The eastern wing of Vidyavan University's library had been closed for forty-one years. Students were told it was unsafe. Professors were told it was unnecessary.
Nobody was ever told why the university had never bothered to tear it down.
Professor Devendra Sen had stopped asking questions about it a long time ago.
Until three weeks ago...
That was when he found the key. It had been hidden inside an old catalogue box in the Department of History, beneath a stack of papers that hadn't been touched since 1963.
The key itself was unremarkable. Small. Brass. Darkened with age.
What frightened him was the number engraved on it.
9.
Tonight, he stood outside the eastern wing with that key in his palm.
Rain moved steadily across the university grounds, blurring the old buildings beyond the library windows. The campus had gone quiet hours ago. The students were asleep in their hostels, the night guards making their usual rounds, the corridors empty.
Vidyavan looked almost peaceful at night.
Almost.
Professor Sen unlocked the door. It opened with a sound that seemed far too loud. He stepped inside. The air was colder than it should have been.
His phone flashlight moved across rows of abandoned shelves, their books covered in a thin layer of dust. Most of the labels had faded beyond recognition.
At the end of the corridor was a door.
No sign.
No handle.
Only a brass plate bearing the same number as the key.
9.
Sen swallowed. He unlocked it.
Inside was a room barely large enough for a desk, several cabinets and a wooden table.
On that table lay a manuscript. He had been looking for it for three months.
The university catalogue listed it as missing. The archivist had insisted it had never existed. Sen knew better. He approached the table.
The manuscript was bound in dark leather, cracked along the edges. There was no title on the cover.
Only a symbol.
A lotus with nine petals.
Sen sat down. For several seconds, he simply stared at it. Then he opened the book.
The first pages contained handwritten notes in Sanskrit. Further inside were translations, dates and references to students who had attended Vidyavan decades ago.
Then he reached a page that made him stop.
Nine names were written across it.
Eight had been crossed out.
The ninth line was empty.
Beneath them, someone had written a single sentence.
"Every sixty-three years, the ninth name is written again."
Sen read it once.
Then again.
He turned the page.
A photograph fell onto the table.
Nine students stood outside the university's old observatory.
The photograph was dated 1963.
Sen recognized several of the faces. One had later become a judge. Another had entered politics. Two had disappeared from university records completely.
He looked at the woman standing in the centre. Her face had not been scratched out. Unlike the others, she was looking directly into the camera.
Sen knew that face.
Not from 1963.
From a file he'd seen that very morning.
His phone began to ring.
Unknown Number.
He stared at the screen.
Then answered.
"Hello?"
Silence...
"Who is this?"
A woman's voice finally came through.
"Professor Sen."
His fingers tightened around the phone.
"Yes?"
"You found the manuscript."
It wasn't a question.
Sen looked at the photograph.
"Who are you?"
A quiet laugh.
"You already know."
The call ended.
Sen remained still. Then he noticed something. The page with the nine names was no longer on the table. He searched through the manuscript.
Nothing...
His hands began to tremble. The photograph was still there.
He turned it over. There was writing on the back.
Fresh ink.
Four words.
Don't let her in.
Sen looked toward the locked door. For the first time that night, he heard footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming down the corridor.
He stood.
"Who's there?"
The footsteps stopped.
Sen waited.
Nothing.
Then his phone vibrated again.
A message.
"One photograph".
He opened it.
It was an admission file.
"ANANYA RAO"
Age: 27
Research Fellow — Department of History
Joining Date: Tomorrow
Sen stared at the photograph attached to the file.
The woman in it was the same woman from the 1963 photograph.
The same eyes. The same scar beneath her left eyebrow.
Impossible...
He looked back at the old photograph. Nine students. Eight faces destroyed. One face untouched.
Ananya's...
A sound came from behind him. The door handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
Sen stepped backwards. The handle turned slowly downward. He couldn't breathe. And then someone whispered from the other side of the door—
"Professor?"
Sen knew that voice. It was the same woman who had called him. The lock clicked. The door began to open. And the lights went out.
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