Riya Sharma hated two things in life: ghosts and deadlines. Unfortunately, both were staring her in the face.

The rusted iron gate of Shanti Villa stood before her, wide open like a hungry mouth. The walls were covered in betel stains and graffiti that read "Bhoot hai yahan". But the scariest thing was the message blinking on her phone.

Publisher Mehta: "Riya beta, you already took 50,000 advance. No horror novel by next week and I’m filing a fraud case. 7 days. Tick tock."

Riya clutched her dupatta tight. "Thakur saab, are you sure this place is actually haunted?"

The old caretaker took a drag from his beedi. "Bitiya, in 2019 the Mehra family was wiped out in this house. Father, mother, son. All three. Police wrote suicide. But how do suicide people slit their own throats? All three? In one night?"

Riya's throat went dry. "I... I think I’ll go back."

Then her phone rang. Mehta's voice boomed: "Riya! You reached? Good! Write fast. Readers want blood, you understand? Blood!"

The gate creaked open with a scream. A gust of stale air hit her face. Riya closed her eyes and stepped inside. "Fine. You win. I lose."

It was 1 AM. Riya opened her laptop in the drawing room. An old typewriter sat in the corner. Remington brand. Covered in dust. She typed on her laptop: Chapter 1: The night was dark and stormy...

Tak. Tak. Tak.

Riya's heart jumped to her mouth. The typewriter was moving on its own. No one was near it. Words appeared on the paper:

WRONG. THE NIGHT WAS NOT DARK. IT WAS POORNIMA. THERE WAS MOONLIGHT. AND I WAS ALIVE.

Riya fell off the chair. "Maa... maaa... maaaamiiii!"

The typewriter did not stop. DON'T SCREAM. WRITE. MY MURDER STORY. I WILL MAKE YOU FAMOUS.

Riya sat on her knees, hands folded. "B-B-Bhaiya ji... I have never watched a full horror movie. I write comedy. Please let me go."

The typewriter made one loud tak. THEN WRITE COMEDY. BUT TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT MY DEATH. DEAL?

Tears filled Riya's eyes. "D-Deal confirmed? You won't scare me? You won't kill me?"

PROMISE. JUST LET ME TYPE AFTER 12 AT NIGHT. YOU WRITE DURING THE DAY.

Riya sniffled. "O-Okay... what is your good name?"

The typewriter stayed silent for five seconds. Then it wrote: KABIR. AND I WAS KILLED BY RIYA SHARMA.

The phone slipped from Riya's hand. "WHY... WHY IS MY NAME THERE???"

At 6 AM Riya woke up. She had slept on the floor. In front of her was the typewriter. And next to it were ten fresh sheets of paper. Written neatly.

The title on top read: My Murder By Riya Sharma - Part 1

Riya picked up the first page with shaking fingers. She read the last line and her blood turned cold.

Let's start from last night... when you were 8 years old... and I was 13.

"I'm not a murderer," Riya whispered to the empty room. "I was 8. I don't even remember you."

The typewriter stayed silent all day. Its keys were cold, like it was holding its breath. Riya tried to write something else, anything else, but the paper came out blank every time. Shanti Villa felt heavier today. The walls were listening.

At 12:01 AM it came alive.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK

"THE NIGHT MY FATHER DIED... YOUR FATHER WAS THE LAST PERSON HE TRUSTED."

Riya's throat went dry. The cursor blinked on the yellowed paper. Then words started appearing on their own, like someone was bleeding memories onto the page.

Page 1: Year 2010. Summer Vacation.

The mela was crowded. The air smelled of jalebi, dust, and sweat. Loudspeakers were blaring old film songs. An 8 year old Riya held her mother's hand tight. Her new red frock was already stained with ice-cream. She saw a balloon wala with a bunch of pink balloons and tugged hard. Her small hand slipped from her mother's grip.

She was lost.

The crowd moved like a river and she was a pebble stuck in it. People bumped into her. Someone stepped on her foot. She started crying, big tears rolling down her dusty cheeks. Her mother was nowhere.

A 13 year old boy in a torn shirt found her crying near the jalebi stall. His own clothes were faded and his slippers were broken. But his smile was whole. "Don't cry chotu. What’s your name?"

"R-Riya," she sniffed, wiping her nose with her frock.

"I’m Kabir. I’ll take you home. Come." He held out his hand. His palm was rough, like he worked, but his touch was gentle.

Riya looked up. The boy had kind eyes. Eyes that had seen too much sadness for a 13 year old, but still chose to be kind. She held his hand. It was warm. Safe.

For one hour, Kabir became her whole world. He bought her a balloon with his last 5 rupees. He carried her on his shoulders so she could see the giant wheel. He even scolded a man who tried to push her. "She's lost, uncle. Have some shame."

He asked every tea stall, every shop. "8 saal ki ladki. Red frock. Dekhi?" Finally, a police constable recognized Riya's description from the announcements. Her parents came running, her mother crying, her father angry.

Riya's father, Raj Sharma, looked at Kabir like he was dirt. He pulled a 100 rupee note from his wallet and threw it at Kabir's feet. "Le. Inam."

Kabir didn't pick it up. He just looked at Riya and smiled. "Go home, chotu. Be safe."

Riya wanted to say thank you. She wanted to say "I'll remember you". But her father dragged her away before she could speak.

STOP, Riya said out loud to the typewriter. Her voice cracked. "So you saved me. That makes me a killer how? You were... you were good to me."

The typewriter typed fast. The keys hit so hard the desk shook. KEEP READING.

Page 2: The Business Partners

Kabir's father was Arjun Mehra. Riya's father was Raj Sharma. Mehra Constructions and Sharma Builders. They were building Shanti Villa together. 50-50 partnership. Arjun Mehra put his land, his life savings. Raj Sharma put his contacts and money. The contract was on a stamp paper, signed in blue ink.

One day, 2 years after the mela, Kabir came home from school. He heard his father shouting in the office room: "Raj, you forged my signature! You took the whole project in your name! Shanti Villa is mine too!"

Riya's father Raj Sharma laughed. The sound was cold, like metal. "Proof it, Mehra saab. The papers say Sharma Builders. The land is now mine. Poor people should know their place. You trusted me. That's your fault."

Kabir peeked through the door. His father was holding fake papers. The signature was his, but he never signed them. The stamp was new. Raj Sharma had cheated him. Stolen his dream, his future, everything.

That night Kabir's father drank poison. The bottle was green and the smell filled their small house. He left a note on the dining table in shaky handwriting: "Raj stole my life. I can't look my son in the eye. Forgive me, Kabir."

Kabir found him at 3 AM. He was only 15. He held his father's cold hand till sunrise.

MY FATHER DIED BECAUSE OF YOUR FATHER, the typewriter wrote. The letters were so deep they almost tore the paper. NOW YOU UNDERSTAND?

Riya's hands were ice cold. Her blood felt like it had stopped moving. "My papa... did that? He killed your father?"

YES. AND I SWORE REVENGE. BUT NOT ON YOU. I LIKED YOU, RIYA. YOU WERE THE ONLY GOOD THING IN THAT FAMILY. THE ONLY PERSON WHO DIDN'T LOOK AT US LIKE WE WERE INSECTS.

Riya wiped her eyes with her sleeve. The tears were hot and angry. "Then why does it say I killed you? If you liked me, why am I the killer?"

The typewriter paused. For the first time, it hesitated. The keys trembled. Then: BECAUSE ON THE NIGHT I DIED, YOU WERE THERE. ON THE TERRACE. WITH ME. YOU WERE THE LAST PERSON I SAW. YOUR HAND WAS THE LAST THING I FELT.

Riya stood up so fast the chair fell back. "No. No no no. I would remember if I saw someone die! I was 8 at the mela. Next time I was here I was 21! I never came back!"

WOULD YOU? OR DID YOUR FATHER PAY A DOCTOR TO MAKE YOU FORGET?

The room started spinning. The walls of Shanti Villa blurred. Riya remembered flashes. A hospital room. White walls. A smell of antiseptic. A man in a white coat holding a syringe. Her father standing by the bed, his face tight with worry and guilt.

"Give her the injection," her father was saying. "She should not remember that night. She should not remember the terrace. She should not remember the boy. Make her forget, Doctor. Whatever it costs."

Riya fell to her knees. Her palms hit the cold marble floor. "What happened that night, Kabir? What did my father make me forget? What did I do?"

Her voice broke. She was 8 again, lost again, but this time there was no Kabir to find her.

The typewriter wrote one final line before going silent. The keys clicked slowly, like a funeral bell.

TOMORROW. POORNIMA NIGHT. I WILL TELL YOU HOW I DIED. SLEEP NOW, RIYA SHARMA. YOU WILL NEED ENERGY FOR THE TRUTH.

The typewriter went dead.

Riya sat on the floor till morning, hugging her knees. Outside, the moon was almost full. Tomorrow was Poornima.

And she was terrified to know the truth.

Page 3: Year 2018. Poornima Night. Shanti Villa Terrace.

Riya was 16. Kabir was 20. He had been working at her house as a driver for 2 years. No one knew he was Mehra's son. He changed his last name.

"Riya, come to the terrace at 12," he had whispered that morning. "I have a surprise. It’s poornima. The moon is beautiful."

Riya had a crush on him. She wore her new yellow suit and went up at 11:55 PM.

Kabir was standing near the edge. The moon was huge and white. The whole city was silver.

"You called me?" Riya said, nervous.

Kabir turned. He was not smiling. His eyes were red. "Do you know who I am, Riya?"

"You’re Kabir bhaiya. Papa’s driver."

"No." He stepped closer. "I am Kabir Mehra. Your father killed my father. And today, I will take revenge."

Riya stepped back. "What... what are you saying?"

"I was going to kidnap you," Kabir said. "Make your father suffer. But I can't. Because..." He looked at her. "Because you smile like you did when you were 8. And I can't hurt you."

Riya's eyes filled with tears. "Kabir, please. Let’s go to police. We’ll tell them everything."

"Police?" Kabir laughed bitterly. "Your father owns the police. There is no justice for poor people, Riya."

Suddenly the terrace door banged open. A fat man with a gold chain walked in. Chacha. Kabir's uncle.

"So sweet," Chacha said, clapping. "Nephew falling for the enemy's daughter. Should I record this for your father in heaven?"

"Chacha, no," Kabir said. "I changed my mind. I’m not doing this."

"Too late," Chacha said. He nodded to two men behind him. "The property papers. If Kabir dies tonight, I am the only Mehra left. All this house, all this land... mine."

Riya gasped. "You want to kill him for property?"

"Smart girl," Chacha said. "Hold her." The men grabbed Riya.

Kabir ran at them. "Leave her!" One man pulled out a knife.

What happened next was fast. Kabir pushed Riya behind him. The knife went into Kabir's arm. He screamed. Chacha ran forward and pushed Kabir hard.

Kabir lost balance. He fell towards the edge.

Riya's hand shot out. She grabbed his wrist. "KABIR!"

For one second, their eyes met. Kabir was hanging from the terrace. Riya was lying on the floor, holding him. She was slipping.

"Let go," Kabir whispered. "You’ll fall too."

"No!" Riya cried.

Then she saw it. Chacha standing behind her. He raised his leg. And he stomped on Riya's hand.

Pain exploded. Riya's grip opened.

Kabir fell.

His last word, carried by the wind: "Riyaaa..."

The typewriter stopped. Riya was on the floor of Shanti Villa, screaming. The memory had come back. All of it.

"I didn’t kill you," she sobbed. "I tried to save you. Chacha... Chacha killed you."

YES, the typewriter wrote. NOW YOU REMEMBER. AND NOW YOU KNOW WHY I AM ANGRY. YOUR FATHER COVERED IT UP. HE TOLD POLICE YOU PUSHED ME. THEN HE PAID THEM TO CALL IT SUICIDE.

Riya looked at her right hand. There was a faint scar she had never noticed before. A boot mark.

"My papa... he said I was mad. He sent me to a doctor. He said I imagined it."

HE LIED. TO SAVE HIMSELF. AND TO SAVE CHACHA. BECAUSE CHACHA GAVE HIM MONEY.

Riya stood up, wiping her face. "What do we do now, Kabir?"

The typewriter typed one word: WRITE.