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From the Duckbill Workshop in Delhi.

I knocked on the door and waited. My pulse was still racing. The walk through the woods had been scary. There were no lights along the way–there wasn’t even much of a road, actually. There was a strange eerie silence in the woods that was inexplicable and creepy. And I constantly got the feeling that someone was following me. Then there was that smell. Something really unpleasant. Sickly and overripe.

If I hadn’t needed to take back my chemistry notebook from Sumit, I wouldn’t have dreamt of venturing here at night.

Why on earth did Sumit’s father choose to rent a house in middle of nowhere? And the house itself? Wasn’t this where old Mr Balu was murdered a few years ago?

The door opened and Sumit’s father stood there, looking unkempt and haggard. “Sumit is out of town, visiting relatives,” he said gruffly before I had even said a word. And with that, he slammed the door shut.

That was odd. Wasn’t that Sumit peering through one of the first floor windows? And the person standing next to him–wasn’t that old Mr Balu?

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