Uththan

Trigger Warning / Disclaimer

This story explores themes of historical mysteries, doubt, and intense emotional discovery. While it is a work of fiction, it contains elements of suspense and psychological tension. Readers who may be sensitive to themes of self-doubt, obsession with uncovering the past, or the emotional weight of seeking lost truths should proceed with awareness. The story is set in a fictionalized version of an Indian coastal region and is inspired by folklore, but it does not depict real historical events or locations.

Reader discretion is advised. If you find such themes triggering, please proceed with caution. 

---

The wind tasted of salt and something old—something forgotten. Rhea dug her boots into the damp sand, watching the waves curl against the shore. The sky, still streaked with the last breath of dawn, was painted in soft pinks and oranges, but she barely noticed. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her field bag, her notebooks and research feeling heavier than ever.

The whispers of the past had led her here, to this desolate stretch of coast where time seemed to stand still. She inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air filling her lungs, tinged with the scent of seaweed and the faintest trace of smoke from a distant bonfire. A few fishing boats bobbed gently in the water, their hulls creaking as waves licked their sides. Somewhere behind her, a lone seabird let out a sharp cry, slicing through the silence.

Her clothes—dusty cargo pants and an oversized linen shirt, wrinkled from too many days of travel—were damp at the hems, the moisture creeping up with every step she took toward the water. She adjusted her scarf, pulling it tighter against the chilly breeze, but the cold wasn’t what unsettled her.

It was the doubt.

The stories she had chased for months had always felt just out of reach—glimpses of something real hidden beneath layers of legend. She had travelled across towns, sifted through archives, traced maps with ink-stained fingers. And yet, standing here, surrounded by the vastness of the ocean, she wondered—was this really the place? Or had she, once again, followed a story that led to nothing?

A gust of wind caught the pages of her notebook, flipping them open to sketches, hastily scribbled notes, fragments of a history she wasn’t sure even existed. Her pulse quickened as she stared at the rough pencil lines, the markings of something ancient, something important.

The tide was shifting, pulling the shore with it.

And deep in her gut, she felt it.

Something was waiting for her here.

Rhea crouched down, pressing her palm against the cool, wet sand, feeling the earth shift beneath her fingertips. The waves lapped closer, erasing footprints and swallowing any trace of what had been before.

She reached into her field bag, pulling out the photograph—yellowed at the edges, creased from too many years folded in someone’s pocket. It showed an old stone structure, half-buried in sand, its arches worn but still standing against time. The locals she had spoken to had called it a myth, a story passed down through generations. A temple swallowed by the sea. A place that no longer existed.

And yet…

She traced her thumb over the edges of the image, glancing up at the stretch of coastline before her. The shape of the land, the jagged rocks near the water—it matched. Not perfectly, but enough to make her heart pound harder.

A voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Lost something?”

Rhea turned sharply. A man stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a weathered jacket. His dark hair was tousled by the wind, and his eyes—sharp, questioning—flickered between her and the photograph in her hand.

“Not lost,” she said, schooling her expression. “Looking for something.”

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Tourists don’t usually come here alone. And they don’t carry notebooks like that.” He nodded toward the leather-bound journal peeking from her bag.

Rhea hesitated. She had learned, over time, to be careful with what she shared. Too many times, people had dismissed her, called her an over-imaginative historian, a dreamer chasing shadows.

“Just researching some local history,” she said finally, tucking the photo back into her bag.

The man studied her for a moment before exhaling, looking out at the waves. “You’re not the first.”

A chill crawled up Rhea’s spine. “What do you mean?”

He kicked at the sand, as if considering how much to say. “Every few years, someone comes looking. Scholars, writers, explorers. They dig through records, talk to the old folks, walk this very shore.” He paused, then glanced at her. “But they never find anything.”

Rhea’s grip tightened on her bag. “Maybe they weren’t looking hard enough.”

The man smirked, but there was something else in his expression—something knowing. “Or maybe they were looking in the wrong place.”

The words sent a shiver through her.

He turned to leave, but not before adding, “Try the library. Third floor, restricted section. Ask for the records before the flood.”

Rhea watched him walk away, her pulse hammering in her ears.

The library? She had already combed through the archives—every public record, every map, every newspaper clipping. But restricted section? Before the flood?

Her fingers brushed over the photograph again.

Maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t chasing a ghost after all.

—

The heavy wooden doors of the library groaned as Rhea pushed them open, stepping into the cool, dust-scented silence. Sunlight streamed through high, arched windows, illuminating rows of towering shelves filled with books worn soft from years of being read and forgotten.

She made her way past the main reading area, where students pored over textbooks and elderly scholars murmured over handwritten notes. But it wasn’t the open shelves she was interested in.

Her boots echoed against the stone floor as she approached the front desk. An older librarian with silver-rimmed glasses sat there, flipping through a massive ledger.

Rhea cleared her throat. “I’m looking for records from before the flood.”

The librarian didn’t look up. “All available records are in the history section. Third aisle to the right.”

Rhea hesitated. “I meant the restricted records.”

This time, the woman’s eyes lifted, sharp behind the lenses. “Those aren’t open to the public.”

Rhea had expected that. She reached into her bag, pulling out her research permit—granted for her ongoing study on historical coastal settlements. “I’m authorized to access archival documents,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I was told I might find something useful in the restricted section.”

The librarian sighed, glancing at the permit before reaching for a thick register and flipping through its pages. She tapped a finger on a name.

“You get thirty minutes,” she said finally. “No taking pictures. No removing documents. If you damage anything, you’ll be banned.”

Rhea nodded. “Understood.”

The woman pressed a button under the desk. Somewhere in the back, a lock clicked open.

“Third floor. Room 3B,” the librarian instructed, already turning back to her work.

Rhea wasted no time. She climbed the winding staircase to the third floor, her pulse quickening with each step. The restricted section was quieter, the air thick with the scent of parchment and ink. A heavy wooden door marked Room 3B stood at the end of the corridor.

She pushed it open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, lined with rows of old wooden filing cabinets and shelves stacked with brittle pages and bound manuscripts. A single table sat in the center, the overhead lamp casting a warm glow over the dust-speckled air.

Rhea approached the cabinets, scanning the faded labels. Some were written in a language she barely recognized. Others had dates—some dating back centuries.

And then she found it.

A file marked:
“Coastal Disappearances – 1936-1952”

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it out, unfolding the yellowed pages inside.

At first, the documents seemed like ordinary records—land acquisitions, construction reports, population records. But then, buried beneath them, she found something else.

A newspaper clipping.

March 1947
“Mysterious Vanishing of Coastal Ruins”

Rhea’s breath hitched as she read on.

Local fishermen claim that an ancient stone structure once stood along the shore, visible at low tide. But after a particularly violent storm, the structure was never seen again. Some say the sea swallowed it whole. Others believe it was never there to begin with. Official records make no mention of such a site existing.

Rhea’s mind raced. She pulled out her own photograph, comparing the jagged silhouette of the ruins to the descriptions in the article. It was a match.

The place she was looking for—it had existed.

And then, something even more unsettling.

A list of names. Scholars, researchers, explorers—every person who had come searching for this place over the decades. Many had reported strange occurrences: missing notes, lost photographs, unreliable witnesses.

And at the bottom of the page, scrawled in faded ink:

“Those who look too closely may not like what they find.”

A chill ran down Rhea’s spine.

She wasn’t just chasing a lost ruin.

She was chasing a secret someone wanted buried.

The words on the brittle paper blurred for a moment as Rhea’s breath came uneven.

Those who look too closely may not like what they find.

She traced the ink with her fingertip, her mind running in circles. Was it a warning? A threat? Or just the paranoia of some long-forgotten researcher?

A gust of wind rattled the old windows, making the light flicker. Rhea exhaled and quickly slipped the document back into its folder, her fingers itching to take notes, but she knew better. The librarian’s words still echoed in her ears—no taking pictures, no removing documents.

Still, she needed proof. She grabbed her notebook, scribbling down dates, names, and every detail she could before sliding the file back into its place.

As she turned to leave, something shifted in the air. A presence—subtle but undeniable.

Rhea stilled.

Footsteps.

Someone was outside the door.

Her grip tightened around her pen, her heart hammering. The heavy wooden door had no keyhole, no way to peek through.

She waited.

Nothing.

Maybe it was just the old building settling, the creak of an aging floorboard.

Swallowing her nerves, Rhea slowly opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

The only sound was the muffled rustling of books from the lower floors.

Still, the unease coiled in her stomach didn’t fade.

She descended the stairs two at a time, her boots thudding against the stone. At the front desk, the librarian barely looked up.

“Find what you were looking for?” she asked, voice as dry as parchment.

Rhea hesitated. “I think so.”

The woman nodded as if she already knew the answer. “Be careful where you dig, Miss.”

The words weren’t said with malice, but with something worse—resignation.

Rhea stepped out of the library into the afternoon light, blinking against the sudden brightness. The sea breeze hit her immediately, ruffling her hair and carrying the distant scent of brine and sand.

The city felt different now. Less familiar. Less safe.

She clutched her notebook to her chest, her mind replaying the article, the names, the warning.

This wasn’t just a lost ruin.

This was something people had been trying to erase.

And if she wanted answers, she’d have to decide just how deep she was willing to go.

—

The café was dimly lit, tucked into a quiet corner of the old town. A ceiling fan creaked lazily above, stirring the scent of strong chai and freshly baked bread. Rhea sat near the window, her notebook open but untouched. Outside, the street hummed with life—vendors calling out their wares, children laughing, the occasional honk of a passing scooter.

But inside, she felt suspended, caught between hesitation and something dangerously close to obsession.

The file from the library had been a start. But she needed more—something tangible, something real.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the blurry photos she’d managed to take before the librarian had caught her. Most were useless, shadowed and out of focus, but one image made her pause.

A map.

Or at least, part of one. A faded sketch with lines that snaked towards an unmarked region, the ink smudged as if someone had tried to erase it.

Her pulse quickened.

Was this proof?

The chair across from her scraped against the floor.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Rhea barely glanced up as Kabir settled into the seat. Dressed in his usual weather-worn jacket and jeans, his hair was a little messier than usual, like he’d been running against the wind.

“You came,” she said, more relieved than she’d expected.

“You said it was urgent.” He glanced at her phone. “So? What is it this time? More old legends? Secret societies?”

She turned the screen towards him. “This.”

He studied the image for a long moment. “Where did you find this?”

“Library archives. Buried under a pile of unrelated files. Someone wanted it forgotten.”

Kabir exhaled. “And you, of course, want to dig it up.”

Rhea leaned in. “Kabir, if this map is real, it means the stories weren’t just stories. There was something there. And maybe—” She hesitated, the words feeling too big. “Maybe it’s still there.”

He frowned. “You’re talking about a ruin that supposedly vanished centuries ago. That no one has found.”

“Not because it doesn’t exist,” she countered. “But because someone didn’t want it to be found.”

Kabir ran a hand through his hair. “You realize how insane that sounds, right?”

Rhea huffed. “Just admit it. You love this.”

A smirk ghosted over his lips. “I love not getting arrested for trespassing, actually.”

She pushed the notebook towards him. “You used to be better at taking risks.”

“I used to be better at running from them,” he corrected, but there was something curious in his gaze now. A crack in the doubt.

Rhea watched him scan the notes. “So?” she pressed.

Kabir sighed, leaning back. “You’re impossible.”

She grinned. “That’s not a no.”

“That’s a fine, but if we get chased out of another restricted area, you’re explaining it to the cops this time.”

Rhea’s heart pounded as she flipped the page.

They had a map.

They had a lead.

Now, all they had to do was follow it.

—

The journey was supposed to be simple—follow the map, cross-reference the old town records, and prove whether the lost settlement ever existed. But nothing about the past was ever simple.

Rhea and Kabir moved through the winding streets of the old district, where buildings leaned into each other as if whispering secrets. The scent of damp earth and burning incense clung to the air. Even in daylight, the narrow alleyways felt like they belonged to another time, untouched by modern hands.

Kabir kept glancing over his shoulder. “I don’t like this,” he muttered.

“Paranoia doesn’t suit you,” Rhea teased.

“It’s not paranoia if someone is watching us.”

Rhea frowned but didn’t look back. “You saw someone?”

“Not clearly. Just… a feeling.”

She tucked her notebook closer to her side. The library file, the erased sections of the map, the strange hesitation in the librarian’s voice—it all pointed to one thing.

Someone didn’t want this place remembered.

They reached an abandoned courtyard, where the ground was cracked, weeds breaking through the stone. It matched a marking on the map—X—but there was nothing here. Just an old well, covered with rotting wooden planks.

Kabir crossed his arms. “So? This is it? The great hidden civilization?”

Rhea ignored him and stepped forward. The wind picked up, carrying a scent of something different. Something metallic.

She crouched near the well and pressed a hand against the wood. It was damp. Soft. Recently disturbed.

Her pulse kicked up. “Kabir, help me move this.”

Kabir hesitated. “You’re seriously thinking about opening that?”

“Do you trust me or not?”

He exhaled sharply, then crouched beside her. “I really hate that question.”

Together, they pulled at the planks. The damp wood groaned but gave way, revealing a dark, gaping hole beneath.

Rhea grabbed her phone and switched on the flashlight.

The beam caught the shimmer of something deep inside. Not water. Stone. Carved, unnatural.

Kabir swore. “Tell me that’s just an illusion.”

Rhea’s fingers trembled against the edge of the well. “I think we just found proof.”

A noise behind them—a shuffle, too deliberate to be the wind.

Kabir moved first, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back into the shadows of the alley.

Rhea’s breath came fast. “Someone is watching us.”

Kabir’s jaw clenched. “And I have a feeling they don’t want us climbing down that well.”

The proof was right in front of them. But so was the danger.

And for the first time, Rhea wasn’t sure if knowing the truth was worth the cost.

Rhea’s pulse roared in her ears as she took a cautious step forward. The air inside the passage was thick—damp, laced with something ancient, something forgotten. The symbols carved into the walls flickered under the glow of her flashlight, their meanings just out of reach.

Behind her, Kabir exhaled sharply. “Tell me we didn’t just crawl into a tomb.”

Rhea barely heard him. Her fingers trailed over the inscriptions, over the dust that had settled for centuries. The deeper they moved, the stronger the scent of the ocean became—salt and brine, trapped underground where it had no right to be.

Then she saw it.

A door. Not a crumbling stone slab like the rest of the ruins, but a heavy iron door, half-rusted yet still intact. A door that didn’t belong in something this old.

Her heart pounded. “This isn’t just a lost settlement. Someone sealed this place off deliberately.”

Kabir hesitated. “Like… locked it up? Recently?”

Rhea didn’t answer. She reached for the rusted handle, hesitated for only a moment, then pulled. The metal groaned, resisting at first. And then—

A rush of air. A shift in pressure.

And the door creaked open.

The room beyond was untouched by time.

Lanterns, long burned out, hung from the walls. Wooden shelves sagged under the weight of scrolls and ledgers. At the center stood a stone podium, and atop it, a single journal, wrapped in oilcloth.

Rhea’s fingers shook as she picked it up. The cover bore no title, but the moment she flipped it open, the first page made her breath catch.

“If you are reading this, you were never meant to.”

Kabir peered over her shoulder. “That’s… ominous.”

Rhea turned the pages, scanning rushed handwriting, ink smudged by what looked like sweat. And then—

A map.

Not of the settlement, but of something much bigger. A network of tunnels. A hidden trade route.

Kabir let out a low whistle. “Rhea… this isn’t just ruins. This was a secret smuggling hub.”

She swallowed hard, her mind racing. “No. Not smuggling.” She pointed at the notations beside the route markings—dates, symbols, names she recognized from her research.

“These people… they weren’t criminals. They were refugees.”

Kabir went still. “You’re saying they weren’t just lost to history? They made themselves disappear?”

Rhea nodded. “They were running. Hiding. And they left behind a way for others to follow.”

She turned the final page, where one last message was scrawled.

“We could not save ourselves. But if you find this, perhaps you can save the ones still running.”

A metallic click echoed through the chamber.

Kabir froze. “Did you hear that?”

Rhea barely had time to process before a gust of air blew through the passage behind them—the door was closing.

“RUN!” she shouted.

They bolted, the journal clutched to her chest. Dust rained from the ceiling as the ancient mechanisms groaned to life. The exit was disappearing.

Just as it had for the ones who had come before them.

But Rhea wouldn’t be buried with history.

She was going to tell the world its truth.

—

The End