Srinidhi Ranganathan

She was draped in a sari the color of dried blood, her face hidden behind a veil of mourning.

He built the Crow, a magnificent, terrifying thing. But the spirits he sought were not there.

Ostin, you see, was no ordinary turkey. He possessed a discerning palate for cranberries, a profound appreciation for classical music (particularly Mozart), and a peculiar aversion to being stuffed.

Nobody understood what he meant, but the sheer terror in his voice was enough to send shivers down their spines.

Rashmi took the key, her fingers trembling. It was cold and heavy, and she felt a strange energy emanating from it.