EP 2
The bells rang in Dholgarh. But there was no church.
The sound came from deep underground, muffled and ghostly. Somewhere, buried under layers of forgotten soil and bloodied roots, the Skin Choir had begun to sing.
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It started with a scream.
In the dead of night, Meena's voice tore through the silence like flesh through steel. Her husband bolted out of bed, rushing to the barn behind their house — but she was gone.
All that remained was a puddle of blood...
...and a patch of skin stretched over a wooden frame, still warm.
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The Choir Room.
Hidden beneath the ruined temple east of the fields, the Harvester stood inside a circular chamber. The walls were made of stone, but covered completely with human skin — dried, tanned, some still twitching with leftover nerves.
Each piece had a carved slit where the mouth used to be. And from those slits, sounds came.
Moans. Screams. Cries. And sometimes... songs.
But these weren't songs of joy. These were dirges of pain, discordant hums made from tortured vocal cords harvested with surgical precision.
In the center stood the Harvester, bare-chested, his body covered in tally marks — every one a life taken. His sickle gleamed red.
He approached a fresh "instrument" — Meena.
Her skin had been removed with perfect care. She was still alive, barely, nerves twitching, throat trembling.
He inserted a needle into her vocal box, connected to a hollow bone pipe.
Then he whispered:
"Let your soul sing for the harvest."
He struck a tuning fork and a low hum echoed in the room.
The walls began to vibrate.
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Above ground...
Inspector Arjun was losing control. Six disappearances in two days. Four bodies recovered — but none with skin.
The same sigil — the Sickle and Eye — was appearing everywhere. Burned into trees. Drawn on walls. Carved onto animal carcasses.
Locals had stopped talking. No one came out after sunset. And those who did... were never seen again.
Constable Ravi reported a strange sound near the old temple ruins.
"It's like... hundreds of people humming. Crying. At the same time. But we were alone."
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That night...
The wind carried voices. Not whispers, but full choirs, singing in broken tones.
From every well, drain, crack in the earth — the voice of the dead rose.
And the villagers finally understood:
He wasn't just killing. He was composing.
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In the Choir Room again...
The Harvester sat cross-legged in the center of the chamber.
Around him, 13 skins hung like curtains, connected with sinew ropes and bone-needle threads.
As he bled his own arm into a stone bowl, he began to chant in a dead language.
The skins began to move.
Their mouths opened, and the Skin Choir began to sing his twisted hymn — a horrifying harmony of suffering.
And outside, in the village, every child woke up screaming...
Because they heard their mother's voice singing from underground.
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Cliffhanger Twist:
One of the villagers — a mute boy named Keshav — wandered near the temple ruins. When he came back, he was speaking.
But it wasn't his voice.
And his eyes... were missing.
He smiled and said,
"He needs more voices. Yours is next."
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