BookNext.Diaries

( Genre: Psychological Horror, Mystery) The rain never stopped. It had been pouring since Arav arrived at the old hill-town lodge, and now it was midnight again—the second night. Thunder rolled like distant growls from the sky, and the wooden beams above his head creaked like something was shifting just above him. But there wasn’t supposed to be a floor above. He had checked. Twice. Arav sat by the edge of the small, rickety bed in Room 10, with only a dim yellow bulb flickering on the wall. He hadn’t slept since the previous night—haunted by the sound of footsteps and that wet trail of footprints that stopped right at his door. He asked the lodge caretaker that morning about it.> “Footprints?” “Maybe water from the roof,” the old man said, looking away. But Arav had seen them—bare feet, pointing inward. The Window.There was something strange about this room. The window. It was large, shut tight, and fogged from the inside—but no matter how many times Arav tried to look out, he saw ...

छोटा सा शहर था — नाम उसका था Tilakpur। आबादी ज़्यादा नहीं थी, पर लोग बड़े दिलवाले थे। गलियाँ इतनी तंग थीं कि दो साइकिलें आमने-सामने आ जाएँ तो एक को पीछे लेना ही पड़ता था। हर दुकान के बाहर पान की पीक के निशान, हर मोड़ पर एक गप्पू टाइप इंसान और हर नुक्कड़ पर एक चायवाला ज़रूर मिलता था। उन्हीं चाय वालों में से एक था Lallan Chaiwala। लल्लन की उम्र रही होगी कोई पैंतालीस के आस-पास, पर मूंछें देखो तो लगता था जैसे चाचा चौधरी के मुकाबले में आए हों। सर पर गमछा हमेशा टेढ़ा लपेटा हुआ, और बोलने का अंदाज़ ऐसा कि “अरे बाऊजी” कहते ही आदमी चाय न पीए तो भी मुस्कुरा ज़रूर दे। उसका ठेला स्टेशन के पास वाली पुरानी नीम के नीचे था। नीम भी अब बूढ़ा हो चला था, पर लल्लन कहता, "जैसे मैं हूँ, वैसे ये भी है — दोनों पुराने, पर मज़ेदार।" सुबह की शुरुआत और चाय की खुशबू हर सुबह छह बजे उसकी दुकान खुलती। रेडियो पर पुराने गाने चलते, चूल्हे की लकड़ियाँ जलतीं, और दूध उबलने की वो आवाज़ — मानो किसी पुराने रिश्ते की दस्तक हो। “ओ चिमन! आज फिर लेट आया बे... अखबार दे, और हाँ, पन्ना उल्टा मत देना — उस दिन तूने खबरें उल्टी...

📖 Genre: Psychological Thriller / Horror The Rainfall Room It rained so hard that even the trees looked like they were drowning. Arav stood at the edge of the narrow road, his jacket soaked through, the hood of his backpack heavy with water. The town, if it could be called that, was more of a scattered memory than a settlement. Five or six wooden buildings slumped against the hillside, fog coiling around them like breath. The sky had been leaking for three days without pause. He had booked the room online. Mountain View Lodge. It had two reviews, both from 2015. One said, “Remote and peaceful.” The other said nothing—just one star and a photo of a foggy window. The caretaker met him at the door with a lantern. “You came in this rain?” the man asked, as if surprised Arav hadn’t drowned. “I had to get away,” Arav replied, his voice swallowed by the storm behind him. The caretaker didn’t ask anything more. The lobby smelled like old paper and paraffin. The wooden floor groaned with every...

Part 1: The First Rainy 🌧️ Windhollow Town  Rainy days and a long time ago—it always begins like that. As if the sky remembers before he does. As if the clouds know the years that have passed and still return, heavy and slow, with the same wet whispers. The boy, who was now a man, stood near the river, the old boots on his feet soaking at the edges. He could still hear it—the sound of water tumbling over stones, the same way it did when he was a boy. The river hadn’t changed, but everything else had. There was sand at the edges of the path. Wet sand. It had a scent—one he hadn’t smelled in years. It was the smell of home, of monsoons, of running down alleys with soaked shirts and loud laughter. Of childhood summers and forgotten secrets buried under riverbanks. He looked up. The town of windhollow—small, wind-swept, half-asleep—was waking slowly with the rain. The shutters creaked open one by one. The street vendors, those who still remained, pulled plastic over their carts and fl...

Genre: Murder Mystery | Psychological Thriller | Hidden Identities > “When someone disappears, they don’t always leave behind silence — sometimes, they leave behind whispers that scream.” The silence of the mansion was pierced only by the ticking of an antique clock. Time felt heavier that night. Inspector Anjana Rawat sat by the library fireplace, reviewing the blurred lines of truth and betrayal that had emerged in the last 72 hours. One man was dead. One woman was missing. And now, a confession hung in the air like smoke — Sandhya had admitted to watching Sushant die without stopping it. She had confessed to witnessing Ramprasad push him. But her silence was deliberate. Her motive? For once, to not be invisible. But something was still wrong. It didn’t all fit. Why had Neela disappeared on the same day the will came to light? Why did she leave a note written in Vivek’s signature style — "Look inside the shadows"? And more chilling: who else knew about Kala Bhavan, the a...

  The ocean doesn’t speak. It just is. It holds no arguments, no justification for its moods. It can rage, weep, go utterly still—and not once apologize. And that, I suppose, is why I find comfort here. There are days when I think the sea remembers more than any of us. That its depths cradle the ancient weight of things we’ll never understand—like silence that has texture, or grief that never found a voice. Perhaps that’s why I drift. It’s not the kind of drifting that sailors do. There’s no direction. No compass. Just me and the slow hum of thought that rises and falls like the tide, echoing off the inside of my skull like waves against a hollow cave. Today, the sea is almost still. A deep breath between centuries. There’s no land in sight. Only a stretch of horizon that feels less like an edge and more like a blur—a slow dissolving of the known into the unspoken. I’m surrounded by a color I can’t name. Somewhere between blue and memory.And I wonder—what’s left when everything aro...

शैली: हॉरर | थ्रिलर | रहस्य गांव दुर्वन के पीछे का जंगल किसी श्राप से कम नहीं था। लोग उस जर्जर लकड़ी की बाड़ के पास भी नहीं जाते थे, जिसे वक़्त ने चाट लिया था और बेलों ने जकड़ रखा था। वहाँ की हवाओं में कुछ फुसफुसाता था। कहते हैं, उस जंगल में एक पुराना विला है – सेवरिन विला – जो अब सिर्फ़ एक घर नहीं, एक जिंदा डर बन चुका है।कोई नहीं गया। कोई नहीं लौटा। सिवाय एक इंसान के — रिवन डे। रिवन एक वाइल्डलाइफ डॉक्युमेंट्री फिल्ममेकर था। जंगल उसकी आदत में था। उसने कई रहस्यमयी जगहें देखीं, लेकिन जब उसे एक शराबी गाइड से दुर्वन गांव की बात पता चली, उसका मन बेचैन हो गया। > "वो गांव नक्शे पर नहीं मिलेगा, लेकिन वहाँ कुछ है... वहाँ से लौटे लोग वही नहीं रहते।" वो एक महीना बाद दुर्वन पहुंचा। गांव धुंध में डूबा था, जैसे समय ने उसे छोड़ दिया हो। लोग शांत थे, लेकिन डरे हुए नहीं — जैसे उन्हें सब पता था, लेकिन कोई कुछ नहीं बोलता। तीसरी रात, वो गांव के एक पुराने सराय में गया। एक बूढ़ा आदमी फटी आंखों और कांपते हाथों के साथ बोला— > "तू उसके लिए आया है, है ना?" > "किसके लिए?" ...