited by her publisher, Aman Kapoor, for a retreat. Alongside them was Neha Joshi, a soft-spoken school teacher who often wrote heartfelt columns about her work, and Dr. Sameer Malhotra, a renowned psychologist looking for a break from the rigors of his practice. Kunal Bhardwaj, an ex-detective with a haunted past, had arrived last, his presence casting a shadow over the otherwise cheerful group.

The storm came in unexpectedly, fierce and unforgiving, forcing them into the mansion's walls with no way out. Hours passed with idle conversation, until the power went out, plunging the house into darkness and stirring unease among the group.

Then, on the grand stone fireplace, a poem appeared-written in what looked like blood:

"Killer, killer, which one do you want?
Pick your prey and begin your haunt.
Color, color, choose your shade,
For tonight, another life will fade."

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The cryptic words sent a shiver through the group. Kunal's detective instincts kicked in, but he wasn't here to investigate-at least, not initially. But now, trapped in the mansion with no way out, he knew that survival depended on figuring out who the killer was.

As the night deepened, so did the suspicions. Each person had secrets, hidden layers that could easily be twisted into motives. Aman, the businessman, radiated charm, but his smooth exterior hid a manipulative streak. He was too good at controlling conversations, too keen on keeping the others at ease. Riya, sharp as she was, noticed the cracks in his façade-there was something about him that didn't sit right.

Neha, on the other hand, seemed too fragile to be capable of such deception. She trembled at every gust of wind, her fingers fiddling nervously with the edges of her scarf. But Riya couldn't help wondering if Neha's gentleness was a mask, covering something darker beneath. Dr. Sameer remained composed, his psychologist's gaze seeming to assess everyone. He was always watching, and calculating, and his cool demeanor only added to the unease. Kunal kept mostly to himself, his brooding presence a constant reminder of the ghosts he carried from his detective days.

That night, as they tried to make sense of the poem, Neha found a red scarf on her bed. Red-the color of blood. Her heart raced, and panic set in. She tried to tell the others, but before she could, the lights flickered and the mansion went pitch black. A scream cut through the darkness. When the power returned, Aman was dead-strangled with the red scarf.

The poem had come to life. The killer had chosen a color, and now Aman was gone.

The tension between the survivors became unbearable. Dr. Sameer suggested that the killer was playing a psychological game, using the poem as a taunt. He believed the colors held significance, perhaps a clue to the next victim. Riya, ever the journalist, questioned everyone relentlessly, trying to find connections. Kunal, however, was more practical. He knew that the killer had left a physical clue in the form of the red scarf-but what color would come next?

Their fear was contagious, spreading through the mansion like wildfire. Everyone was suspicious of each other. Every glance, every whispered conversation seemed filled with hidden meaning. And then Neha found a yellow flower placed delicately on her pillow-yellow-the color of cowardice. She barely had time to react before Dr. Sameer was found dead, a yellow petal clenched in his fist, his face twisted in terror.