The wind howled westward through the pitch-black night, rustling the innocent neem trees along the roadside. Silence loomed, heavy and foreboding—only to be shattered by the crackling of an old radio inside a torn, abandoned hut.
"India’s first-ever constitution bill will be presented tomorrow," the voice announced before the radio sputtered and fell silent again. But this silence felt different unsettling, like the eerie calm before a storm. Even the raging wind stilled for a moment.
Then— THUD!
The radio splintered into pieces as a man crashed into the ground, the force of his fall carving a deep crater in the dirt. He gasped, struggling to rise—only for another devastating impact to hurl him deeper into the earth. Dust rose like a thick veil, swallowing his form.
Through the swirling haze, a towering figure emerged. Six feet of raw power. He stood over the fallen man, his presence alone suffocating. The man on the ground tried again to rise, but the giant showed no mercy. Fist after fist rained down—each strike a sonic blast, each impact sending mushroom-like clouds of dust into the sky.
But the fallen warrior refused to break. With a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed his attacker’s ankle and hurled him into the air. The earth beneath him cracked as he launched himself skyward in pursuit, the air bending around him like a swirling shield. He struck—fists and kicks colliding with brutal force—sending the giant plummeting back to the ground. A grotesque cut appeared on the 6ft giant’s face, a curving down to his jaw but he just wiped the crimson away in the midair.
As he descended for the final blow, the six-foot warrior’s fist shot out— a single punch to the throat that sent him hurtling miles away. He crashed, blood slipping from his mouth as he clawed at the ground, struggling to rise.
The towering figure approached, his voice laced with dark amusement. “I told you, Ashwa,” he sneered, a sinister smile curling on his lips. “I am immortal.”
Ashwa, gasping for breath, let out a weak chuckle. “But you can be captured.”
With that, he swung. Their fists collided—a single, cataclysmic impact that sent shockwaves through the air. The force of their clash engulfed the entire city in a billowing storm of dust.
Then a click. The screen flickered, freezing everything in place, the dust, the clenched fists, the chaos, all suspended mid-motion
“Father, time for my bedtime story,” the son asked, looking up expectantly.
The father chuckled softly, ruffling his child’s hair. "Alright, alright, here we go."
The boy grinned, “Make it a haunted one this time.”
The father nodded proudly, settled back against the headboard, and took a deep breath before beginning his tale…
A blast of wind shook the house as lightning flashed through the windows, illuminating the darkened skies at night. The rhythmic pounding of rain drowned out all other sounds. The creak of the door hinge cut through the silence. "Who?" Her voice trembled; pupils dilated as one side of her face was lit by the lamp in her hand. “Maa! It’s me,” he replied softly, calming her. “A…Amarath?” she asked, her grip tightened as she approached the hall. “Yes!” His voice was soothing. With one hand clutching her chest, she let out a long, relieved sigh. “You’re having the nightmare again, aren’t you?” His voice softened as he helped her sit on the bed. “Yes,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, I’m here now,” he assured her, his voice steady and composed. He stood up, but she reached for his hand, her grip firm but warm. Amarath gently placed her hand over his heart and whispered, “I’m right here, Ma. I won’t let go.” The soft light from the lamp illuminated his face, offering a sense of calm in the otherwise dark room. His gaze shifted, drawn to the flickering light of the lamp beside her “Why the torch?” he asked, “So they don’t know my eyes are just for show,” she replied proudly.
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Later that night, the clock’s heavy hand swung past midnight, Amarath opened his eyes and tiptoed to his grandmother’s room. He paused at the doorway, confirming that she was still lost in a peaceful slumber before slipping back into the hallway. There, he peeled back the worn carpet, and the dust motes danced in the dim light, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. A wave of mystery washed over his face as he inhaled the musty, sweet scent of the ancient box but he remained firm as if he already knew what lay inside. He paused, a long, shuddering breath escaping his lips as he lifted the lid. Suddenly, a sharp metallic scent assaulted his senses. His palm, once dry, was now stained crimson, the viscous liquid seeping through his finger. A blood-curdling scream of a woman pierced the silence, a horrifying cacophony that made his ears ring. A grotesque hand, pale and veiny, emerged from the crimson pool, its gnarled fingers reaching towards him. Terror seized him as he covered his ears, his heartbeat racing as the screams echoed in his mind. Growing louder to such an extent that his own voice became inaudible. When a sudden vibration in his pocket jolted him back to reality. Shaking, he answered the call. The voice on the other end was barely a whisper, yet hauntingly familiar. "At that temple."
"The boy's eyes lit up with intrigue and amusement. “Nice start, Father!”
The father smirked. “Don’t disturb the flow.”
The boy quickly apologized but couldn’t help himself. “Just one thing—where is the story set?” His curiosity deepened. “It feels real.”
The father’s smirk deepened. “That’s for you to uncover, my boy.”
And with that, he continued…"
Trinarayanpur, a town devoted to Lord Mahadeva, stands as a blend of the ancient and modern. Sleek, glass-faced skyscrapers rise like celestial sentinels, casting shimmering shadows over compact apartments. Majestic neem trees line the town’s roads, their medicinal fragrance permeating the air, a silent guardian of purity. Yet beneath this peaceful surface lies a darker truth—a town built on blood. The sweet aroma of the trees masks the cries of those who suffered in silence, their restless corpses woven into the very foundation of Trinarayanpur.
Rain poured as Amarath parked his car near the Shiva temple. He unfurled his umbrella and approached a man, about his size, waiting under the temple’s glow.
“You’re late,” the man said, eyeing Amarath with a mix of irritation and concern.
Amarath tilted his head, his smirk widening. “And you’re soaked.”
“Because of you,” the man shot back, wiping rain from his face.
Amarath raised an eyebrow, teasing. ““Should I apologize for the rain or for your existence?”
The man exhaled sharply, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. “Forget it.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “Did you try to open the box?”
“Yeah,” Amarath sighed in frustration before adding, “Nothing changed. Same old result, Sachet!”
Sachet gently placed his hand on his shoulder, a touch of warmth and reassurance. His voice soft yet resonant, “Don’t worry, son. Everything will be back to normal, just like it was a few months ago.”
Amarath’s gaze dropped to his hands, trembling ever so slightly. He looked up, locking eyes with Sachet, his whisper barely audible, “I hope so…”
Suddenly, tiny, radiant sparks flickered around his fingers. Amarath stared at the sparks…… not with fear, but with the eerie calm of someone who had known this moment would come.
Sachet's voice grew deeper, carrying the weight of someone who had lived through it before. As he sat on the temple steps, he warned, “The curse of being part of this lineage.”
What was the curse? And did that battle actually happened?