The village of Kuldanga seemed frozen in time for ages. Primitive, rugged roads of red soil. At the edge of the village stood the dilapidated mansion. Plaster peeling off the walls. Bricks protruding like a skeleton. Rusted iron bars on the windows. The mansion floor was damp and soggy. A musty stench of old, rotting wood filled the air.
By afternoon, dark clouds began to gather in the sky. Since evening, a cold wind started blowing—the kind that precedes rain.
We put up in an abandoned mansion. Silence surrounded us. Outside, the wind howled. Occasionally, the broken shutters crashed against the walls. Dry wood crunched and snapped under our feet. Every sound made the silence feel even sharper.
The interior of the mansion was strange. We kept our bags in a corner of the hall. Johnson stared out the window. The sound of the wind was intensifying outside. Occasionally, it felt like someone was whispering. Suddenly, a sound came from the direction of the kitchen—something metallic hitting the floor. Johnson startled. I said, "Maybe a bat."
Johnson turned his flashlight toward the wall. An old oil painting. The frame hung broken. The faded face of a lady was visible in the picture. The history of this mansion is quite peculiar. Som Murmu was telling us about it. There are many indigo factories, but this one is different. The villagers call it ‘Putul Kuthi’ (The Doll House). After the indigo trade stopped, a mad Englishman lived here alone. He reportedly used to carve human-sized wooden dolls. He would feed the dolls and talk to them. Villagers passing by the mansion would hear the sound of laughter. After the Sahib died, the dolls were never found. Rumor has it that the dolls are still hidden somewhere inside the mansion. Even today, they stay awake at night, waiting for the Sahib’s return.
Suddenly, Johnson reached into his pocket. His face turned pale. He pulled out an old silver coin. "Abhra, this coin—how did it get into my pocket!" I took the coin. It was engraved. A faint silhouette, resembling a cloth-bound doll.
The room temperature suddenly dropped further. A chill that shivered right through the bones. The sound of the dhamsa(tribal drum) now felt very close. As if someone had started playing it right in the courtyard of the mansion.
The next morning was completely different. The red soil sparkled in the sunlight. The eerie atmosphere of the previous night had vanished. We left the mansion and went into the village to Som Murmu’s house. He is a very simple man. He is old, but his craftsmanship is flawless. He was working in his courtyard, sitting beside a large trunk of a Shirish tree. He carves dolls from that wood. We sat beside him. It was a normal conversation, as if nothing had happened.
Sombabu explained it simply. This folk art of Birbhum is called Chadar-Badar. Because it is surrounded by a cloth (chadar), it is also known as Chadar-Bandhni. He showed us a wooden box. It was quite heavy, weighing about twenty kilograms. The box was covered in intricate carvings; it was actually the stage. Sombabu sat below, with several wooden dolls positioned on top. He pulled the strings and jingled the bells on his feet. Suddenly, the dolls sprang to life. What a strange rhythm! It felt as if the wood had regained its soul.
I watched, mesmerized. Johnson seemed normal too. He took out his notebook and began to sketch. The dolls were seven to eight inches tall, dressed in colorful clothes, resembling Santhali men and women. Sombabu smiled and said, "These are my children."
We had puffed rice and tea with him. Village children were playing in the courtyard. The faint sound of dhamsa and madal (drums) drifted from a distance. Sombabu’s son plucked green coconuts for us to drink.
As we were leaving, Sombabu said something in a very calm voice. "Stay in the mansion if you must. But do not touch the doll box at night." I was surprised. Johnson froze. By then, Sombabu was busy with his work again. We didn't get a chance to ask more questions. On our way back to the mansion, the sunlight faded. That biting cold wind began to blow again. A flock of birds flew overhead, screeching. In the evening light, the mansion looked profoundly lonely.
After nightfall, we sat with a lit hurricane lamp. There was no breeze in the room, yet the flame was shivering violently. Outside, the chirping of crickets had ceased. A strange, heavy silence. Johnson was writing in his diary. Suddenly, he stopped his pen, his ears alert. He whispered, "Do you hear that?"
A sound was coming from the second floor of the mansion. 'Khat... khat... khat.' It sounded as if someone was walking very slowly across the wooden floor. The stairs to the second floor had collapsed ages ago; it was impossible for anyone to be there. The sound stopped exactly above our heads. For a while, everything was deathly still. Then, it felt as if something heavy was being dragged—the sound of a large wooden chest scraping across the floor.
The scent of old sandalwood filled the air. Johnson took the silver coin out of his pocket to examine it. It slipped from his hand and hit the floor. It began to spin on its own, as if an invisible finger were rotating it. The coin spun until it stopped directly beneath the oil painting of the lady on the wall. I shone my torch there. Below the frame, on the floor, were wood shavings, as if someone had just finished carving wood. I looked up. A thin thread hung from the ceiling joist. It was pulled taut, appearing as if someone were holding it from above. As Johnson reached out to touch the thread, every door and window in the mansion slammed shut simultaneously. The hurricane lamp flickered out. In the pitch darkness, I felt Johnson heave a long breath near my ear—a breath that was icy cold.
I struck a match. His face had turned blue. Trembling, he pulled an old leather-bound diary from his bag. It belonged to his great-grandfather, Edward Sahib. The pages were yellowed, brittle enough to break under slight pressure. Johnson slumped to the floor and whispered, "Abhra, I didn't come here for research. I came to be free from this curse."
Johnson opened a page dated June 1890. Edward Sahib had written about the tribal girls who came to work at the mansion but never returned. The Sahib loved making dolls. But rumors spread that he didn’t just use wood; he stuffed them with flesh and bone. That, supposedly, made the dolls 'live.' On the last page was a sketch—a map of this mansion. Beneath it, written in reddish ink: "A debt of blood. It must be repaid."
Johnson’s hands were shaking. He said, "When my father died, he left me this diary and that silver coin. He said our family’s sin remained in this soil. I didn’t believe it until now... but since stepping foot here..." Johnson’s mental state was deteriorating. He flinched at the slightest sound. He felt as if the lady in the painting was looking at him and laughing.
He began muttering, "They are calling me, Abhra. Since the Sahib isn't returning, they have come for me." Suddenly, he started scratching the floor with his fingernails, just like the marks I had seen on the walls. His voice turned heavy and raspy, like that of an old man.
As the night deepened, the sound of the dhamsa grew louder. It seemed to be coming from beneath the mansion. We took our torches and went behind the large cupboard in the hall. Johnson suddenly stopped. He shone his light on a wooden floorboard. There was an iron ring. With a careful tug, a small trapdoor opened. Inside was a dark staircase. A thick, nauseating stench of rot billowed up.
We descended the stairs. Below was a small room. Rows of wooden dolls were kept there. But these were strange—not the usual Chadar-Badar dolls of Birbhum. These were life-sized. As the torchlight hit them, I saw they were dressed in the clothes of Englishmen and ladies. Their eyes were made of glass, yet they looked hauntingly alive. It felt as if they were tracking our every move. In the center of the room was a large wooden box. It wasn't covered with cloth, but with a piece of dark, leathery skin.
Johnson moved toward the box, the silver coin still clutched in his hand. "Someone is breathing inside the box, Abhra." I listened intently. A deep, groan-like sound was emanating from within. The walls of the mansion shuddered with the rhythmic thumping of the dhamsa drums. Suddenly, with a dry, rasping creak, the fig-wood dolls shifted an inch from their positions.
Panic peaked when I saw that the staircase to the secret room had vanished. In its place stood a solid wall. We were trapped underground. The air was growing heavy. Whether it was a lack of oxygen or something else, I couldn't tell. Suddenly, like a man possessed, Johnson began tearing his diary to pieces. The scraps of paper vanished into the dust. The skin on his body was shriveling, and his pupils had turned entirely black—like two bottomless pits. Johnson staggered toward the large chest. Something inside was wheezing, like the breath of a beast. He reached out to lift the lid, his fingers trembling violently. I tried to stop him; I wanted to scream, to hold him back. But I couldn't. My tongue was paralyzed. My throat was bone-dry. Not a single sound escaped my lips. My body had turned to stone.
As Johnson pried the lid open slightly, a bone-chilling gust of air surged out. That wind carried the primal stench of rotting flesh. The large dolls in the corner of the room simultaneously turned their heads. The sound of wood grinding against wood was deafening. We stood before a mystery from which every path of return was closing, one by one.
Johnson threw the lid wide open. A mass of congealed darkness erupted from within. His hands looked grotesque now; his knuckles had thickened, and his skin was cracking, turning a coppery, wood-like hue.
Something rose slowly from inside the box. It wasn't human. It was a tall, wooden silhouette. The figure had no eyes—only a hideously carved smile.
The doll placed its hand on Johnson’s shoulder. Johnson’s body arched like a bow. I heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones.
Suddenly, the walls of the room began to contract. Hundreds of thin threads descended from the ceiling joists like snakes. The threads coiled around Johnson’s arms and legs. He was now a living puppet. An invisible force hoisted him into the air, letting him hang. Groaning, Johnson looked at me. Instead of tears, a white, sticky resin began to leak from the corners of his black eyes.
I tried to step back, but the floor had suddenly turned soft, like clay. Something began pulling my legs deep into the earth. The large doll turned its face toward me. Its carved smile had grown wider. Its touch was as hard as bone and as cold as ice, gripping my throat. I began to suffocate. Within the darkness, the sound of a thousand wooden sticks clacking filled the air. Hundreds of threads descended from above, encircling Johnson. He was now suspended two feet off the ground. His limbs no longer looked human; they moved with the jerky, rhythmic twitches of a wooden puppet.
Suddenly, a tall Englishman descended through the ceiling joists. He was wearing a dust-covered suit from 1890. His arms and legs were thin like sticks, and his face was as white as wax. As the Sahib landed, all the large dolls bowed as if in homage. In his hand, he held a large pair of silver shears. He moved toward Johnson, who was groaning in unearthly agony. The Sahib touched the silver shears to Johnson's forehead. Instantly, Johnson’s skin split open. From beneath the skin emerged polished, gleaming wood. The Sahib then wound the threads wrapped around Johnson’s limbs onto his own fingers. With a flick of his hand, Johnson danced in a grotesque gesture, accompanied by the rasping sound of wood grinding against wood.
Next, the Sahib pulled out a large cloth—exactly like the one used in the Chadar-Badar dance. He began to drape the entire room with it. I realized then that we were no longer in the basement; we were trapped inside the Chadar-Bandhnibox itself. The Sahib cast a thread toward me. My limbs began to go numb. A thin string coiled around my wrist, tightening until it felt as if my hand would be torn from my body.
Suddenly, I remembered the small Shirish-wood doll Som Murmu had given me. He had told me to keep it close for as long as I stayed there. I struck the Sahib’s thread with the doll with all my strength. To my amazement, the thread snapped! The Sahib let out a horrific shriek—not a human scream, but the sound of dry wood splintering. Johnson, still struggling, managed to whisper one last time, "Abhra, fire... start a fire!"
I smashed the hurricane lamp against a corner of the cloth. In an instant, the cloth erupted in flames. The fire leaped from the fabric to the Sahib’s suit. The Sahib and the large dolls began to shrivel in agony. The room was filled with the crackling sound of burning wood. Smoke began to rise from Johnson’s body too. He smiled. One last teardrop rolled down from his eye.
The wall burst open under the blast of heat. I was thrown outside. I heard Johnson’s final scream as the secret room of the mansion collapsed. A thunderous roar of dhamsa drums erupted from beneath the earth. Then, everything went silent.
I returned to the village and went to Som Murmu’s house. Sombabu was not in the courtyard. His son sat there, his face clouded with grief. He told me that Sombabu had passed away during the night. Strangely, before he died, he had burned his favorite doll. They say that doll bore a striking resemblance to Johnson. I couldn't say a word; I felt as if I had turned to stone inside.
I returned to Kolkata, but I found no peace. Even now, sitting alone at night, I hear that 'khat-khat' sound. It feels as if someone has hung invisible threads from my ceiling. Sometimes, I look at my eyes in the mirror. I don't know why, but it seems my pupils are becoming darker and harder every day—just like wood. Johnson is gone, but his final smile is etched into my brain.
Occasionally, I see news about that indigo factory in Birbhum in the newspapers. Tourists reportedly see strange shadows there. I know what those are. The Chadar-Bandhni puppet dance might disappear as an art form, but beneath that soil, they still dance today. History never ends; it only searches for a new body. Last night, the sound of wood rubbing against wood came from inside my cupboard. I know that now, the pull of the thread will be felt in my own body.
