After interrogating every teacher and student connected to Ritika Dey, Inspector Ratan stood outside the staffroom, exhausted and frustrated. The day had drained him, but something deeper gnawed at his mind—something unfinished. He stepped aside and made a call.
The Masked Detective answered on the second ring.
"All of them say the same thing," Ratan muttered. "No one saw anything. No one knows anything."
Silence crackled on the line. Then her voice came, calm but firm:
"What kind of person was she? Ritika?"
Ratan sighed. "Smart. Overconfident. Top of her class. She didn't talk much, but when she did, people listened."
"What about her boyfriend?" the Detective asked.
Ratan paused. "He didn't say much. Just cried. His name is Aarav Bachi, from Class 9. But his friends—Debasish and Anirban—they answered everything."
He continued, "They'd been dating for about a month. Aarav loved her… madly. Said without her, his world would end. He grew up in an orphanage, so maybe… she was the first person he trusted like that."
The Detective was quiet. Then asked, "Was she his first girlfriend?"
Ratan's tone lowered. "That's where things got strange. I asked the boys, and they hesitated. Looked at each other. Then Anirban finally said yes, she was his first. But something about the way they reacted… I don't know. It felt off."
There was a pause.
Then Ratan added suddenly, "Wait—I forgot to tell you about Jayasree Mukherjee."
The Detective's voice sharpened. "What about her?"
"She's gone off the radar again. Her locker's been broken into, her things are missing—and that tattoo? It's changing. I don't think it's just ink anymore."
"Psychopath doll?" the Detective asked grimly.
Ratan's voice lowered to a whisper.
"…It's real."
---
It was just past midnight when the Masked Detective returned to Taraniketan School grounds. Her steps were soundless over the dew-soaked grass. Fog coiled between buildings. Not even the street dogs barked.
She moved toward the abandoned storeroom behind the gardening shed. Rusted metal hid the entrance. She peeled it back to reveal a narrow stairwell leading underground.
Torch in hand, she descended.
The cold stone walls pressed in, damp and still. The scent of iron and earth lingered. Each step echoed like a warning.
At the bottom, she unlocked the ancient door with a key she'd stolen weeks ago from Animesh Basu's hidden drawer.
Click.
Inside, shelves were lined with jars, scrolls, boxes—each stamped with the same chilling symbol:
> A black rose. A crescent moon.
She laid out her collected evidence:
The chalk marks from the garden
The list of embroidered names
The tattoos
And now—Ritika's matchstick doll
Crooked limbs. Black thread for hair. A crescent moon on its chest.
This wasn't fantasy.
It was ritual.
One word echoed through every ancient page:
> Kaalkothri
The forgotten ritual. The forbidden game.
"Five shall fall. One shall rise."
---
At the school infirmary, Ritika's body trembled. Monitors beeped steadily. Her eyes fluttered. The nurse leaned in—just in time to hear a whisper escape Ritika's dry lips.
> "The doll… it knows… She said… I'd be first…"
The nurse staggered back. Ratan rushed in.
"What did she say?"
"She mentioned the doll," the nurse whispered. "Said someone told her… she'd be the first."
Ratan's jaw tightened.
---
In Class 11-B, Ms. Jayasree Mukherjee stood calmly at the blackboard, her handwriting elegant and slow.
Aaradhya leaned toward Sanchayita. They both clutched the rhyme they had copied from the garden gate.
Their eyes dropped to Jayasree's bare arm.
The black rose tattoo had changed.
The thorns now curled outward.
And the crescent moon?
Now it was full.
Bleeding.
---
At a nearby cyber café, Ratan and his brother Raju scrolled through encrypted folders pulled from Jayasree's recovered USB.
One folder was labeled:
> "The Fifth."
Inside were dozens of video clips.
Students sleeping.
Walking.
Crying.
Secretly recorded.
The last file timestamp:
Today. 6:03 a.m.
The final file name?
> "side_mission.mp4"
They opened it.
Their eyes widened.
In grainy, shaky footage, two boys knelt before a figure in a long black cloak—face hidden by shadow.
Then—
A swift motion.
One. Two.
Their heads fell.
It was Anirban and Debasish.
Ratan's fists clenched.
The Detective whispered, almost growling, "So that's the Psycho Doll?"
Ratan nodded slowly.
"Yes… You're right."
---
The game had begun.
Only three were left.
And the doll…
Had already chosen its next move.
---
To Be Continued…