Monsoon season was reaching its end in Colombo, but the skies told a different story. Heavy, grey clouds gathered above with an almost oppressive consistency, stretching across the horizon in a seamless mass that blotted out the sun. The air was thick with moisture, the kind that clung to skin and made every breath feel laborious. Though locals were accustomed to the monsoons, this year felt different. The rains were no longer a seasonal visitor but an unwanted tenant that refused to leave. Streets that once bustled with life now shimmered with water, reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. The rhythmic drumming of rain on rooftops had become a constant companion, so ever-present that silence itself was a distant memory.
For months, the rains had shown no mercy. Torrential downpours turned streets into rivers, swept away fragile structures, and forced families to seek refuge wherever they could find it. Thunder rolled through the city with deafening roars, followed by flashes of lightning that illuminated the bleak landscape. The ferocity of the storms overwhelmed even the most prepared. Drains overflowed, bridges were washed out, and entire neighborhoods were swallowed by the rising waters. Yet, amid the chaos, Colombo endured, driven by the resilience of its people and the necessity of survival.
The world had taken notice. International aid poured in like the rain itself. Relief efforts mobilized with an urgency that spoke of the gravity of the situation. Helicopters delivered food and medical supplies to isolated communities, while engineers worked tirelessly to erect temporary infrastructure. Makeshift shelters dotted the city, providing refuge for the displaced. Roads were reinforced with sandbags and drainage systems hastily modified to accommodate the overwhelming deluge
Yet, even as progress was made, the message from the top remained grim. Politicians spoke of adaptation, of accepting the storms as a new reality. Press conferences framed the ongoing crisis as a challenge to overcome, a future to embrace rather than fear. “This storm,” one minister declared, “is not a visitor but a neighbor. We must learn to coexist with it.”
Despite the grim circumstances, life carried on. Colombo’s streets, though battered and bruised, still saw movement. Shopkeepers opened their doors, their wares protected under tarpaulins. Students, their uniforms drenched, braved the rain to attend school. Vendors shouted over the downpour, peddling wares from carts sheltered by patched umbrellas. In the face of unrelenting adversity, the city refused to stand still.
This stubborn resilience, however, belied a growing unease. Beneath the surface of normalcy, a quiet dread simmered. The rains were more than a nuisance or a natural disaster; they were a harbinger of something darker. Rumors spread like wildfire, whispered in hushed tones in tea shops and markets. Stories of strange happenings, of unexplainable events in the waterlogged streets, began to surface. Some spoke of eerie lights flickering in flooded alleys, while others claimed to have heard voices—low, guttural whispers carried on the wind. Most dismissed these tales as the byproduct of fear and exhaustion.
Children, unbothered by the harsh realities their parents faced, turned the floods into opportunities for adventure. Makeshift rafts of driftwood and discarded plastic carried their laughter through the murky waters. They raced, splashed, and invented games that only the unique landscape of disaster could inspire. These moments of joy, fleeting as they were, brought brief warmth to their families’ hearts. Parents watched with both pride and trepidation, knowing the waters held dangers that could not be ignored. Beneath the playful surface of their children’s games lurked threats far greater than the risk of falling ill or slipping under the water.
> It was unfortunate that they ventured to Madukande Park.
>
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On any other day, the park would have been a sanctuary. A green space alive with the chatter of picnics, the calls of birds, and the sound of children’s feet pounding the earth. During the storms, however, it became something else entirely. The trees stood like sentinels, their gnarled roots submerged and their leaves heavy with rain. The once vibrant grass was hidden beneath a film of water that shimmered with an unnatural, almost oily sheen. Yet, to the children, it remained a place of wonder.
Parents, seeking to placate restless little ones, ventured to the park despite the risks. They carried umbrellas and called out warnings as their children darted ahead, their voices blending with the endless drumming of the rain. For a time, it seemed like any other outing—a temporary reprieve from the confines of waterlogged homes. Children played tag, their feet sending ripples through the shallow pools. The air, though humid and heavy, carried the faintest trace of peace.
But the calm was deceptive. The waters of Madukande Park hid something sinister, a truth cloaked in the sanguine hue that began to rise beneath the surface. It was subtle at first, a reddish tint that could easily be mistaken for muddy runoff. Then, it thickened, spreading like ink in water, staining the pools with a sickly, unnatural crimson. The laughter of the children faltered as they noticed it. Parents exchanged uneasy glances, their instincts sharpening as the vibrant red mirrored in their wide eyes.
The first scream tore through the air like a lightning strike.
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The park was silent for a moment, save for the relentless patter of rain. Bodies—small, lifeless, and torn—floated among the reeds and playground equipment, their pale forms barely visible beneath the red-stained water. Limbs lay grotesquely severed, scattered like discarded remnants of some unholy feast. Parents who had come to protect their children lay among them; their eyes frozen open in expressions of unspeakable terror.
Amid the carnage, three figures loomed. Djinns, their forms twisted and grotesque, prowled the blood-soaked park like predators surveying a fresh kill. They were tall and impossibly gaunt, their elongated limbs moving with a sickly grace. Drool, thick and black, dripped from their gaping mouths as they sniffed the air, their hollow eyes glowing faintly with a malevolent light. Their skin shimmered unnaturally, slick as if covered in oil, reflecting the crimson around them.
At the center of the chaos, a swing creaked softly, its sound cutting through the storm like a ghostly whisper. There sat their master, a woman clad entirely in black. She swayed gently back and forth; her movements calm and unhurried. Her hair, jet black and perfectly straight, hung down like a curtain framing her pale, almost translucent face. Her eyes were as dark as her clothing, twin voids that betrayed no emotion. Even her makeup was an extension of her monochrome appearance, her lips painted a black so deep they seemed to absorb the light.
She seemed untouched by the storm. Raindrops slid off her, repelled by an unseen. Her gaze was distant, her focus not on the carnage but on some unseen point in the distance.
Next to her sat an older man, his body frail and hunched. His skin was weathered and wrinkled, sagging like old parchment stretched over brittle bones. His clothes were soaked, clinging to his skeletal frame, but he did not seem to care. He swung gently alongside her, his movements slow and mechanical, as though he was a marionette manipulated by invisible strings. His face was obscured by the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, but from beneath it, his thin, cracked lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile.
“Take the flesh,” the man intoned, he had a slight Russian accent which was uncannily archaic.
“I have no use for it. Have your beasts make haste. Its better if we leave no trace.”
With the end of the proclamation the djins began to ravage the littered corpses.
“If our plan is to act in the New Year, why do we begin so early?” the woman asked, in a very soft voice, monotone.
“We must lay the foundation now. The storm will not suffice. The Horseman needs greater dow.”
The greed of man must meet its end.” The man said, his body slowly gaining youth as he spoke.
“How much longer until you can replace your needle, Koshchei?” the woman asked, her tone still monotone. “Seeing these bloodbaths can be so dreary.”
“It won’t be much longer, don’t fret… We’ll end their cycle and move onto next steps..”