Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
46: The House That Screamed Itself Shut
Mythology Sex Story: 46: The House That Screamed Itself Shut - Bharath moves from Chennai to Calcutta to join Heritage City - one of India’s top football clubs - with dreams of becoming a professional footballer. But after rescuing a mysterious man from a robbery, he finds himself drawn into a hidden world of vivid dreams, powerful women, and ancient forces beyond his understanding. As his journey on the pitch grows more intense, so does the pull of something deeper - a path shaped by desire, danger, and a power that is only just beginning to reveal it
Caution: This Mythology Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Mind Control Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Sports Alternate History Paranormal Magic Sharing Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Indian Erotica
September 24, 2000
The city had caught fire and the smoke was starting to sting. Everywhere from Gariahat to Salt Lake, the story was shifting. Not because new facts had emerged, but because people were starting to care.
The newspaper articles had stirred up a hornets nest. The city’s ire rose like a tsunami. It was explosive and the ripples it sent were now touching every surface.
By morning, the whispers became screams of anguish. The Syndicate tried hard to fight back.
A rival daily ran a defensive editorial, warning of “anonymous media manipulation” and “the dangers of weaponized victimhood.” But even as it tried to discredit the original expose, it printed the name of the original article three times. The denial only poured kerosene on the curiosity of those sitting on the fence.
Two smaller women’s rights organizations, led by retired schoolteachers and aging activists (usually ignored by prime-time panels, held an impromptu press meet outside Esplanade Metro. They asked one simple question: “If this is false, why hasn’t the police said so?”
There was no answer.
The police commissioner’s office issued no statement. The home ministry brushed off inquiries. But the silence was beginning to sound like complicity.
At Lake Market and in college canteens, aunties and undergraduates alike were murmuring about “that old guesthouse on Bankra Road,” or a “talent institute in Kalighat that never really taught anything.” None of them named names. They didn’t need to. Everyone had a story that almost matched. Everyone had heard a version of a girl who left and didn’t return.
At All India Radio, a cautious evening anchor signed off with: “And in the City of Palaces, we ask: are we still burying queens beneath them?”
One of Rekha’s old grooming studios closed its doors overnight. Another was seen moving mattresses out the back before dawn.
And in the PI Warroom safehouse, Satyu read a copy of Ganadevta Patrika with a highlighter in one hand and disbelief in the other. Even the conservative papers were now circling the carcass. Carefully. Obliquely. But circling nonetheless.
It wasn’t an inferno. Not yet.
But it was building.
Even the articles attempting to bury the truth were giving it fresh air. The denials were carrying the scent of something rotting.
And the city - for the first time in a very long time - was starting to sniff the decay it had chosen to ignore for all these years.
Syndicate HQ– Arjun’s Office
The oak-paneled hallway outside Arjun’s office echoed with the sharp, impatient knock of leather soles.
Mahesh Gupta didn’t wait for the PA. He pushed the door open and barged in without preamble. Siddique followed close behind, face storm-cloud tight, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitched at his temple.
Inside, Ishara was mid-sentence, seated across from Arjun, a folder open on her lap. She didn’t stop speaking, but her eyes flicked to the door, sharpening instantly.
Arjun, as ever, didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up.
“I believe the door was closed,” he said calmly, still annotating a page in his file.
Mahesh didn’t bother with pleasantries. He tossed Calcutta Janmat and Ajkal Juger Barta onto the desk with the force of someone done pretending.
“It’s getting out of hand Arjun. You are not doing anything about this. We are getting killed out there.”
“No,” Arjun said, still not looking at them, “It’s just getting interesting.”
Mahesh slammed a hand down on the table. “You think this is a game? I’ve had two funders from Bombay call me this morning. One wants to sever ties. The other wants protection.” He jabbed a finger at the papers. “You promised this would stay local. That it would die quietly. Well, it hasn’t. And now there’s talk of candle marches. College protests. Doordarshan coverage.”
Siddique’s voice was colder. More dangerous. “We came to help build a network. Not get dragged down in a bloody morality play.”
Only now did Arjun look up.
His eyes landed on Siddique first. Then Mahesh. Then, briefly, on Ishara, whose face gave nothing away, but whose posture had subtly shifted. She was watching them both. Closely.
Arjun closed the folder with deliberate slowness. “Let me make this clear: I don’t respond to panic. That’s how we survive. We wait and watch. Let the rats poke their heads out of the ground.”
“We’ve already been compromised,” Mahesh snapped. “Twice. In print.”
“Three times,” Ishara corrected softly. “A new piece is being drafted at The Morning Signal. Based on a survivor’s recollection of a ‘blue house with singing lessons and camera tests.’ It’s vague, but the framing is stronger. A female editor. She’s pushing it through.”
Mahesh’s fists clenched.
Arjun’s tone remained maddeningly calm. “And yet no names. No lawsuits and no arrests. You think this is fire. I see smoke. Controlled. To weed out our enemies.”
“No,” Siddique growled. “This is weakness. We want action. Not some flowery words. We want the girls rounded up quietly. Removed if necessary.”
Ishara spoke again, her voice level. “How do you propose to do that without exposing our surveillance network? You’ll blow our reach for the sake of six ghosts?”
“They’re not ghosts anymore,” Mahesh snapped. “They’re symbols. Walking proof. If they speak, if one photo leaks, every politician, bureaucrat, and investor we ever shook hands with will start singing.”
Arjun finally stood, slow and deliberate. The movement sucked the air out of the room.
“You barge in here,” he said, voice low, controlled, “and lecture me on risk. But I see no solution. Only fear.”
Mahesh stepped forward. “Then make one. Or we will.”
Siddique followed. “We’re not your soldiers. We’re stakeholders. And we won’t burn for your myth of control.”
Arjun’s gaze didn’t waver. “You think the fire won’t reach you if you light it first?”
Mahesh leaned in. “If it comes down to survival, Arjun, I’ll burn the whole city before I let it take me.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Ishara finally closed her folder and stood. “Enough posturing,” she said flatly. “This isn’t a pissing contest. It’s a containment exercise.”
She looked at Arjun. “Let them be angry. But give them something. A sign that we’re not paralyzed.”
Arjun looked between them all. Three sharks in a tank baying for blood.
Then, calmly, “Fine.”
He turned to Siddique. “You want the girls traced? Do it. But use my people. No outside contractors. I don’t want a second reckoning because you hired some idiot who leaves a witness.”
He turned to Mahesh. “And you want a story buried? Feed them a new one. Leak a fake scandal. NGO embezzlement. Imported drugs in a rehab center. Something real enough to distract, but dirty enough to drown public sympathy.”
He sat back down.
“You want fire? I’ll give you smoke.”
Mahesh looked at him long and hard. Then nodded once. “We’ll give it 72 hours.”
Siddique added, “After that ... we take the matter into our own hands.”
They left without a goodbye.
Ishara stayed behind.
Arjun poured himself a glass of water, swirling it idly.
“They’re going to turn on you,” she said simply.
“They already have,” he replied. “They just don’t know how many knives I’ve counted yet.”
Ishara nodded once. “And the girls?”
Arjun smiled — slow, thin, deadly.
“If they speak, I’ll make sure no one listens.”
PI War Room
The fan spun overhead like a slow metronome. The air inside the War Room was sharper than usual.
Khan leaned back in his chair, a cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers, the other hand tapping out the coded points of the last article on a notepad. Satyu stood by the map board, sleeves rolled up, phone pressed to his ear.
On the speakerphone, Hema’s voice came through crisply. He sounded pleased.
“That ripple we planned ... it’s looking more like a tide now. Well done team.”
Khan chuckled. “It’s all thanks to Satyu baba. He’s a force to be reckoned with. The explosion was unintended, but welcome. The Syndicate tried to discredit it, but all they’ve done is pull more eyes in.”
“The moment they printed rebuttals, they legitimized it,” Satyu added. “And now even the establishment press is poking around ... from oblique angles, sure, but still circling.”
“Good,” Hema said. “That means we can strike again, harder this time. Before they settle back into silence.”
Khan leaned forward. “What’s the next leak? Something with teeth?”
Satyu exchanged a look with him. “Bansal.”
There was a pause on the line. Then Hema said, “You’re sure?”
“We don’t name him,” Satyu said. “But we draw the outline so clearly, everyone who’s been in Calcutta more than a month will know it’s him.”
“Old money. New construction. Multiple NGO ‘partnerships.’ Widely rumored parties in Salt Lake where models were ‘auditioned’ off contract,” Khan recited, like an indictment.
“He’s in our custody,” Satyu said, “which means he can’t sue, deny, or escape. And his empire’s already imploding. If we hint at him, it’ll feel like a warning shot before the real names drop.”
Hema’s voice was quieter now. “It’s dangerous.”
“Yes,” Satyu said. “But if we let the public guess. If we imply that the next story might name someone, we start cracking the Syndicate’s protective ring. Fear turns inward. Everyone starts wondering if they’re next.”
Khan exhaled smoke through his nose. “And fear like that? That’s fire you can’t put out with just another missing body.”
On the other end, Hema was silent for a beat.
Then: “Do it. But keep it ambiguous. I want plausible deniability for the paper. And if someone in the Syndicate panics and tries to ‘clean up’ ... good. That gives us movement. And movement gives us targets.”
Satyu nodded. “We’ll write the next one tonight. Target date: September 25, midnight edition.”
Khan grinned. “Let’s see how Arjun likes heat from this side.”
The call ended with a soft click.
In the silence that followed, Satyu turned back to the board and wrote a single word above the photos and maps pinned across it:
TINDERBOX
Heritage Grounds, Calcutta – Practice Match: Heritage City FC vs Churchill Brothers
The stadium shouldn’t have been this full.
It was just a practice match midweek. There should have been no stakes. But the moment Bharath Hema’s name hit the team sheet that morning, every chai stall in Ballygunge and Behala started buzzing. By noon, traffic choked the roads leading to the Heritage Grounds. By kickoff, the stands were overflowing. Teenagers on shoulders, uncles with binoculars, college girls waving handmade signs.
The match itself was electric. Churchill Brothers had come in strong. They played tough Goan football, fast feet and smart counters, but they were no match for Heritage’s Silver Spoon.
Bharath was everywhere.
Threading impossible passes between legs. Dinking chipped through-balls over defenders like he was bending time. Pressing hard, drawing fouls, and then punishing them.
When the free kick came in the 78th minute, just outside the box, the crowd hushed. Bharath didn’t even glance at the goal. He glanced up toward the VIP gallery.
Anya stood like a queen, draped in a pale lavender silk saree, her long earrings catching the light like fireflies. One hand rested on the railing. The other waved at him slowly. Playful and confident.
He smirked, took two steps, and bent the ball like a prayer.
It kissed the top right corner like it had always belonged there.
GOAL
The crowd erupted like a volcano. There was a wall of sound. Fists in the air. Scarves flung into the sky.
Bharath turned toward the gallery, pointed straight at Anya, and blew her a kiss. He then pointed up into the sky for Devi. His tactician.
She caught it with exaggerated flair, sent it back three, one after the other, before mouthing something only the cameras caught: “Yours.”
The media lost its collective mind. Commentators forgot it was just a practice match.
“HE’S THE FUTURE OF INDIAN FOOTBALL,” someone shouted into a mic.
“WE’RE NOT JUST TAKING THE CUP THIS YEAR ... WE’RE BUILDING A DYNASTY.”
“KOFI. ARVIND. MADHAVAN. RAFAEL. BHARATH. WHO’S STOPPING THIS TEAM?”
“AND WITH ANYA DAS AT HIS SIDE, THE GOLDEN COUPLE HAS ARRIVED!”
Flashbulbs fired like strobe lights. Even the ref grinned.
And up in the third-tier hospitality box, Ishara watched it all.
Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were calculating. Her hands wrapped around a crystal tumbler, filled with sparkling water and a wedge of lime she hadn’t touched.
To anyone else, she looked like a visiting dignitary enjoying a good match. But inside, she was studying the reaction.
The way the crowd moved in waves toward Bharath’s name. The way Anya’s lips moved and the whole gallery turned to watch. The way the cameras fought to frame both of them in every cutaway, every celebration, every headline.
She leaned toward her aide, barely whispering:
“Watch how easily they love him.”
The aide blinked. “Ma’am?”
Ishara just smiled, slow and cool. Her eyes never left the pitch.
“And now imagine how much harder they’ll fall.”
Heritage Locker Room – Private Corner by the Physio Desk
The showers hissed in the background. Boots clattered. Someone yelled across the locker room about dinner. But Bharath sat on a folded towel by the physio’s station, legs stretched out, phone tucked under his ear, grinning like a fool.
The call had barely connected before he heard Devi screaming.
“ANNA! YOU ABSOLUTE BEAST! I HEARD EVERYTHING ON THE RADIO! I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY WERE BROADCASTING A PRACTICE MATCH! YOU MADE THEM BROADCAST A FOOTBALL PRACTICE MATCH! IN INDIA!!”
Bharath laughed. “Hi, Devi.”
“Don’t you ‘hi’ me like you didn’t just set all of Calcutta on fire! Do you even know what you just did? That pass to Rafael in the 22nd minute? I jumped up and down when the commentator went crazy!”
He chuckled. “It was just a practice match.”
“Just a!!! WHAT?! YOU LOBBED A BALL OVER A WALL LIKE YOU WERE SERVING A PLATTER OF GODLINESS, AND THEN YOU SCULPTED A FREE KICK OUT OF SUNLIGHT.”
Bharath burst out laughing, wiping his face with a towel. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m sixteen. It’s in the job description,” she shot back. “I was listening to it with Rhea and Sneha. Rhea almost fainted when you the commentator said you blew a kiss at Anya.”
Bharath groaned. “Oh god.”
“She squealed. Like squealed. Then she clutched my t-shirt and whispered, ‘He’s in love.’ And I told her, duh, he’s been in love with Anya for months now. And she said, ‘I meant me.’”
Bharath was laughing so hard he dropped the towel. “You’re evil.”
“I’m honest,” Devi replied brightly. “That kick though, anna. That kick. I don’t know what Anya gave you before the match, but please keep taking it.”
Bharath blushed, despite himself. “Devi.”
“What? I’m supportive. I’m also telling everyone at school tomorrow that my brother is going to take India to the World Cup ... and maybe even win it someday.”
“You’re going to get me killed with this hype.”
“You’re going to get yourself worshipped if you keep playing like this.”
There was a pause, just a beat, and her voice softened.
“I’m so proud of you, anna.”
His chest tightened. “Thanks, kutti.”
Bharath leaned back against the cool tile wall, staring up at the ceiling with a quiet smile.
“Thanks for caring.”
“Also,” Devi added, “Appa didn’t say it out loud, but he heard the entire game standing in the next room.”
Bharath blinked. “Wait ... really?”
“He said he was standing up for ‘posture,’ but his hands were in fists every time you touched the ball.”
Bharath couldn’t help the warmth that crept up his throat. “He listened.”
“He listened,” she repeated. “He’s still grumpy. But he cares.”
And in that moment, surrounded by half-dressed teammates, sweat-soaked shirts, and lingering stadium electricity, Bharath felt a deeper kind of victory.
“Thanks, Devi,” he whispered.
“Now go eat protein and stretch. Or your physio will kill you.”
He grinned. “Yes, coach.”
Click.
Everything was going well. Six hours later, everything changed.
Tiretta Bazaar, Central Calcutta
It began with a sound no one noticed.
A faint snap. Wire on metal. Then a flicker. Then flame.
The house itself was nondescript. Pressed like an afterthought between two old buildings, invisible from the main road. A building most didn’t see unless they had to. Even the name on the mailbox was faded. No one could remember who owned it.
But the fire did not care.
It caught on quickly. Its flames licked through the old cotton curtains, danced across the dry timber beams and found the gas canisters stacked beneath the back staircase.
By the time the flames reached the first floor, the walls were bleeding heat.
The fire brigade was called. But the access lane was barely wide enough for a cycle rickshaw, let alone a water engine. The street dogs ran first. Then the children. Then the smoke chased the rest.
The neighbors tried dousing the fire with buckets, bedsheets anything else they could get their hands on. Hosepipes rigged to leaky taps.
But the house was a tinderbox. And now it was lit.
When the brigade finally carved its way in, the inferno had swallowed the ceiling whole. The roof collapsed in front of them. A slow, angry sigh of charred wood and scorched steel.
They fought it. For hours.
But by sunrise, six bodies were found behind the melted iron grill of the top-floor room. Not one of the firemen had food left in their stomachs when they found the girls.
Young women. Barefoot. Unconscious.
One had clawed so hard at the doorframe her fingernails were torn. Another was found with her arms wrapped around two others. As if shielding them. As if trying to make them invisible.
They were all dead. The officials at the scene called it a tragedy. A slum fire. An unfortunate accident.
But the locals weren’t quiet.
They had seen men visit that house at strange hours. Heard strange laughter. Sobbing. Screams mistaken for drunken drama.
And now, there were six girls found burnt alive. With no one to answer for them.
By the time the sun had crested over the Howrah Bridge, every paper in the city was on the move. Headlines weren’t printed yet, but the story was already alive, burning through whispers, leaping from chai stall to market bench to college steps.
“They kept girls locked up in there.”
“You think that was one of those Rekha-type houses?”
“No girl deserves to die like that. Not even a monster.”
And far away, in a quiet conference room in a Syndicate-monitored office, a man stared at a fax of the first report.
His face went pale when he read the report. Because this wasn’t an article that could be hidden.
This wasn’t a rumor. This was a funeral pyre. And the smoke was already rising too high to hide.
{br}
PI War Room, Calcutta
The room had never been this still. Not even after Bankra.
Khan stood by the window, arms folded, his eyes locked on the far corner of the map board. He was holding back his emotions, as if sheer will could burn through the streets of Tiretta Bazaar and undo what had happened.
Meher was pacing silently. Her boots clicking on the tile like an unspoken countdown.
Satyu sat at the long table, hunched over a stack of ash-smeared printouts. His hands trembled with restraint. But his jaw was clenched. His pen, unclicked.
Hema’s voice cut through the room from the speakerphone. He was calm but razor-sharp.
“It’s been confirmed. There were six girls in that Tiretta house. They were locked in. The cause of fire still ‘under investigation.’ No arrests. No names released.”
“They were murdered,” Satyu said, his voice low and feral. “They were caged and burned. That’s not arson. That’s ritual execution.”
“Agreed,” Meher said. “It was a cleanup. Either someone panicked or someone sent a message.”
Khan finally turned. “Then let’s send one louder.”
Hema’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
“We go public.”
The words settled over the room like a fuse being lit.
Satyu snapped his pen open. “No more euphemisms. No more ghost stories. I’m writing it raw. Unfiltered. Names where I can. Shadows where I can’t. This isn’t a leak. This is a clarion call. We must shut down this evil.”
Meher nodded. “We frame it around the girls. Not just victims. Martyrs. Unnamed, unnumbered, but unforgettable. Make it bleed.”
“Make it real,” Khan added. “People need to smell the smoke.”
Hema was already dictating. “We plant it in two dailies. One Bengali-language, one national-level English. I’ll use my contacts to keep them safe. We go for maximum outrage. Visuals if we can risk it. At least one silhouette shot. Someone crying. Someone screaming.”
“I’ll use a photo from the scene,” Satyu said. “No bodies. Just the charred door. That lock. That rusted grill.”
Meher muttered, “It looked like a mouth trying to scream shut.”
Satyu nodded, already scribbling. “That’s the headline.”
“The House That Screamed Itself Shut.”
Hema continued. “We follow it with a series. One article every 24 hours. If the Syndicate tries to extinguish the fire, we feed it kerosene. We use survivor interviews. Lawyer commentary. Medical notes from girls who were rescued. Leak part of Rekha’s ledger. One coded name at a time.”
Khan stepped closer to the table. “And if they hit back?”
Hema’s voice darkened. “Let them. If they do, they’ll confirm everything. We cannot be safe anymore.”
The silence that followed was not grief. It was resolve.
Satyu finally looked up. His eyes were glassy, but clear.
“I’m done waiting. If this city won’t cry for them, I will make it scream.”
Syndicate HQ – Arjun’s Office
The walls of Arjun’s office had always felt thick. Impenetrable. Like they were built to keep chaos out and power in.
Tonight, they felt too close. Too hot.
The air smelled faintly of burnt metal, or maybe that was just in his mind.
The fire had started five hours ago. The girls were confirmed dead two hours after that. And for the last thirty minutes, Arjun had been standing at his window, without saying a word.
He just stood there, watching the city lights flicker like warning signs.
On the desk behind him, the newspapers lay untouched. The early editions being mocked up for the next morning. Six girls found locked in an upstairs room. All signs point to trafficking. No arrests. No owners. No answers.
And worse, people were already talking.
The streets weren’t quiet anymore. The whispers were turning into chants.
Ishara watched from across the room. She’d said nothing since she walked in. Just stood there, arms folded, her expression unreadable.
Finally, Arjun turned.
And for the first time in all the months she’d known him, he looked afraid.
“They were supposed to be moved,” he said hoarsely. “That house wasn’t even flagged. It was small. Discreet. It was low-risk.”
Ishara said nothing.
“The person shouldn’t have lit it. Whoever did. Not now. Not like this. It’s too obvious.”
Still silence.
“The person just ... they just burned it,” Arjun said, stepping forward, voice rising. “With them inside. Six girls. Gone. That’s not cleanup. That’s insanity. Do you understand? That’s recklessness. That’s an accelerant.”
Ishara’s voice was low, even. “The fire wasn’t ours?”
Arjun stopped. Stared at her.
Then collapsed into the leather chair behind his desk like the floor had been pulled out.
“I don’t know anymore.”
A long pause.
Then he slammed both palms onto the table so hard the crystal paperweight jumped.
“They think I’m losing control,” he hissed. “Gupta. Siddique. All of them. They’re circling like jackals. But I’ve kept this city clean. I built this grid. I balanced the scales. I made sure no one touched the wrong pressure point.”
“And now?” Ishara asked, voice calm.
Arjun looked at her.
“They lit the fuse. And now the people are watching. The wrong kind of watching.”
He stood again, pacing now erratically.
“They’re going to make martyrs of those girls. Statues. Candlelight vigils. Front-page grief. And then? Then they’ll start asking where the other girls are. Where they were taken. Who was there. Who paid. And if even one name leaks...”
He broke off, his breathing heavy.
“I am not going down for a fire I didn’t light.”
Ishara stepped forward slowly.
And for the first time, she put a hand on his shoulder.
“You already are.”
Arjun flinched.
Then looked up at her with betrayal.
“You were supposed to be on my side.”
“I still am,” Ishara said, letting go. “But soon someone will need a head to roll. And if you’re not careful, Arjun ... it won’t be the fire that burns you.”
She turned and walked out, heels echoing like a countdown.
Alone in the office, Arjun stared at the wall.
And for the first time since Rekha disappeared, he had no plan.
Private Residence, Salt Lake Sector I
The phone clicked once. Then silence.
There was no ringtone, no greeting. Just a pause. Long enough to signal that someone was listening.
Ishara stood by the window in a silk robe, perfectly composed. The city outside was still dark, but the firelight from Tiretta had not faded in her mind.
“This is Ishara Mukherjee,” she said evenly. “Effective immediately, I’m requesting a transfer of operational reporting lines. From Calcutta South to North Division. Direct interface with Kanpur and Lucknow grid.”
A pause.
Then a voice. Deep. Measured. Male.
“Arjun won’t like it.”
“He doesn’t need to like it,” Ishara said. “He just needs to survive long enough not to drag the rest of us down.”
Another pause.
“Are you severing?”
“No,” she replied, calm as ever. “I’m evolving. And the North has cleaner air.”
There was a beat of silence, then a cold chuckle.
“Approved. You’ll maintain Eastern surveillance?”
“Only one project,” she said. “The Golden Couple.”
“Still obsessed?”
“Still rising,” she replied. “Bharath Hema is a national headline now. Anya Das is the darling of both the Lifestyle magazines and the Mahila Sabha. They’ve managed what no one else has: public adoration, private opacity, and emotional credibility.”
“And?”
“They’re not ready to be used,” Ishara said. “Not yet. But the time is near.”
She stared out the window at the smoky skyline.
“They just need to rise a little higher. That’s when they’re most vulnerable. And that’s when I’ll decide what they’re worth. A disruption. A deception. Or ... an acquisition.”
The line went dead.
Ishara lowered the receiver, her expression unreadable.
The fire hadn’t scared her.
She turned from the window.
The game had changed.
-----
The Indian Chronicle
September 25, 2000 | Front Page | National Edition
Byline: Anonymous Contributor
“The House That Screamed Itself Shut”
“The question is not whether you heard it. The question is why you said nothing.”
Late last night, a fire tore through a narrow, forgotten house in the Tiretta Bazaar district of Calcutta. It moved fast, too fast, up dry stairwells and past rusted locks. By the time neighbors broke through with buckets and wet cloth, the flames had already made their choice.
The fire brigade came late. The lanes were too tight. The roof had already caved.
When the embers cooled, six girls were found on the top floor.
They were not daughters of the house. They were not tenants. No one came to claim them. Their names have not been released. Perhaps because no one knows them. Or perhaps because someone does.
What we know is this: they were locked inside; they had no way out; and they died in the dark.
The officials call it an accident. But look closer, and the evidence whispers otherwise.