Even today, that incident haunts me incessantly, an indelible mark etched upon my memory. I find myself unable to shake off its chilling grip, my body still shuddering at the mere recollection.

We were on the precipice of relocating to a new dwelling, though it was a temporary sojourn, a respite from the relentless deluge that characterizes Assam's rainy season. My name is Natasha, and our decision was primarily driven by the grim financial constraints of our middle-class family. We couldn't endure the financial losses caused by the annual floods, prompting our retreat to a quaint village near Assam.

The village was enigmatic, its streets bereft of the usual hustle and bustle. Even in broad daylight, its denizens remained cloistered within their homes. As temporary residents, we elected to dismiss these idiosyncrasies, focusing on our short-term stay instead.

Our allocated abode, however, was in a state of profound disrepair. The door hung askew, cobwebs obstructed our passage, and the walls bore the stain of dampness, an inky darkness suffusing them, as though the previous...