The Classy Thirteen

London was Over

Author's POV

The sun dipped low behind the misty outlines of the Surrey Hills as the group finally reached Shere village- a sleepy little hamlet tucked away in nature's palm, where even the trees looked like they were dozing off. But little did this quiet village know, it was about to be stormed by a battalion of hyperactive, overfed, drama-infused young adults with enough chaotic energy to wake the dead (and even make them regret waking up).

Mayank jumped out of the bus like a soldier who had spotted enemy territory. "Welcome to Shere gaon, jahaan ghosts tumse zyada bhooke hain," he announced, dramatically stretching his arms.

Reyan, still clutching the last pack of chips like it was his newborn, added, "Bro if any bhoot tries to haunt me, I'll scare him away with my morning face."

They all chuckled as the bus slowly rolled to a stop near a clearing where five large canvas tents had already been pitched. A mild breeze carried the scent of earth and wet leaves. The scene was tranquil.

"Prerna, main tumhe ek baat bata dena chahta hoon. Already mera bohot kharcha ho chuka hai and waise bhi main gareeb hoon. Toh yeh night camping hi tumhara birthday gift hai, koi shikayat ho toh apne paas hi rakhna." Mayank stated.

"Huh, thank you." Prerna faked a smile.

"Too tranquil," whispered Samyra dramatically. "This is horror-movie level quiet."

Ayra rolled her eyes. "Sam, bas kar. You watched Raaz one time and now you think every hill station is haunted."

Shayar, meanwhile, was eyeing the tents like they might come alive. "Dekhiye main bol raha hoon, agar kisi tent mein kuch hila na... I'm sleeping in the bus."

Reyan snorted. "Arey bhai, Vivaan ko Prerna se dur rakho toh unke alawa koi aur kuch hila bhi nahi raha. Relax."

Everyone collectively groaned. Prerna threw her shoe at him.

Sarthak was the one who kicked off the madness. Always the agent of chaos.

As night crept in and stars littered the sky, everyone gathered around a campfire, sipping warm chai and roasting marshmallows (and each other). That's when Sarthak grinned like a devil with a secret.

"Guys... you know na, Shere village mein ek tent cursed hai?"

"Oh god, yeh phir se shuru ho gaya," Ayra muttered.

"No, no! Legit," he insisted. "The locals call it 'Chudail ki Chhatri.' Anyone who sleeps in it ends up... different."

Sahil jumped in. "Haan bro, maine bhi suna. A guy came here last year. Agle din he woke up speaking fluent Bengali. And he was from Punjab."

Laughter erupted.

Sara asked innocently, "Which tent is it though?"

"That's the twist," Sarthak said, voice low. "They say the tent picks you."

Reyan gasped loudly and stood up. "Main toh terrace pe so jaunga bhai. Tents ke chakkar mein meri zubaan Nepali ho gayi toh mummy toh mujhse bhi zyada royegi."

"Phir tu bhi bolega, ae bhen ka shot sapri!" Samyra mocked.

Unbeknownst to the group, Mayank had mistaken the thandai from a Punjabi restaurant for regular chai. What they didn't know was- it was laced with a generous amount of bhang.

"Yeh chai kitni relaxing hai yaar," Shayar commented after his third cup. "Lagta hai sab kuch slow motion mein ho raha hai."

Ayra, who had taken only a sip, looked at her half-empty cup. "Why do I feel like my brain is buffering?"