A Delhi hospital hides a gruesome secret. An author, her assistant, and a doctor confront a terror that transcends medical understanding.
The miasma of disinfectant and decay hung heavy in the corridors of “Aarogya Sadan,” a dilapidated hospital nestled near the bustling heart of Lajpat Nagar. Dr. Anika Sharma, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, consulted the flickering fluorescent light overhead. “Another unexplained cardiac arrest,” she muttered, the clinical detachment in her voice barely masking the unease gnawing at her.
Across the dimly lit room, Maya, a 40-year-old aspiring author with a penchant for the macabre, scribbled furiously in her notebook. Her assistant, Rohan, a perpetually anxious 30-year-old, fidgeted nearby, his gaze darting nervously towards the shadowed corners. Maya, researching for her new novel, had become a fixture at Aarogya Sadan, drawn by the hospital’s unsettling reputation.
“The patients… they speak of whispers,” Maya said, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. “They mention a yakshini, a spirit that feasts on life force.”
Anika scoffed, a brittle sound that echoed in the sterile silence. “Superstition, Maya. We deal with biological realities, not spectral figments.”
But the realities were becoming increasingly bizarre. Patients, seemingly healthy, plummeted into cardiac arrest, their skin turning a ghastly, translucent pallor. The hospital’s ancient generator sputtered, plunging the ward into intermittent darkness, amplifying the chilling atmosphere.
One night, the generator failed completely. A cacophony of panicked cries erupted from the patient rooms. Rohan, his face ashen, held a trembling flashlight. The beam danced across the walls, revealing grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe and coalesce.
A low, guttural moan echoed from the end of the corridor. Anika, her professional skepticism wavering, led the way, her footsteps echoing on the cold tile. They found a patient, Mr. Kapoor, his eyes wide with terror, his chest heaving. His skin, now a sickly, luminous green, pulsed with an unearthly light.
“It’s… it’s taking my prana,” he gasped, his voice a raspy whisper.
Suddenly, a gust of frigid air swept through the room, extinguishing the flashlight. A spectral figure materialized, its form shimmering and indistinct, its eyes glowing with a malevolent, emerald light. The figure, a yakshini, exuded an aura of ancient dread, its presence a palpable weight in the suffocating darkness.
Maya, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a writer’s morbid fascination, reached for her notebook. “It’s real,” she breathed, her voice a hushed awe.
The yakshini lunged, its spectral hand reaching for Anika, who recoiled in horror. Rohan, his voice cracking, screamed, “Run!”
They fled, the yakshini’s chilling laughter echoing behind them. The hospital, once a place of healing, had become a charnel house, a nexus of ancient, malevolent power. The stench of decay intensified, a morbid perfume that clung to their clothes and invaded their nightmares. The hospital, it seemed, had awakened a horror that transcended medical understanding, a horror that fed on the very essence of life, a horror that whispered in the shadows of Lajpat Nagar. The terror that they now knew, would not be contained.
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