It was a night in the month of November, but there was no cold in the air — instead, a strange dampness lingered, as if the rain had washed away something profound… something that couldn't be expressed in words.
The sky was filled with clouds, as if an angry god was ready to strike down lightning at any moment.
Far from the railway station, an old jeep was kicking up dust as it made its way towards Brijpur village.
Aarav, a 28-year-old researcher of parapsychology, was stepping into this village for the first time.
He had come directly from Delhi to this small village — in search of an incomplete ritual (yajna) and the mystery hidden behind it.
As soon as the jeep stopped at the edge of the village, the driver, without looking back, said:
"Babuji, find a shelter before night falls… Brijpur doesn't sleep at night."
Aarav smiled, "What do you mean?"
The driver said nothing. He simply pressed the accelerator, and the jeep vanished into a cloud of dust.
The moment Aarav crossed the village boundary, the first thing that greeted him was a thick silence — not just quiet, but filled with fear.
On either side of the muddy lanes were leaning mud houses, their walls cracked by time.
In one corner stood a broken, neglected well. Moss covered its edge, and a bucket hung loosely, as if no one had drawn water from it in years.
Beside the well stood an old banyan tree — massive and silent, with red threads, lemons and chilies, and broken bangles tied into its hanging roots.
It looked as if someone had made a futile attempt to contain a spirit.
Its branches weren't swaying in the wind, yet it felt like they were whispering something.
Scattered across the ground were traces of ash, as if some ancient ritual had been left incomplete.
The air carried a scent — neither of dampness nor fresh earth… but more like the decayed memory of a long-dead corpse.
There were no sounds of animals or birds, only the sound of his own breath felt heavy.
Aarav stood still… as if the village, upon seeing him, had wrapped him in its mysterious silence.
As he walked through the narrow alleys of the village, Aarav noticed an old man sitting under a tree — a face full of wrinkles, sunken red eyes, and the burnt remains of a bidi in his hand.
There was a silence on his face—not the kind that comes from stories, but the kind born from lived fear. Aarav spoke in a soft voice, "Namaste Dada, I've come from the city… I research tantric subjects."
The old man looked up, as if an ancient wound had been scratched open again. There was a stillness in his eyes, but within them stirred a deep unease… the shadow of something unseen.
Aarav gently asked, "Tantrik Vaman… I want to know something about him."
The old man's face paled, as if the very name carried a curse. His lips dried up, and tilting his head, he looked into Aarav's eyes and whispered, "Don't bring that up, Babuji…"
"He's still here… mixed in this soil, this air."
Aarav took off his bag with a smile and said, "But Tantrik Vaman disappeared 30 years ago, didn't he?"
The old man lowered his head and muttered, "The body may have gone… but the soul?"
"The soul is hungry, Babuji… hungry and awake."
Aarav was about to speak when the old man, with trembling hands, stubbed out his beedi—as if afraid of offending some unseen force.
He looked at the sky one last time, where a crow was hanging upside down on a banyan tree. And then he quietly walked away—as if the very soil of the village had sealed his lips before he could say more.
Just minutes after the old farmer left, Aarav heard a voice from behind—
"You were asking about Tantrik Vaman?"
Aarav turned to find a thin young man standing before him, around 22 or 23 years old, curiosity in his eyes and a faint smile on his face. He was clutching an old red cloth, twisting it repeatedly, as if something was weighing on his mind.
"Yes, I'm researching Vaman," Aarav replied. "Do you know anything?"
"I've heard about him… Grandma says just taking his name opens doors… doors that shouldn't be opened," the boy said softly.
Aarav smiled, "If we start fearing names, we'll never understand history."
The boy laughed, "Seems like you're not afraid."
"I am… but more afraid of not finding answers," Aarav said.
"My name is Kishan. I live here… If you'd like, I can show you some places in the village where Vaman used to stay."
Aarav saw honesty and curiosity in him—a companion he needed in this unfamiliar setting.
"Alright, Kishan, it'll be better to go with you. I may not understand everything on my own."
Kishan's face lit up. "You can come to my home too, Babuji. My mother makes great stuffed brinjals."
Aarav laughed—"Food before history, let's go."
Kishan's house was located in the very heart of the village, accessible through a narrow lane—plastered with mud and cow dung, yet clean and well-kept. On the roof, dried red chilies and corn cobs hung in the sun, their faint aroma blending into the air. The main door was wooden, still bearing the old handprints made with turmeric and vermilion.
Upon entering, there was a square courtyard in the center, with a raised tulsi platform in the middle and an old cot resting in the corner. Colorful pictures of Lord Shiva and Radha-Krishna adorned the walls, with the lingering scent of incense smoke curling below them. From the direction of the kitchen came the warm and inviting aroma of ghee and spices—Kishan's mother was making stuffed brinjals. In one corner of the house sat an old radio, softly playing a folk song.
On top of a cupboard, a brass plate held a few coins, a tulsi rosary, and a small trident. The walls bore some cracks from time, but between those cracks, love and warmth seemed to seep through. Aarav felt that—even in this village steeped in fear, there were still corners where life pulsed warmly and truthfully.
As Kishan crossed the courtyard, he turned toward the kitchen and called out, "Ma! Look who's here."
A simple yet serene face emerged from the kitchen—head covered with a saree pallu, a red bindi on the forehead, and affection in her eyes.
"This is Aarav Babu, from Delhi… very educated. He's researching the story of Tantrik Vaman," Kishan said with a smile.
His mother looked at Aarav carefully and folded her hands, "A guest is like God, son. You're welcome in our home."
"Thank you, Ma," Aarav replied, bowing his head respectfully.
Kishan, a little sheepishly, added, "I already invited him to stay for stuffed brinjals… hope you don't mind."
His mother laughed, "Whether you invite him or not, no one leaves my house hungry. Sit down, Aarav Babu, I'll serve you in a moment."
Kishan whispered, "Once you've tasted my Ma's cooking, you'll forget all the flavors of Delhi."
Aarav smiled—there was a unique peace in that simplicity and warmth. For the first time, he felt a homely comfort in the mysterious air of the village—one that pushed fear to the background, at least for a little while.
After the meal, Aarav set down his glass of water and took a deep breath. "That was a delicious meal, Ma. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."
Then he looked at Kishan and said with a smile, "Alright Kishan, I'll get going now… see you again tomorrow."
"Tonight I'll be staying at the sarpanch's house. I need to inform him about my arrival as well."
Kishan stood up and said, "Alright, Babuji, go safely… I'll come meet you in the morning."
His mother came to the door and blessed him, "Go carefully, son. Night falls early here."
Aarav slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped outside—the darkness had already crept silently through the village lanes.
Aarav walked along the unpaved path with slow but steady steps. The night air had begun to carry a slight chill. A faint smile played on his lips—"Kishan seems like a sensible boy… pure-hearted."
He thought to himself, "It's through people like him that one can reach the real truth."
"This village is as mysterious as it is quiet… something is definitely hidden here," Aarav whispered in his mind.
"There was less fear in Kishan's eyes, more curiosity… that's what sets him apart from the other villagers."
As he moved closer to the sarpanch's house, he was mentally compiling a list of questions in his notebook. On the way, he passed the same old banyan tree—this time, a black cat sat beneath it, staring straight at him. Aarav paid it no attention and continued walking… but the air began to feel heavier.
"I have to meet the sarpanch and finalize my stay. Work begins tomorrow," he told himself, reaching the doorstep.
This part of the village felt different—like the old heart of the village, where every wall seemed to speak.
The sarpanch's house was made of mud and brick, but it stood tall and sturdy—a cement roof had replaced the old clay tiles. Outside stood a large neem tree, at whose base was a tulsi shrine, and the ground around it was smeared with cow dung.
Two red garlands hung at the main door, with "Shubh" and "Lakshmi" written in turmeric and vermillion.
To the left of the door was an old stone platform where the village panchayat often met. Thick cloth curtains covered the windows—almost as if they were hiding something from the outside world.
Near the entrance stood an iron handpump, beside which were earthen pots and a large brass vessel.
The walls were unpainted, but clear signs of protection charms made with ash, lemons, and chilies were visible.
The entire house exuded a mysterious dignity—as though it housed not just a family, but ancient stories.
Inside, on an old wooden table, lay Aarav's diary, a few newspaper clippings, and an old map—on which the borders of the Brijpur forest had been marked with red pen.
The clock on the wall had frozen at 1:12, as if time itself had paused—and just then, Aarav's pen stopped mid-sentence.
He sat in thought for a moment, then wrote in his diary: "Tantrik Vaman, Brijpur, Amavasya—there's a deep connection between these three. I need evidence."
The window was shut, but suddenly, with a loud thud, it creaked open—not from a gust of wind, not from any touch… it simply opened, silently.
Aarav looked up—no light came through the window. Instead, something like black smoke began slowly filling the room.
It didn't carry the scent of incense, but a deep, rotting stench of flesh—as if a dead body was nearby.
Aarav was just about to move toward the window when suddenly…
A woman's scream tore through the silence.
"Help! My son… where did he go…!" — the voice trembled to the core. Aarav quickly opened the door and ran outside — the village lanes were deserted, but the scream continued to echo. A little distance away, near the village well, a woman had collapsed into the mud. Her clothes were soaked, her eyes swollen, and her hair disheveled. Her body trembled on the wet ground, and she kept crying loudly, "He was on the roof… now he's gone… it took him…"
Aarav rushed to her, knelt down and asked, "What happened? Who took him?"
The woman's eyes held only fear — as if she had forgotten how to speak. Trembling, she muttered, "Eyes… they were red… burning…"
Some villagers peeked out from behind their doors, but no one came forward — there was a strange emptiness in their eyes.
In that moment, Aarav felt something breathing on the back of his neck — warm, heavy, and very close. He turned quickly — there was no one there. His heartbeat raced, but his eyes stayed fixed on the woman lying in the mud.
Just then, lightning flashed between the clouds above — for a moment, the village lanes were bathed in a milky glow.
A shadow was visible, slithering down from a rooftop ledge — long, crooked, and unnaturally bent. Aarav knew then — this wasn't just an incident… it was the beginning.
And somewhere in the distance… the broken bell of the village temple began to ring on its own.
And Aarav?
For the first time, he realized — what was written here wasn't history… it was the present.
The next Amavasya (new moon) was just five nights away…
---
Before dawn, Aarav had already woken up. Soft blue light filtered through the window into the dark room.
He looked at the clock — it was only 4:45 AM.
He had never woken this early in Delhi, but perhaps the energy of this place was different.
Aarav quietly got up, drank from a water bottle, and climbed the wooden stairs to the sarpanch's rooftop.
The terrace was cool, and a deep silence surrounded him — only a distant rooster's call broke the stillness.
He laid down a mat and sat for meditation, focusing on his breath for a while… then began a set of Surya Namaskar.
As he completed his third posture, a soft golden ray rose from the horizon — and in an instant, it touched the darkness and turned it into light. Aarav paused.
His eyes stayed fixed toward the east. A lush green village, fields covered in mist, and a deep orange sun in the sky — he had never seen a sight like this.
He smiled to himself — "Have I ever seen a sunrise like this in Delhi?"
He thought — "Perhaps this is what they mean by the soul of a village."
He stood still for a moment, as if time had stopped.
In that moment, for the first time, Aarav felt — this village wouldn't just give him fear… it would teach him something too.
After finishing his meditation, Aarav leaned against the terrace ledge, his eyes on the village, but his mind elsewhere. He was thinking — "Why is there such a strange silence in this village, as if every house is hiding something?"
"Tantrik Vaman, that incomplete ritual, and the woman's scream… could it all be connected?"
Even in the calm of the morning, the stench from the previous night still lingered in his memory. Aarav had made up his mind — he would uncover the mystery of this village.
After meditation, Aarav came down from the terrace and walked toward a small tea stall adjacent to the sarpanch's house to breathe in the fresh morning air.
The shop had mud walls, a tin roof, and wooden benches in front.
Steam was rising from a kettle on the stove, and an old shopkeeper was straining tea.
Aarav sat down and said, "One tea, Kaka."
As he took a sip, a familiar face approached — Kishan.
Waving his hand, Kishan came briskly toward him. "Oh bhaiya! Out so early?"
Aarav smiled, "Woke up early… thought I'd enjoy the village air and the taste of real tea."
Kishan sat down beside him and said to the shopkeeper, "One tea for me too."
Then their eyes met — and the morning conversation began.
Aarav said, "Something strange happened around one in the night."
"I was writing in my diary when the window suddenly opened on its own… and the room filled with a rotten stench."
"Then out of nowhere, a woman screamed outside — 'Help! My son… where did he go…!'"
"I ran out and saw — the woman was collapsed in the mud, completely shaken."
"People were just watching, no one came near… but the fear in her eyes — it still haunts me."
Kishan's eyes turned serious. He said quietly, "This was the third time, bhaiya."
Aarav was surprised, "You mean it's happened before?"
Kishan nodded, "Yes… two children disappeared just like this, around Amavasya."
After a pause, he added, "But this time, it's different…"
"This time… you are here."
There was a sudden depth in Kishan's voice, shadows of old memories passing through his eyes.
He sat silently for a moment, then took a deep breath and stood up.
He dusted off his hands and looked at Aarav — his voice now heavier.
"Come on, bhaiya…"
"I'll take you around the village…"
Aarav looked a bit surprised, "Right now?"
Kishan's eyes were fixed far away. "Yes… because what you see here isn't all there is."
"There's much more in this village… much that's still hidden."
Then, without another word, he began walking — as if an old path had suddenly returned to his memory.
Aarav finished his tea and silently followed him.
The lane was narrow and unpaved, with mud walls on either side and courtyards smeared with dry cow dung. They had only walked a few steps when a thin, lanky boy approached from the front — about 20 years old. He called out from a distance, "Hey Kishan! How are you, man? Where are you off to so early in the morning?"
Kishan stopped and smiled. "Hey Govinda! Come, meet Aarav bhaiya — he's come from the city."
Then pointing toward Aarav, he added, "Bhaiya is doing research about the village… about Tantrik Vaman and all that."
Govinda looked at Aarav with a mix of surprise and unease, then quietly said, "Namaste."
Kishan continued, "We're going to show him around the village. You come too… you might remember a few things."
Govinda hesitated and nodded slightly, "N-No yaar… I've got some work at home…"
Kishan gave him a light push on the back. "The work can wait… it's time you learned the real stories too."
Govinda glanced at Aarav nervously — then muttered, "Alright… let's go."
The three of them began walking. Kishan led the way, Govinda was in the middle, and Aarav followed behind.
As they walked, Aarav kept watching Govinda closely — there was no confidence in his walk.
He kept looking around, as if trying to escape some unseen fear.
Sometimes he rubbed his hands, sometimes adjusted his clothes… something was being hidden.
Aarav didn't say anything. He just quietly kept trying to read him.
Kishan, in his spirited manner, kept talking, "Bhaiya, the part of the village we're heading to now… that's where the real stories lie buried."
Govinda said nothing, but his eyes revealed that he was familiar with those stories.
The scent of the village earth and the fear laced in the wind had now slowly
begun to seep into Aarav as well.
This wasn't just a journey — it was three steps toward an unseen truth.
And Aarav was beginning to feel — maybe everything in this village had already been destined… including his presence.