An anthology of weird short stories

Neon Necropolis

Mumbai, a city that pulsated with a feverish energy, was Meera's suffocating cage.  Trapped in a cramped salon, the air thick with the cloying scent of hairspray and desperation, she plastered smiles onto the faces of wealthy socialites, their woes a far cry from the gnawing hunger in her own belly. The glossy magazines she devoured during slow hours offered a tantalizing glimpse of a world beyond – pristine beaches, carefree women, a life unburdened by the grime and grit of her reality.
One sweltering afternoon, Anya walked into the salon. An anomaly amidst the cacophony, she exuded an unsettling calmness, her crimson silk sari a stark contrast to the garish décor. Anya's request was even more unusual – a "shadow cleanse." Meera, initially skeptical, her cynicism a well-worn shield, couldn't help but be drawn to Anya's enigmatic aura and the promise of something more than another layer of foundation to hide the city's rot.
Anya spoke in hushed tones of Chhaya, malevolent entities that thrived on the despair oozing from every corner of Mumbai. These unseen creatures latched onto people's anxieties, manifesting their dark desires as physical ailments and emotional turmoil. Dev, Meera's neighbor, was a walking testament to their grip. A cheerful face from her childhood had morphed into a hollow shell, haunted by swirling shadows that drained his life force.
Driven by a morbid curiosity and a flicker of genuine concern for Dev, Meera found herself drawn into Anya's world. Their journey took them into the city's underbelly – forgotten shrines reeking of incense and dried blood, abandoned buildings echoing with whispers of ancient pacts, and secret societies dedicated to fighting the unseen. Anya, the enigmatic guide, chanted guttural mantras and concocted foul-smelling mixtures from unknown herbs.
Meera, initially skeptical, witnessed the effects firsthand. People seemingly cured of chronic ailments they'd endured for years, lifted from a depression so deep it seemed like a natural state. The line between faith and fear blurred with each success story. Yet, Anya remained an enigma. Scraps of overheard conversations hinted at a past shrouded in violence and a personal vendetta fueling her fight against the Chhaya.
One symbol, carved into Anya's skin in a language Meera didn't recognize, sent a shiver down her spine. It resembled a sigil she'd seen in a childhood book about dark magic, a forbidden practice her grandmother had warned her about.  Doubt gnawed at Meera, a suspicion that Anya wasn't just a healer but a conduit for  the soul of Mumbai, and maybe, for a sliver of redemption for her own.

Meera spent the following days in a feverish haze. Sleep evaded her, replaced by the replay of Anya's contorted face and the writhing shadows that had threatened to consume them all. Dev, however, seemed to bloom anew. The weight that had hunched his shoulders was gone, replaced by a tentative optimism that tugged at Meera's heart.
One afternoon, while sorting through Anya's abandoned belongings, a hidden compartment in her bag yielded a worn leather-bound book. The symbols on its cover mirrored the one etched into Anya's skin.  Inside, cryptic scribblings spoke of a ritual, a way to permanently sever the connection between the human world and the Chhaya realm. It required a conduit, someone who could bridge the gap, and a sacrifice – something precious, something irreplaceable.
Meera understood. Anya had intended to be the sacrifice, to purge her own darkness and sever the connection in one fell swoop. But Meera couldn't let her do it.  A flicker of something akin to respect bloomed for the woman who had, however twisted, tried to save the city.
Days turned into weeks, the book becoming Meera's new obsession.  She scoured dusty libraries and hidden corners of the city, seeking knowledge to decipher the ritual. Slowly, a horrifying truth emerged – the sacrifice wasn't a life, but a memory. Anya intended to erase the memory of her family's death, the source of her rage and the Chhaya's power source.
The revelation left Meera with a difficult choice. Anya's sacrifice would have been permanent, a one-way ticket to oblivion. But was there another way? Could a memory be severed, not erased, but transformed?  Fueled by a sliver of hope and a newfound determination, Meera delved deeper, searching for loopholes, for a way to rewrite the narrative.
Weeks later, she stumbled upon a forgotten practice – a form of dream manipulation.  It was risky, bordering on the suicidal, but it offered a chance.  Meera could enter Anya's mind, confront her demons at their source, and try to rewrite the memory, not erase it, but fill it with love instead of hate.
The night of the ritual arrived, a night thick with anticipation and a stifling humidity. Dev, aware of the plan, stood by Meera, his unwavering trust a source of strength.  Following the instructions in the book, Meera performed a complex ritual, chanting syllables that tasted foreign on her tongue.  The air crackled with a strange energy, and a swirling portal opened before them.
Taking a deep breath, Meera stepped through, her surroundings dissolving into a swirling vortex of emotions.  Before her, a scene unfolded – a burning house, screams echoing in the air.  Anya, a young girl, cradled two lifeless figures, tears streaming down her face.  Grief, raw and unadulterated, hung heavy in the air.
Meera approached Anya gently, a feeling of empathy washing over her.  She didn't try to erase the memory; she shared her own. Images of Dev's tentative smile, the city lights twinkling in the distance, the resilience of the human spirit. Slowly, the raw grief in Anya's eyes began to soften.
By the time Meera emerged from the trance, she was drained but exhilarated. The air felt lighter, the oppressive weight of the Chhaya seemingly diminished. Dev, his face etched with concern, rushed to her side.
News of the ritual spread quickly through the city's underbelly. People spoke of a shift, a lightness in their hearts they hadn't felt in years. The Chhaya sightings became less frequent, their hold on the city weakened.
Meera never saw Anya again. But in the quiet moments, she sometimes thought she saw a flicker of crimson silk disappear down a crowded street, a faint echo of a woman who had chosen to face her darkness and, in doing so, helped light the way for a city on the brink. The fight against the Chhaya was far from over, but for the first time, Meera felt a flicker of hope.  The city, scarred but resilient, had begun to heal, a testament to the power of courage, empathy, and a single memory, reshaped not erased. Years passed, and Mumbai throbbed with a renewed pulse.  The air, though still tinged with pollution, held a hint of something cleaner, like a collective sigh of relief.  Chhaya sightings dwindled to whispers in forgotten corners.  Meera, no longer a beautician but a revered figure in the city's hidden world, continued her vigil.