The Difficult Night
Inside the tent, I sit cross-legged in front of the screen. The live feed from the camera plays out in front of me, showing the dark, silent forest clearing. The faint glow of the screen bathes my face, the only source of light in this self-proclaimed command center. I munch on a leftover energy bar, the wrapper crinkling loudly in the otherwise suffocating silence. “Nothing’s happening,” I mutter to myself, the words breaking the monotony of watching shadows that refuse to move. My voice, quiet as it is, feels deafening in the stillness. “Seriously, I could have been in bed. Or... no, who am I kidding? I’d still be scrolling through useless articles about strange historical phenomena.”
Hours pass—or at least it feels that way. Time drags like an old man crossing the street, painfully slow and leaving you wondering if it’ll ever move forward. Just when my eyes start drooping from staring at the screen, the feed shows a faint ripple in the air. My head jerks up. Did I imagine that? No, it was just a gust of wind, barely enough to stir a few leaves on the artificial trees.
But then the wind picks up. The sound outside shifts from calm nothingness to a low, mournful howl. The tent’s fabric quivers, the poles trembling slightly. My eyes dart back to the screen. Dark, ominous clouds begin to gather above the clearing, blotting out what little light the stars and artificial illumination provided. The scene on the screen turns even darker, and my heart beats faster. This feels familiar—uncomfortably familiar.
“This... this is just like last time,” I whisper to no one, my voice trembling slightly. The first time I saw lightning—not the tame, controlled kind generated for energy grids, but wild, untamed lightning—it had been under a sky just like this one. Dark, brooding, and alive, as if the heavens themselves were conspiring against the earth.
A shiver runs down my spine. “Mr. OM,” I mutter, remembering his cryptic warnings. “Maybe he wasn’t just spouting nonsense about Purnima and supernatural events.” My attempt to laugh it off falls flat.
The wind outside grows fiercer, slamming into the sides of the tent with enough force to make it creak. I grab the poles instinctively, holding on as if my flimsy grip could keep the tent from being ripped away. “Calm down, Vrishti,” I tell myself. “It’s just wind. It’s just wind.” But the words feel hollow.
And then, disaster strikes. The live feed on my screen blinks out with a sharp burst of static. “No, no, no!” I hiss, frantically pressing buttons, trying to get the signal back. The screen remains stubbornly black, mocking my efforts. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse loud enough to drown out the wind for a moment.
“What do I do?” I mumble, running a hand through my hair. My fingers tremble slightly. The rational part of me—the part that has kept me alive this long—screams to stay inside the tent. It’s safe here, relatively speaking. But the other part, the reckless, curious part, insists that I need to check the camera.
After a fierce internal debate that feels like hours but is likely just seconds, I make my decision. “Fine,” I groan, pulling on my jacket and zipping it up to my chin. “Let’s go play hero.”
Stepping out of the tent is like stepping into chaos. The wind roars in my ears, tugging at my clothes and making every step a struggle. The artificial trees around the clearing sway violently, their creaking almost drowned out by the storm. I force myself forward, one stubborn step at a time, until I reach the spot where my camera was set up.
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It’s there, lying pathetically on its side like a defeated soldier. I pick it up, relief washing over me when I see that it isn’t broken—just turned off from the impact. “All this drama for nothing,” I mutter, shaking my head.
I fasten the camera back onto its tripod, taking extra care this time. Using a piece of thread from my backpack, I tie it securely in place. “You’re not going anywhere this time,” I tell the camera, as if it can hear me. “If you fall again, I’m leaving you here.”
With that sorted, I hurry back to the tent, the wind pushing against me the whole way. By the time I get inside, the tent looks worse for wear, sagging slightly from the relentless assault of the storm. But it’s still standing, and that’s all that matters.
Back inside, I glance at my bracelet, noting the time. It’s nearly half past ten. “Still a long way to midnight,” I mutter, settling back in front of the screen.
Minutes crawl by, and the tension in the air becomes almost suffocating. I jump at every creak of the tent, every gust of wind that rattles the poles. My nerves are frayed, and I’m starting to regret ever coming here.
And then I hear it—a soft, rhythmic spattering. It takes me a moment to recognize the sound. Rain. Droplets of water falling from the sky, tapping against the tent’s fabric. I unzip the flap just enough to peek outside. Sure enough, tiny droplets are falling steadily, darkening the ground.
“Rain,” I whisper, my breath fogging up in the cool air. “A rain that wasn’t predicted in the weather forecast.” My heart races again. This can’t be a coincidence. It has to be connected to everything else. Or... or maybe I’m just overthinking because I’m anxious.
The rain starts to pick up, the spattering growing louder and more insistent. It’s not long before it’s a full-blown downpour, the kind that makes you wonder if the skies are trying to drown the earth.
As I watch the rain, my bracelet lights up with an incoming call from my father. “Oh, great timing, Dad,” I mutter, swiping to answer. “Hello?”
But I can’t hear a thing over the roar of the rain. “Hello? Can you hear me?” I shout, but the words are swallowed by the storm. Frustrated, I end the call, deciding to deal with it later.
Leaning back against the tent wall, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The storm outside rages on, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming—something big.
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The rain and wind have now taken on a life of their own. The storm outside has intensified, and I find myself holding my own against the heavy rain and the monstrous wind. The tent is fighting back, but the fabric strains under the pressure, as though it might fly off into the sky at any moment. Every gust of wind seems like it could tear the whole structure apart. The weather is relentless. I hunch my shoulders, trying to brace myself for what feels like an assault from every direction. The wind shrieks, pushing at the sides of the tent with a force that rattles the fabric like a giant’s roar.
The storm outside doesn’t relent—it only grows worse. The wind howls louder and louder, ripping through the trees. The rain doesn’t just fall; it feels like it’s being thrown at me, heavy and punishing. The pattering on the tent grows louder, merging with the roar of the wind to create a nearly deafening cacophony. But then, just as if on cue, I hear something else, something that makes my skin crawl.
The first crack of thunder shakes the earth.
It’s so close, so impossibly close, that it seems to tear through the air itself, rattling the very foundation of the tent. I can feel the vibration in my bones, a deep, primal hum of sound that makes my heart race. Then comes the lightning—a blinding flash that cuts through the storm’s dark veil like a knife. It’s so bright, so sudden, that it almost burns my eyes.
My hands instinctively press against my ears. The sound of thunder comes almost immediately after the flash, and it’s so loud that I’m convinced my eardrums might burst. I wince, the noise so deafening that it becomes a physical presence, slamming against me like an unseen force.
In the chaos, it’s impossible to think straight. The storm’s fury has consumed everything, and I feel as though I might drown in the overwhelming noise and chaos. The wind, the rain, the thunder—they’re all here, all in this furious, unstoppable wave of nature. The storm outside feels like it’s mocking me, challenging me to stay.
Through the haze of sound, I check my bracelet. It buzzes again—Mom and Dad have been spamming calls and messages. I’ve already replied with a simple “I’m fine,” but even as I glance at the screen, I know that text won’t be enough for them. They’ll never believe it, not in this storm, not in this madness.
Even if I feel like I’m useless, like I’m just a shadow among the chaos of everything happening right now, I am still their daughter, and in some small way, I know they care. The thought is fleeting, almost drowned out by the storm, but it lingers long enough for me to feel the faintest pang of guilt.
Another burst of lightning splits the sky, and the sudden brightness makes me shudder involuntarily. Goosebumps erupt on my arms. I didn’t think the storm could get worse, but it just keeps coming, harder and faster, as if it’s determined to overwhelm me.