Yesterday, 04:14 PM
On the ninth day Prema called. I stood at the gate with my phone, giving her directions while I waited. I wore my sky blue chiffon saree with the matching sky blue blouse, my white petticoat tied low beneath it, my white bra, and dark green panties. The sky blue chiffon saree moved lightly against my hips in the afternoon air.
Prema arrived on her Scooty and stopped outside the gate. The moment she saw me standing there, her smile disappeared. Shock crossed her face. She did not get down.
“Come inside,” I said, opening the gate wider. “We can talk.”
Prema shook her head. Her hands stayed on the handlebars. She wore a dark cotton saree with a matching dark blouse. The dark cotton saree looked plain and heavy next to my sky blue chiffon saree.
“I cannot come inside,” she said. Her voice was tight. “Not yet. There is a temple nearby. Come with me first. I need to talk to you there.”
I looked at her face. The shock had not left her eyes. Something in my chest tightened.
“Why?” I asked. “Just come in for a minute.”
“Please,” she said. “Sit behind me. We will go to the temple. Then I will explain.”
I locked the gate, walked to the Scooty, and sat behind her. My sky blue chiffon saree spread over the seat. She started the engine and we rode toward the temple, her back stiff under the dark cotton saree, neither of us speaking.
We reached the temple. Prema parked the Scooty and we walked inside. I followed her to the sanctum, my sky blue chiffon saree brushing my ankles. We both stood with folded hands and prayed. After the prayer we walked to the side of the temple pond and sat on the stone floor beside a pillar. The water was still. Prema’s dark cotton saree spread around her legs. She looked at me for a long moment, her fingers resting on the stone, before she spoke.
“When did you buy the house?” she asked. Her voice was quiet.
I smoothed the pallu of my sky blue chiffon saree over my lap. “Recently,” I said. “My husband bought it. We moved in last month.”
She nodded slowly, eyes on the pond. “How did you come to know about the house?”
A small tightness formed in my chest. “Through a broker,” I answered. “He said the family had moved to Coimbatore.”
Prema’s fingers tightened on the edge of her dark cotton saree. She turned her head toward me. “Do you know who the broker is? Have you seen him?”
I shook my head. The movement felt heavy. “No,” I said. “I never met him properly. My husband handled it.”
“What does he look like?” she asked. Her voice stayed careful, but her shoulders had gone stiff.
I described the man who had come as the milk delivery—the thin face, the way he walked, the clothes he wore that morning. As I spoke, Prema’s eyes widened. She went completely still, one hand pressed flat against the stone floor.
“That is not a milk man,” she said. The words came out low. “That is the broker. His name is Chandru.”
The name matched. Shock moved through my chest and settled cold under my breasts. I remembered the market, the way he had looked at Prema once and then disappeared into the crowd without a word. My hands clenched in my lap.
“He left the moment he saw you,” I said quietly.
Prema looked at the pond for a second, then back at me. Her face had gone pale. “The family did not move to Coimbatore.”
My breath caught. My hands went cold against the sky blue chiffon saree. “What?” I asked. My voice came out small.
Prema looked straight at me. Her hands were still on the stone floor beside the temple pond.
“The house you are living in is haunted,” she said.
The words hit me like a slap. My breath stopped. I stared at her, my fingers gripping the edge of my sky blue chiffon saree. Shock spread cold through my chest and down into my stomach.
“What?” I whispered.
Prema’s face stayed pale. She spoke slowly. “A family lived there. Santosh, his wife Lydia, his father Chellappan, and his mother Kasiamma. They moved into that house about a year ago. One night they were driving back from Hosur in their Maruti Baleno. A lorry hit them on the highway. The car rolled three times. Santosh was driving. Lydia was sitting right next to him. When the roof tore open, both their heads were cut off. They were still sitting side by side in the front seat, bodies upright, heads gone. Blood was everywhere on the dashboard and on Lydia’s saree. Chellappan and Kasiamma were in the back. The roof caved in on them. When the security officer opened what was left of the car, Chellappan’s hands were still gripping the seat and Kasiamma’s eyes were open. Her mouth was open too, like she had been screaming until the end.”
I could not move. My throat felt tight. The image of Santosh and Lydia sitting headless next to each other stayed in front of my eyes. My dark green panties felt suddenly cold against my pussy under the white petticoat. I pressed my palms flat on the stone to stop them from shaking.
Prema continued, her voice lower. “The house has been locked for almost a year. Neighbours say they hear footsteps at night. Doors close by themselves. Some of them have seen a woman in a saree standing near the gate after dark and then disappearing. No one walks on that side of the lane anymore. The broker knew all of this. He cheated your husband and sold him a haunted house.”
Fear climbed up my spine and settled between my shoulders. I looked at the still water of the pond and then back at Prema. My voice came out small and unsteady.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She nodded once. “Yes. Everyone in the area knows. You should not have been living there.”
I sat very still, the sky blue chiffon saree heavy on my lap, my heart beating hard against my white bra, completely scared and unable to speak.
I sat beside the temple pond with my hands cold in my lap. Prema waited for me to speak. For a strange reason the words about the wind stayed inside me. I did not tell her how it came every afternoon, how the familiar smell made me weak, how the cock fucked my pussy until I came and loved every moment of it. The pleasure was real. I had enjoyed it. But my family was suffering more. My husband’s business was failing. The boys could not study. That mattered more than what the wind did to my body.
I looked at Prema. My voice was low. “I have to tell my husband.”
She nodded. Her dark cotton saree shifted as she leaned closer. “Yes. Talk to him tonight. Tell him the house is haunted. Ask him to change the house. Do not stay there.”
“I will,” I said.
We stood. My legs felt unsteady under the sky blue chiffon saree. Prema walked with me to the Scooty. I sat behind her again. Neither of us spoke on the short ride back. She stopped outside my gate in the evening light. I got down and adjusted my pallu.
“Call me after you speak to him,” she said.
I nodded. She turned the Scooty and left. At the same moment my husband’s car turned into the lane. The boys were with him. They got down, tired and quiet, and walked toward the gate just as I unlocked it.
My husband was already more upset than before. His business had gone all-time low. Orders kept getting cancelled and he came home later each day with a tight face. The boys were not studying well. They lost their matches and sat quietly with their books closed. I knew it was all because of the haunted house. I knew it was because of that wind which had been controlling me, keeping me horny while it made them suffer.
At night I settled next to him on the bed in my nighty and panties. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. I turned toward him.
“The house is haunted,” I said. My voice was careful. “The family who lived here before did not move to Coimbatore. They all died in a Maruti Baleno accident. Santosh, Lydia, Chellappan, and Kasiamma. Neighbours have seen things. We have to change the house.”
He let out a short laugh. “There is no such thing as ghosts,” he said. “Haunted houses are stories people tell when they want to scare someone or sell a house cheaper. Dead people do not stay behind. Once the body is gone, nothing remains. What you heard is just gossip from people who have nothing better to do.”
I tried to speak again. “But the boys are not sleeping properly. Your business—”
“It is business trouble,” he cut in. He was in no mood to listen. “Competitors. Not ghosts.”
When I said we had to change the house, his face hardened. He sat up.
“I spent so many crores buying this house,” he said, voice rising. “How silly are you to tell me to change it now? I cannot. We are not moving. Stop listening to people and go to sleep.”
He lay down again and turned his back to me. I stayed on my side of the bed, nighty pulled over my breasts, heart beating hard. He did not speak again.
After he fell asleep I took my phone and texted Prema.
We will meet at the temple in the morning.
She replied at once.
Okay. Come.
I put the phone down and lay awake, listening to my husband’s breathing, knowing I would have to find another way.
The next morning I got ready and left before the heat of the day could settle in the house. I wore a simple cotton saree and matching blouse, white petticoat, white bra, and plain panties underneath. I did not want anything that would remind me of the wind. I reached the temple and found Prema already sitting beside the same pillar near the pond. Her dark cotton saree was neat. She looked up as I approached.
I sat beside her. My hands were tight in my lap. “I told him,” I said. “He will not change the house. He says there are no ghosts. He spent crores and he is angry.”
Prema was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke. “There is a priest in a village near Thiruvannamalai. He is very powerful. People take him to houses where ordinary poojas fail. Last year a family in our native place had three deaths in one month. Doors opened by themselves. Children saw a woman standing at the foot of their bed. They called him. He stayed one night. In the morning the footsteps stopped. The children slept. The family is still living there. He does not use only mantras. He knows how to break what is holding the spirits. If anyone can clear your house, it is him.”
I looked at the still water. Fear and a small hope sat together in my chest. “Will he come?” I asked.
“If we go and ask him properly, yes,” she said.
“Then we will go,” I answered.
I did not return to the house after that. I knew the moment I stepped inside the wind would find me. I waited in the temple courtyard, then walked slowly through the nearby streets until evening. When my husband’s car turned into the lane I was already standing at the gate. The boys got down first. I smiled and opened the gate. My husband nodded once, still tight-faced from the day. We all went inside together.
In the evening Prema called.
“Do not waste time,” she said. “We will leave tomorrow morning. I will come to your gate.”
“Okay,” I said. “I will be ready.”
At night I sat beside my husband on the bed. He was already angry from the business losses. I kept my voice calm.
“Prema’s sister is getting married in Thiruvannamalai,” I said. “She asked me to come. I will leave tomorrow morning and be back in two days.”
He looked at me for a second, then looked away. “Go,” he said. “It does not matter.”
I nodded and lay down, nighty pulled over my breasts, already thinking of the priest and of what I would have to do to make him come.
The next morning began with my husband already on the phone, his voice rising loud and sharp as he yelled at someone from the factory about yet another cancelled order, the anger filling the hall so completely that there was no happiness left anywhere in the house, the boys sitting quietly at the table with their heads down while I moved through the kitchen knowing, with a cold certainty in my chest, that all of it was the Wind’s deliberate work, the same presence that had been fucking my pussy now keeping my husband restless and violent on purpose so the unhappiness would never lift. I prepared breakfast with unsteady hands, setting the plates on the table while the familiar tightness sat in my stomach and unwanted heat gathered steadily between my thighs, and the moment the boys finished eating I went into the bathroom because I did not want to be left alone with the empty rooms and the smell that always followed the Wind, the thought of it already making my pussy clench even as fear rested cold beneath my breasts.
I stood under the shower longer than I meant to, letting the water ran over my breasts and between my thighs while I tried to steady myself, then dried my body slowly and began to dress with a heaviness I could not shake. I pulled my pink panties up my thighs and settled them snug against my pussy, feeling the soft pressure there and already knowing they would not stay dry for long. I fastened my white bra over my breasts, the white bra cups holding their weight while my nipples remained sensitive from the days before. I tied my white petticoat low below my navel, the knot resting against my waist as I smoothed it over my hips. I took my pink blouse and hooked it closed one hook at a time, each small fastening drawing it across my breasts until it sat neatly. I lifted my pink chiffon saree and dbangd it with careful hands, tucking the pleats so it settled smoothly over my hips and ass, the pallu falling across my shoulder as I pinned it in place, glancing once in the mirror to see my own pale face and feeling, beneath the neatness of my pink chiffon saree, the lingering ache the Wind had left inside me.
I came out ready at the same time as my husband and the boys, and we moved together toward the door. I locked the house behind us. My husband and the boys got into his car without looking back and drove away, leaving me standing alone in the sudden quiet. I walked to my own car, and my hand had just touched the door handle when the Wind struck me with clear purpose, turning me around to face it so that invisible arms wrapped firmly around my waist in a hug while a mouth began kissing my neck with deep, passionate strokes, lips and tongue moving slowly and deliberately over my neck, the familiar smell filling my lungs and weakening my knees until heat rushed straight into my pussy and my pink panties grew soaked against my pussy. The kisses continued down to the upper curve of my breasts above my pink blouse, lingering and tempting, and for a long moment I loved it completely, my body softening into the hold, my mind wanting nothing more than to turn back, unlock the door, and let the Wind take me inside so it could fuck my pussy the way it had before, slow and deep until I came again.
Oh god… it feels so good. I want to go inside. I want the Wind to fuck my pussy again. But my husband deserves this pleasure, not this Wind. I have to go.
The thought of my husband steadied me just enough. I forced myself to pull free from the arms and the mouth, turned quickly, and ran the few steps to the car, getting inside and starting the engine before the Wind could wrap around me again. I drove out through the gate, stopped, got down, closed the gate from the outside, and locked it with shaking hands. Then I got back in and drove straight to Prema’s house, my pink chiffon saree still warm from the passionate kisses on my neck and the upper curve of my breasts, my pink panties soaked against my pussy, the guilt and the ache travelling with me the entire way.
I reached Prema’s house and stopped the car outside her gate. She was already waiting, wearing a brown saree with a matching brown blouse, the brown saree neatly pleated and the pallu pinned over her shoulder. She opened the passenger door, got inside, and sat next to me, placing her small bag on the floor near her feet. The morning air still carried the faint smell of the Wind on my pink chiffon saree, and my pink panties remained damp against my pussy as I turned to look at her.
“I already spoke to Guruji’s assistant,” Prema said, her voice steady as she adjusted the edge of her brown saree over her lap. “I told him we are coming today. He said once we reach the village we should call him, and he will come and take us to Guruji.”
I nodded, my hands resting on the steering wheel. “Okay,” I said. “Then we will go.”
I started the car. We pulled away from her gate and joined the morning traffic, then crossed the city limits onto the highway toward Thiruvannamalai. After nearly two hours I slowed and turned into Annai Dhaba, a small roadside place with a tin roof and a few plastic chairs outside. The dhaba was almost empty. Five men in work clothes sat near the counter talking quietly, and the owner, an older man in a lungi, stood behind the cash box watching the road.
We both got down. The toilet was at the back, a single concrete room with a half-door and a strong smell of phenyl. Prema went in first while I waited outside. When she came out I went in, used the toilet, and washed my hands at the small tap near the wall. By the time I finished and walked back to the front, Prema had grown bolder. She stood close to one of the younger workers in her brown saree, the pallu slipped lower on her shoulder, smiling at him.
“You all look so tired,” she said, her voice light and teasing. “Working so hard in this heat.”
The worker grinned, eyes moving over her brown saree. “Not tired now, akka.”
Prema laughed and stepped forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms lightly around his shoulders in a quick hug. “Then take some rest,” she said near his ear, holding the hug a moment longer than needed. The worker’s hands hovered near her waist before she pulled back, still smiling. The other four men stared openly, faces flushed. One of them muttered, “Lucky fellow.” The owner watched from behind the counter without speaking.
I reached her side quickly, touched her arm, and said, “Prema, we should leave.”
She gave the worker one last playful look. “Bye,” she said softly, then walked with me to the car. We got back inside, Prema settling into the passenger seat and smoothing her brown saree over her lap while I started the engine. The car rejoined the highway, the men still watching from the dhaba as we drove away toward Thiruvannamalai.
I continued driving along the highway, the afternoon sun warm through the windshield, my pink chiffon saree resting across my thighs while Prema sat beside me in her brown saree. After a few minutes of silence I glanced at her.
“Why were you flirting with them like that?” I asked. “You even hugged that boy. What was that?”
Prema smiled, adjusting the pallu of her brown saree over her shoulder. She did not look embarrassed. “When I see younger men I become naughty,” she said. “I cannot help it. I am not getting any younger, Sudha. My body still wants attention. When a young man looks at me the way that worker did, something wakes up inside me. I like how their eyes move over my saree, how they notice my waist and my breasts even when they try not to. Middle-aged women like us… we know what we have. We have experience. We know how to move, how to speak, how to make a younger man hard just by standing close or letting the pallu slip. I enjoy that power. I enjoy knowing I can still make them want me. Life is short. If a young body wants to look at me and I want to feel that look, why should I stop myself? A small hug, a little teasing… it makes me feel alive. My husband is busy. The house is full of relatives these days. For a few minutes on the road I wanted to feel like a woman again, not just someone’s wife.”
I kept my eyes on the road, my hands steady on the wheel. Her words sat between us. My pink panties were still wet against my pussy from the morning, and for a moment I thought of the Wind, of how easily it had made me want things I should not want. Prema smoothed her brown saree over her lap and looked out the window, a small satisfied smile still on her face as the car moved closer to Thiruvannamalai.
We reached the edge of the remote village near Thiruvannamalai as the afternoon light began to soften, the road narrowing into a rough track that climbed gently into the hills until the trees grew thicker on both sides and it felt as though we had entered the edge of a forest. Prema took out her phone and called Guruji’s assistant, spoke briefly, then told me to keep driving slowly until we found a place to stop. We waited under the heavy shade of the trees, the engine idling, my pink chiffon saree warm against my thighs while Prema’s brown saree rested neatly over her lap.
After some time a man appeared on the track ahead, walking toward us from between the trees. He was middle-aged and dressed simply. When he saw Prema his face changed. He walked straight to her.
“Ganesan,” Prema said, smiling.
He took her hand and drew her behind the large tree a little off the track, clearly thinking the trunk would hide them from me. I stayed near the car and could still see them. He pulled her into a tight hug, his hands sliding down to her waist over the brown saree, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips as he held her close against his body.
“I missed you so much,” he said, voice low and rough against her neck. “How is your husband? Still almost impotent?”
Prema hugged him back, her breasts pressing against his chest through her brown blouse, her arms going around his shoulders. “Not anymore,” she answered softly. “After Guruji helped him, he is good in bed now. But I still missed you.”
Ganesan kissed her cheek slowly, then her forehead, then the corner of her mouth, his lips moving over her face while one hand stayed firm on her waist and the other rose to rest just below her breasts. “You should not depend only on your husband,” he murmured. “Be adventurous. Be free to experiment. A woman like you needs more than one man.”
He was extremely horny. His hips pressed forward so she could feel him against her lower belly through the brown saree. He kissed along her jaw and down the side of her neck, then asked against her ear, “Can I fuck you now? Just once, quickly, behind this tree.”
Prema laughed softly, the sound breathless, but she shook her head even as she stayed in his arms. “We have come for important things,” she said. “My best friend needs help. I cannot do this now.”
He understood. He eased the hug but did not fully let go. One hand remained on her waist. “What exactly is the reason you are here?” he asked.
As Prema began telling him about the haunted house, his other hand moved to her pallu and pushed it aside. He gently played with her breasts over the brown blouse, fingers pressing and circling the full shape of them through the cloth while he nodded and listened. “Do not worry,” he said, still touching her. “Guruji will help. He has handled worse than this.”
They both stepped out from behind the tree. Ganesan looked at me once, then pointed into the forest.
“Follow me,” he said.
He turned and began leading us inside the thick bushes along a narrow passage that was only wide enough for one person at a time. Roots crossed the path. Branches hung low. My pink chiffon saree caught once on a twig and I freed it carefully, walking behind Prema in her brown saree as the trees closed around us and the track disappeared, the path growing tighter until it felt as though we were entering the mouth of a cave between the rocks.
Ganesan led us deeper into the narrow passage until the bushes opened into the mouth of a small cave. He stopped at a low wooden door set into the rock, pushed it open, and the warm light of several diyas spilled out. Inside, the walls were lined with black magic items—dried herbs hanging in bundles, small copper vessels, animal bones tied with red thread, and markings drawn in ash on the stone. The smell of camphor and something sharper filled the air. My pink chiffon saree brushed the rough wall as I stepped in behind Prema.
Ganesan crossed the room and opened a second door at the far end. He looked back at us.
“Wait here,” he said. “I will call you.”
He went inside and closed the door. Prema and I stood quietly among the diyas. After a while the door opened again. Ganesan came out and looked only at me.
“You come inside,” he said.
I walked forward. As soon as I stepped through, he closed the door from the outside. The room beyond was smaller and quieter. An old man sat on a mat in the center, his eyes closed. He looked to be in his seventies. He wore only a saffron dhoti, and a thick rudraksha mala rested against his bare chest. His hands were still in his lap. The moment I entered he opened his eyes and looked straight at me. The diyas flickered once. He did not speak. He simply watched me stand there in my pink chiffon saree, the door shut behind me, the weight of his gaze settling over my body.
Swamiji opened his eyes and looked at me. He nodded once, the movement small and calm. I walked forward across the stone floor, my pink chiffon saree brushing my ankles with every step, my heart beating a little faster the closer I came. I bent down and touched his feet. When his hand rested briefly on my head, a quiet relief moved through my chest, as if some of the fear I had carried from the house had finally been noticed. He lowered his hand and pointed to the mat opposite him.
“Sit, child,” he said gently.
I lowered myself onto the mat, folding my legs to one side. The pallu of my pink chiffon saree settled over my shoulder. My hands rested in my lap, fingers lightly pressed together. The diyas burned with a steady flame between us. The stillness around him made the tightness that had lived in my chest for days loosen just a little. I felt I could speak.
“What is your name?” he asked.
I met his eyes. “Sudha, Swamiji,” I answered, my voice softer than I expected.
“Tell me about your family, child.”
A small breath left me. “I have a husband and three sons. We live in Bangalore. My husband runs a soap company. The boys are still in college. Everything was normal until we moved into the new house.”
He listened without interrupting. His gaze stayed steady. I did not feel judged. After a moment he spoke again.
“What has brought you here?”
I drew a deeper breath. My fingers tightened once in my lap. “My husband bought the house through a broker. The broker said the previous family had moved to Coimbatore. He never told us they had died. Santosh, his wife Lydia, his father Chellappan, and his mother Kasiamma all died together in a Maruti Baleno accident near Hosur. After we shifted, things started going wrong. My husband’s business keeps losing orders. He comes home angry every day. The boys wake up scared at night. They cannot concentrate on their studies. I can feel something in the rooms, Swamiji. I am frightened for them.”
My voice had grown quieter toward the end. I looked at him, hoping he understood how heavy it had become. Swamiji nodded slowly, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest. For the first time in many days I felt that someone was truly listening, and that the weight might not have to stay only with me. He remained silent, patient, giving me space if I wished to say more.
Prema arrived on her Scooty and stopped outside the gate. The moment she saw me standing there, her smile disappeared. Shock crossed her face. She did not get down.
“Come inside,” I said, opening the gate wider. “We can talk.”
Prema shook her head. Her hands stayed on the handlebars. She wore a dark cotton saree with a matching dark blouse. The dark cotton saree looked plain and heavy next to my sky blue chiffon saree.
“I cannot come inside,” she said. Her voice was tight. “Not yet. There is a temple nearby. Come with me first. I need to talk to you there.”
I looked at her face. The shock had not left her eyes. Something in my chest tightened.
“Why?” I asked. “Just come in for a minute.”
“Please,” she said. “Sit behind me. We will go to the temple. Then I will explain.”
I locked the gate, walked to the Scooty, and sat behind her. My sky blue chiffon saree spread over the seat. She started the engine and we rode toward the temple, her back stiff under the dark cotton saree, neither of us speaking.
We reached the temple. Prema parked the Scooty and we walked inside. I followed her to the sanctum, my sky blue chiffon saree brushing my ankles. We both stood with folded hands and prayed. After the prayer we walked to the side of the temple pond and sat on the stone floor beside a pillar. The water was still. Prema’s dark cotton saree spread around her legs. She looked at me for a long moment, her fingers resting on the stone, before she spoke.
“When did you buy the house?” she asked. Her voice was quiet.
I smoothed the pallu of my sky blue chiffon saree over my lap. “Recently,” I said. “My husband bought it. We moved in last month.”
She nodded slowly, eyes on the pond. “How did you come to know about the house?”
A small tightness formed in my chest. “Through a broker,” I answered. “He said the family had moved to Coimbatore.”
Prema’s fingers tightened on the edge of her dark cotton saree. She turned her head toward me. “Do you know who the broker is? Have you seen him?”
I shook my head. The movement felt heavy. “No,” I said. “I never met him properly. My husband handled it.”
“What does he look like?” she asked. Her voice stayed careful, but her shoulders had gone stiff.
I described the man who had come as the milk delivery—the thin face, the way he walked, the clothes he wore that morning. As I spoke, Prema’s eyes widened. She went completely still, one hand pressed flat against the stone floor.
“That is not a milk man,” she said. The words came out low. “That is the broker. His name is Chandru.”
The name matched. Shock moved through my chest and settled cold under my breasts. I remembered the market, the way he had looked at Prema once and then disappeared into the crowd without a word. My hands clenched in my lap.
“He left the moment he saw you,” I said quietly.
Prema looked at the pond for a second, then back at me. Her face had gone pale. “The family did not move to Coimbatore.”
My breath caught. My hands went cold against the sky blue chiffon saree. “What?” I asked. My voice came out small.
Prema looked straight at me. Her hands were still on the stone floor beside the temple pond.
“The house you are living in is haunted,” she said.
The words hit me like a slap. My breath stopped. I stared at her, my fingers gripping the edge of my sky blue chiffon saree. Shock spread cold through my chest and down into my stomach.
“What?” I whispered.
Prema’s face stayed pale. She spoke slowly. “A family lived there. Santosh, his wife Lydia, his father Chellappan, and his mother Kasiamma. They moved into that house about a year ago. One night they were driving back from Hosur in their Maruti Baleno. A lorry hit them on the highway. The car rolled three times. Santosh was driving. Lydia was sitting right next to him. When the roof tore open, both their heads were cut off. They were still sitting side by side in the front seat, bodies upright, heads gone. Blood was everywhere on the dashboard and on Lydia’s saree. Chellappan and Kasiamma were in the back. The roof caved in on them. When the security officer opened what was left of the car, Chellappan’s hands were still gripping the seat and Kasiamma’s eyes were open. Her mouth was open too, like she had been screaming until the end.”
I could not move. My throat felt tight. The image of Santosh and Lydia sitting headless next to each other stayed in front of my eyes. My dark green panties felt suddenly cold against my pussy under the white petticoat. I pressed my palms flat on the stone to stop them from shaking.
Prema continued, her voice lower. “The house has been locked for almost a year. Neighbours say they hear footsteps at night. Doors close by themselves. Some of them have seen a woman in a saree standing near the gate after dark and then disappearing. No one walks on that side of the lane anymore. The broker knew all of this. He cheated your husband and sold him a haunted house.”
Fear climbed up my spine and settled between my shoulders. I looked at the still water of the pond and then back at Prema. My voice came out small and unsteady.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She nodded once. “Yes. Everyone in the area knows. You should not have been living there.”
I sat very still, the sky blue chiffon saree heavy on my lap, my heart beating hard against my white bra, completely scared and unable to speak.
I sat beside the temple pond with my hands cold in my lap. Prema waited for me to speak. For a strange reason the words about the wind stayed inside me. I did not tell her how it came every afternoon, how the familiar smell made me weak, how the cock fucked my pussy until I came and loved every moment of it. The pleasure was real. I had enjoyed it. But my family was suffering more. My husband’s business was failing. The boys could not study. That mattered more than what the wind did to my body.
I looked at Prema. My voice was low. “I have to tell my husband.”
She nodded. Her dark cotton saree shifted as she leaned closer. “Yes. Talk to him tonight. Tell him the house is haunted. Ask him to change the house. Do not stay there.”
“I will,” I said.
We stood. My legs felt unsteady under the sky blue chiffon saree. Prema walked with me to the Scooty. I sat behind her again. Neither of us spoke on the short ride back. She stopped outside my gate in the evening light. I got down and adjusted my pallu.
“Call me after you speak to him,” she said.
I nodded. She turned the Scooty and left. At the same moment my husband’s car turned into the lane. The boys were with him. They got down, tired and quiet, and walked toward the gate just as I unlocked it.
My husband was already more upset than before. His business had gone all-time low. Orders kept getting cancelled and he came home later each day with a tight face. The boys were not studying well. They lost their matches and sat quietly with their books closed. I knew it was all because of the haunted house. I knew it was because of that wind which had been controlling me, keeping me horny while it made them suffer.
At night I settled next to him on the bed in my nighty and panties. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. I turned toward him.
“The house is haunted,” I said. My voice was careful. “The family who lived here before did not move to Coimbatore. They all died in a Maruti Baleno accident. Santosh, Lydia, Chellappan, and Kasiamma. Neighbours have seen things. We have to change the house.”
He let out a short laugh. “There is no such thing as ghosts,” he said. “Haunted houses are stories people tell when they want to scare someone or sell a house cheaper. Dead people do not stay behind. Once the body is gone, nothing remains. What you heard is just gossip from people who have nothing better to do.”
I tried to speak again. “But the boys are not sleeping properly. Your business—”
“It is business trouble,” he cut in. He was in no mood to listen. “Competitors. Not ghosts.”
When I said we had to change the house, his face hardened. He sat up.
“I spent so many crores buying this house,” he said, voice rising. “How silly are you to tell me to change it now? I cannot. We are not moving. Stop listening to people and go to sleep.”
He lay down again and turned his back to me. I stayed on my side of the bed, nighty pulled over my breasts, heart beating hard. He did not speak again.
After he fell asleep I took my phone and texted Prema.
We will meet at the temple in the morning.
She replied at once.
Okay. Come.
I put the phone down and lay awake, listening to my husband’s breathing, knowing I would have to find another way.
The next morning I got ready and left before the heat of the day could settle in the house. I wore a simple cotton saree and matching blouse, white petticoat, white bra, and plain panties underneath. I did not want anything that would remind me of the wind. I reached the temple and found Prema already sitting beside the same pillar near the pond. Her dark cotton saree was neat. She looked up as I approached.
I sat beside her. My hands were tight in my lap. “I told him,” I said. “He will not change the house. He says there are no ghosts. He spent crores and he is angry.”
Prema was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke. “There is a priest in a village near Thiruvannamalai. He is very powerful. People take him to houses where ordinary poojas fail. Last year a family in our native place had three deaths in one month. Doors opened by themselves. Children saw a woman standing at the foot of their bed. They called him. He stayed one night. In the morning the footsteps stopped. The children slept. The family is still living there. He does not use only mantras. He knows how to break what is holding the spirits. If anyone can clear your house, it is him.”
I looked at the still water. Fear and a small hope sat together in my chest. “Will he come?” I asked.
“If we go and ask him properly, yes,” she said.
“Then we will go,” I answered.
I did not return to the house after that. I knew the moment I stepped inside the wind would find me. I waited in the temple courtyard, then walked slowly through the nearby streets until evening. When my husband’s car turned into the lane I was already standing at the gate. The boys got down first. I smiled and opened the gate. My husband nodded once, still tight-faced from the day. We all went inside together.
In the evening Prema called.
“Do not waste time,” she said. “We will leave tomorrow morning. I will come to your gate.”
“Okay,” I said. “I will be ready.”
At night I sat beside my husband on the bed. He was already angry from the business losses. I kept my voice calm.
“Prema’s sister is getting married in Thiruvannamalai,” I said. “She asked me to come. I will leave tomorrow morning and be back in two days.”
He looked at me for a second, then looked away. “Go,” he said. “It does not matter.”
I nodded and lay down, nighty pulled over my breasts, already thinking of the priest and of what I would have to do to make him come.
The next morning began with my husband already on the phone, his voice rising loud and sharp as he yelled at someone from the factory about yet another cancelled order, the anger filling the hall so completely that there was no happiness left anywhere in the house, the boys sitting quietly at the table with their heads down while I moved through the kitchen knowing, with a cold certainty in my chest, that all of it was the Wind’s deliberate work, the same presence that had been fucking my pussy now keeping my husband restless and violent on purpose so the unhappiness would never lift. I prepared breakfast with unsteady hands, setting the plates on the table while the familiar tightness sat in my stomach and unwanted heat gathered steadily between my thighs, and the moment the boys finished eating I went into the bathroom because I did not want to be left alone with the empty rooms and the smell that always followed the Wind, the thought of it already making my pussy clench even as fear rested cold beneath my breasts.
I stood under the shower longer than I meant to, letting the water ran over my breasts and between my thighs while I tried to steady myself, then dried my body slowly and began to dress with a heaviness I could not shake. I pulled my pink panties up my thighs and settled them snug against my pussy, feeling the soft pressure there and already knowing they would not stay dry for long. I fastened my white bra over my breasts, the white bra cups holding their weight while my nipples remained sensitive from the days before. I tied my white petticoat low below my navel, the knot resting against my waist as I smoothed it over my hips. I took my pink blouse and hooked it closed one hook at a time, each small fastening drawing it across my breasts until it sat neatly. I lifted my pink chiffon saree and dbangd it with careful hands, tucking the pleats so it settled smoothly over my hips and ass, the pallu falling across my shoulder as I pinned it in place, glancing once in the mirror to see my own pale face and feeling, beneath the neatness of my pink chiffon saree, the lingering ache the Wind had left inside me.
I came out ready at the same time as my husband and the boys, and we moved together toward the door. I locked the house behind us. My husband and the boys got into his car without looking back and drove away, leaving me standing alone in the sudden quiet. I walked to my own car, and my hand had just touched the door handle when the Wind struck me with clear purpose, turning me around to face it so that invisible arms wrapped firmly around my waist in a hug while a mouth began kissing my neck with deep, passionate strokes, lips and tongue moving slowly and deliberately over my neck, the familiar smell filling my lungs and weakening my knees until heat rushed straight into my pussy and my pink panties grew soaked against my pussy. The kisses continued down to the upper curve of my breasts above my pink blouse, lingering and tempting, and for a long moment I loved it completely, my body softening into the hold, my mind wanting nothing more than to turn back, unlock the door, and let the Wind take me inside so it could fuck my pussy the way it had before, slow and deep until I came again.
Oh god… it feels so good. I want to go inside. I want the Wind to fuck my pussy again. But my husband deserves this pleasure, not this Wind. I have to go.
The thought of my husband steadied me just enough. I forced myself to pull free from the arms and the mouth, turned quickly, and ran the few steps to the car, getting inside and starting the engine before the Wind could wrap around me again. I drove out through the gate, stopped, got down, closed the gate from the outside, and locked it with shaking hands. Then I got back in and drove straight to Prema’s house, my pink chiffon saree still warm from the passionate kisses on my neck and the upper curve of my breasts, my pink panties soaked against my pussy, the guilt and the ache travelling with me the entire way.
I reached Prema’s house and stopped the car outside her gate. She was already waiting, wearing a brown saree with a matching brown blouse, the brown saree neatly pleated and the pallu pinned over her shoulder. She opened the passenger door, got inside, and sat next to me, placing her small bag on the floor near her feet. The morning air still carried the faint smell of the Wind on my pink chiffon saree, and my pink panties remained damp against my pussy as I turned to look at her.
“I already spoke to Guruji’s assistant,” Prema said, her voice steady as she adjusted the edge of her brown saree over her lap. “I told him we are coming today. He said once we reach the village we should call him, and he will come and take us to Guruji.”
I nodded, my hands resting on the steering wheel. “Okay,” I said. “Then we will go.”
I started the car. We pulled away from her gate and joined the morning traffic, then crossed the city limits onto the highway toward Thiruvannamalai. After nearly two hours I slowed and turned into Annai Dhaba, a small roadside place with a tin roof and a few plastic chairs outside. The dhaba was almost empty. Five men in work clothes sat near the counter talking quietly, and the owner, an older man in a lungi, stood behind the cash box watching the road.
We both got down. The toilet was at the back, a single concrete room with a half-door and a strong smell of phenyl. Prema went in first while I waited outside. When she came out I went in, used the toilet, and washed my hands at the small tap near the wall. By the time I finished and walked back to the front, Prema had grown bolder. She stood close to one of the younger workers in her brown saree, the pallu slipped lower on her shoulder, smiling at him.
“You all look so tired,” she said, her voice light and teasing. “Working so hard in this heat.”
The worker grinned, eyes moving over her brown saree. “Not tired now, akka.”
Prema laughed and stepped forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms lightly around his shoulders in a quick hug. “Then take some rest,” she said near his ear, holding the hug a moment longer than needed. The worker’s hands hovered near her waist before she pulled back, still smiling. The other four men stared openly, faces flushed. One of them muttered, “Lucky fellow.” The owner watched from behind the counter without speaking.
I reached her side quickly, touched her arm, and said, “Prema, we should leave.”
She gave the worker one last playful look. “Bye,” she said softly, then walked with me to the car. We got back inside, Prema settling into the passenger seat and smoothing her brown saree over her lap while I started the engine. The car rejoined the highway, the men still watching from the dhaba as we drove away toward Thiruvannamalai.
I continued driving along the highway, the afternoon sun warm through the windshield, my pink chiffon saree resting across my thighs while Prema sat beside me in her brown saree. After a few minutes of silence I glanced at her.
“Why were you flirting with them like that?” I asked. “You even hugged that boy. What was that?”
Prema smiled, adjusting the pallu of her brown saree over her shoulder. She did not look embarrassed. “When I see younger men I become naughty,” she said. “I cannot help it. I am not getting any younger, Sudha. My body still wants attention. When a young man looks at me the way that worker did, something wakes up inside me. I like how their eyes move over my saree, how they notice my waist and my breasts even when they try not to. Middle-aged women like us… we know what we have. We have experience. We know how to move, how to speak, how to make a younger man hard just by standing close or letting the pallu slip. I enjoy that power. I enjoy knowing I can still make them want me. Life is short. If a young body wants to look at me and I want to feel that look, why should I stop myself? A small hug, a little teasing… it makes me feel alive. My husband is busy. The house is full of relatives these days. For a few minutes on the road I wanted to feel like a woman again, not just someone’s wife.”
I kept my eyes on the road, my hands steady on the wheel. Her words sat between us. My pink panties were still wet against my pussy from the morning, and for a moment I thought of the Wind, of how easily it had made me want things I should not want. Prema smoothed her brown saree over her lap and looked out the window, a small satisfied smile still on her face as the car moved closer to Thiruvannamalai.
We reached the edge of the remote village near Thiruvannamalai as the afternoon light began to soften, the road narrowing into a rough track that climbed gently into the hills until the trees grew thicker on both sides and it felt as though we had entered the edge of a forest. Prema took out her phone and called Guruji’s assistant, spoke briefly, then told me to keep driving slowly until we found a place to stop. We waited under the heavy shade of the trees, the engine idling, my pink chiffon saree warm against my thighs while Prema’s brown saree rested neatly over her lap.
After some time a man appeared on the track ahead, walking toward us from between the trees. He was middle-aged and dressed simply. When he saw Prema his face changed. He walked straight to her.
“Ganesan,” Prema said, smiling.
He took her hand and drew her behind the large tree a little off the track, clearly thinking the trunk would hide them from me. I stayed near the car and could still see them. He pulled her into a tight hug, his hands sliding down to her waist over the brown saree, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips as he held her close against his body.
“I missed you so much,” he said, voice low and rough against her neck. “How is your husband? Still almost impotent?”
Prema hugged him back, her breasts pressing against his chest through her brown blouse, her arms going around his shoulders. “Not anymore,” she answered softly. “After Guruji helped him, he is good in bed now. But I still missed you.”
Ganesan kissed her cheek slowly, then her forehead, then the corner of her mouth, his lips moving over her face while one hand stayed firm on her waist and the other rose to rest just below her breasts. “You should not depend only on your husband,” he murmured. “Be adventurous. Be free to experiment. A woman like you needs more than one man.”
He was extremely horny. His hips pressed forward so she could feel him against her lower belly through the brown saree. He kissed along her jaw and down the side of her neck, then asked against her ear, “Can I fuck you now? Just once, quickly, behind this tree.”
Prema laughed softly, the sound breathless, but she shook her head even as she stayed in his arms. “We have come for important things,” she said. “My best friend needs help. I cannot do this now.”
He understood. He eased the hug but did not fully let go. One hand remained on her waist. “What exactly is the reason you are here?” he asked.
As Prema began telling him about the haunted house, his other hand moved to her pallu and pushed it aside. He gently played with her breasts over the brown blouse, fingers pressing and circling the full shape of them through the cloth while he nodded and listened. “Do not worry,” he said, still touching her. “Guruji will help. He has handled worse than this.”
They both stepped out from behind the tree. Ganesan looked at me once, then pointed into the forest.
“Follow me,” he said.
He turned and began leading us inside the thick bushes along a narrow passage that was only wide enough for one person at a time. Roots crossed the path. Branches hung low. My pink chiffon saree caught once on a twig and I freed it carefully, walking behind Prema in her brown saree as the trees closed around us and the track disappeared, the path growing tighter until it felt as though we were entering the mouth of a cave between the rocks.
Ganesan led us deeper into the narrow passage until the bushes opened into the mouth of a small cave. He stopped at a low wooden door set into the rock, pushed it open, and the warm light of several diyas spilled out. Inside, the walls were lined with black magic items—dried herbs hanging in bundles, small copper vessels, animal bones tied with red thread, and markings drawn in ash on the stone. The smell of camphor and something sharper filled the air. My pink chiffon saree brushed the rough wall as I stepped in behind Prema.
Ganesan crossed the room and opened a second door at the far end. He looked back at us.
“Wait here,” he said. “I will call you.”
He went inside and closed the door. Prema and I stood quietly among the diyas. After a while the door opened again. Ganesan came out and looked only at me.
“You come inside,” he said.
I walked forward. As soon as I stepped through, he closed the door from the outside. The room beyond was smaller and quieter. An old man sat on a mat in the center, his eyes closed. He looked to be in his seventies. He wore only a saffron dhoti, and a thick rudraksha mala rested against his bare chest. His hands were still in his lap. The moment I entered he opened his eyes and looked straight at me. The diyas flickered once. He did not speak. He simply watched me stand there in my pink chiffon saree, the door shut behind me, the weight of his gaze settling over my body.
Swamiji opened his eyes and looked at me. He nodded once, the movement small and calm. I walked forward across the stone floor, my pink chiffon saree brushing my ankles with every step, my heart beating a little faster the closer I came. I bent down and touched his feet. When his hand rested briefly on my head, a quiet relief moved through my chest, as if some of the fear I had carried from the house had finally been noticed. He lowered his hand and pointed to the mat opposite him.
“Sit, child,” he said gently.
I lowered myself onto the mat, folding my legs to one side. The pallu of my pink chiffon saree settled over my shoulder. My hands rested in my lap, fingers lightly pressed together. The diyas burned with a steady flame between us. The stillness around him made the tightness that had lived in my chest for days loosen just a little. I felt I could speak.
“What is your name?” he asked.
I met his eyes. “Sudha, Swamiji,” I answered, my voice softer than I expected.
“Tell me about your family, child.”
A small breath left me. “I have a husband and three sons. We live in Bangalore. My husband runs a soap company. The boys are still in college. Everything was normal until we moved into the new house.”
He listened without interrupting. His gaze stayed steady. I did not feel judged. After a moment he spoke again.
“What has brought you here?”
I drew a deeper breath. My fingers tightened once in my lap. “My husband bought the house through a broker. The broker said the previous family had moved to Coimbatore. He never told us they had died. Santosh, his wife Lydia, his father Chellappan, and his mother Kasiamma all died together in a Maruti Baleno accident near Hosur. After we shifted, things started going wrong. My husband’s business keeps losing orders. He comes home angry every day. The boys wake up scared at night. They cannot concentrate on their studies. I can feel something in the rooms, Swamiji. I am frightened for them.”
My voice had grown quieter toward the end. I looked at him, hoping he understood how heavy it had become. Swamiji nodded slowly, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest. For the first time in many days I felt that someone was truly listening, and that the weight might not have to stay only with me. He remained silent, patient, giving me space if I wished to say more.
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