The Road and the Red Eyes

The hum of my bike engine dies, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the night. Stars barely pierce the thick darkness, and the moon, a sliver hidden behind a veil of clouds, offers no comfort. "Damn it," I mutter, kicking the useless tire. A flat, here, of all places. This stretch of road between Indore and my home in Mau is notorious—everyone whispers stories, hushed and fearful, of what lurks here after dark. I never believed them, chalking it up to small-town superstition. Now, stranded, I'm not so sure.

The air is heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something akin to decay. My bike's headlight casts a weak beam, barely pushing back the encroaching shadows that dance like specters in the periphery. Each rustle of leaves, every chirp of crickets, feels amplified, a prelude to something unseen. I fish out my phone, but the screen mocks me: No signal. Of course.

With a sigh, I grab my toolkit and a flashlight. Repairing the tire here is out of the question; walking is the only option. I sling the bag over my shoulder, the weight a small comfort. As I start walking, I can't shake the feeling of being watched. It's subtle, a prickling on my skin, a sense of eyes boring into my back. I try to rationalize it—the isolation, the stories, the stress of the commute—but my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The beam of my flashlight cuts through the darkness, revealing only the cracked asphalt and the swaying grasses on either side. The road winds ahead, disappearing into the inky blackness. Each step crunches on loose gravel, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the stillness. I quicken my pace, eager to put distance between myself and the silent bike.

Then, I see her.

She stands by the side of the road, just beyond the reach of my flashlight, a figure draped in white. Her hair hangs loose, obscuring her face. Relief floods me—someone who can help. "Hello?" I call out, my voice trembling slightly. "Are you alright? I've had a flat tire…"

She doesn't answer. As I get closer, I notice a faint luminescence surrounding her, an ethereal glow that seems to pulse with an unnatural light. And then, she lifts her head.

Her eyes… they burn with an unholy red light, like embers in a dying fire. There's no warmth in them, only a bottomless sorrow and an intense, burning rage. A gasp escapes my lips. This is no ordinary woman. This is something… else.

My breath hitches in my throat, fear seizing me like a vise. Every instinct screams at me to run, to turn and flee back into the darkness, but a morbid curiosity, a sense of pity, holds me rooted to the spot. The air crackles with an unseen energy, raising the hairs on my arms. The woman—the thing—takes a step towards me. Her feet don't seem to touch the ground, she glides, or rather floats. The white fabric that drapes her form shifts and ripples even though there is no wind. I try to speak, to stammer out some kind of greeting, but the words catch in my throat, choked by terror.

She raises a hand, slowly, deliberately. The skin is pale, almost translucent, and I can see the faint outline of bones beneath. As her hand extends towards me, I notice something else: blood. It stains the white fabric, dark and viscous, clinging to the material in thick clots. The scent of decay intensifies, overwhelming my senses.

"Help me," she whispers, her voice a raspy, ethereal sound, like wind whistling through a broken tomb. "Avenge me."

The words send a shiver down my spine. Avenge her? Against whom? And for what? My mind races, trying to make sense of the impossible situation. This is a ghost, a spirit trapped between worlds, seeking… what? Justice? Peace? Or something far more sinister?

The red glow in her eyes intensifies, boring into my soul. I feel a pull, a compulsion to obey, to agree to whatever she asks. But something within me resists, a spark of rationality fighting against the encroaching darkness.

"Who… who did this to you?" I manage to stammer, my voice barely a whisper.

Her lips pull back in a grimace that might have once been a smile. "He lives," she says, the words laced with venom. "He walks free. He must pay."

And then, she points. Not at me, but past me, into the darkness beyond the road. I instinctively turn, my flashlight beam cutting through the night, searching for what she indicates. There's nothing there. Only trees and shadows and the rustling of leaves.

But the feeling of being watched intensifies, tenfold. It’s no longer a subtle prickling, but a heavy, suffocating presence that weighs down on me. Something is out there, lurking in the darkness, and it doesn't want me to help her. It wants me to leave, to forget, to pretend I never saw anything.

When I turn back to face her, she is gone. The road is empty, the air still, the only sound the frantic pounding of my heart. Had I imagined it all? Was it a hallucination brought on by stress and fatigue?

But the bloodstains remain on the asphalt, dark and glistening under the pale moonlight. A chilling reminder that what I saw was real. And the plea, "Avenge me," echoes in my mind, a haunting whisper that I can't ignore.

The rational part of my brain screams against it, but I can't just walk away. The image of those crimson eyes, the desperate plea, it's seared into my memory. I have to do something. Carefully, I pull out a small, sterile swab from my first-aid kit – a habit from accident-prone cycling trips – and kneel beside the bloodstains. They're thick, almost congealed, clinging stubbornly to the rough asphalt. As I collect the sample, a wave of nausea washes over me, the cloying scent of decay intensifying with proximity. It's not just blood; there's something else mixed in, something acrid and unsettling that makes my stomach churn. I seal the swab in a sterile container, labeling it with the date, time, and location.

It feels absurd, like something out of a crime drama, but I can't shake the feeling that this is important. This could be the key to unraveling the mystery of the woman in white. The forensic lab seems like the logical next step. I work as a Business Analyst. I know people who can help with it, even though it's outside my usual scope of work. I carefully place the container in my bag, trying to ignore the weight of it, both physical and emotional. The silence of the road presses in on me again, heavier now, more menacing. The feeling of being watched hasn't lessened, and I can't shake the sense that whatever lurks in the darkness is displeased with my actions.

I glance around, my flashlight beam darting nervously through the trees. Nothing. Only shadows and the rustling of leaves. But the air is thick with anticipation, like a storm about to break. I know I can't stay here any longer. Abandoning my bike feels wrong, but survival takes precedence. I start walking again, my pace quickening with each step. The road stretches endlessly before me, a ribbon of darkness leading into the unknown.

Each shadow seems to twist and writhe, taking on grotesque shapes. My imagination runs wild, conjuring images of the woman in white, her blood-red eyes burning into me. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to block out the fear and the haunting whisper in my mind: "Avenge me." As I walk, I make a promise to myself, and to her: I will find out the truth. I will uncover what happened on this road, no matter the cost. And if she was wronged, I will do everything in my power to bring her justice. Even if it means facing the darkness that lurks in the shadows. The forensic lab is in Indore, a good hour's walk away. But I have a feeling this is a journey that will take far longer than that.

The walk feels like an eternity. The darkness is a suffocating blanket, and every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sends a jolt of fear through me. My flashlight beam dances nervously, painting fleeting glimpses of the surrounding landscape – gnarled trees, swaying grasses, and the endless expanse of open fields. The road seems to stretch on forever, an infinite loop of asphalt and shadows. As I walk, my mind races, trying to piece together what little I know. A woman in white, murdered on this road. A plea for revenge. Bloodstains that reek of decay. It´s like something out of a nightmare. The forensic lab is my only lead, a beacon of hope in this sea of darkness.

I imagine the sterile environment, the bright lights, the scientific instruments – a stark contrast to the eerie atmosphere of the haunted road. I cling to that image, using it to push back the fear and the encroaching despair. Finally, after what feels like hours, I see the faint glow of streetlights in the distance. Indore. Civilization. Safety. Relief washes over me, so potent it almost brings me to my knees. I quicken my pace, eager to reach the city limits and leave the haunted road behind. As I approach the outskirts of Indore, the darkness begins to recede, replaced by the warm glow of streetlights and the distant hum of traffic. The air feels cleaner, lighter, as if the oppressive weight of the road has lifted.

I reach a small tea stall, the only sign of life at this ungodly hour. The owner, a wizened old man with kind eyes, looks up in surprise as I approach. "Namaste," I say, my voice hoarse. "Ek chai, please." He nods, his eyes filled with curiosity. He must see the fear etched on my face, the exhaustion in my gait. As I sip the hot, sweet tea, the warmth spreads through me, thawing the chill that has settled deep in my bones. The old man doesn´t ask questions, but his presence is comforting. He offers a silent reassurance that I am no longer alone in the darkness. After finishing the tea, I thank him and continue on my way. The forensic lab is located on the other side of the city, near the police headquarters.

It will take another hour to reach, but the thought of finally handing over the blood sample, of setting the wheels of justice in motion, gives me the strength to keep going. As I walk through the streets of Indore, the city slowly coming to life, I can´t shake the feeling that I´m being followed. It´s subtle, a fleeting glimpse of a shadow, a whisper in the wind. But I know, deep down, that whatever lurks in the darkness on the haunted road hasn´t given up. It´s still out there, watching, waiting. And it doesn´t want me to uncover the truth. It wants the woman in white to remain silent, her story buried forever in the haunted earth. But I won´t let that happen. I owe it to her, to bring her justice. And I won´t rest until I do.

The forensic lab looms ahead, a sterile, modern building amidst the chaotic sprawl of Indore. The city's early morning bustle does little to ease the feeling of being watched. Each shadow seems to lengthen, each passing car casts an ominous glare. I clutch the evidence bag tighter, my knuckles white.

The air conditioning inside the lab is a shock to my system after the humid night. I approach the reception desk, where a bored-looking woman with tired eyes sits behind a thick pane of glass. "I need to submit a sample for analysis," I say, my voice raspy.

She sighs, pushing a form towards me. "Name, address, purpose of submission…" Her voice is monotonous, devoid of any curiosity. I fill out the form, my hand trembling slightly. I write "murder investigation" under the purpose, a stark declaration of the night's events.

She takes the form and the blood sample, disappearing behind a door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." I'm left alone in the sterile waiting room, the silence broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Minutes stretch into an eternity. I try to distract myself, scrolling through news articles on my phone, but the words blur before my eyes. The feeling of being watched intensifies, as if unseen eyes are boring into the back of my skull.

Finally, the woman returns. "The analysis will take 24 to 48 hours," she says, handing me a receipt. "We'll contact you with the results."

I nod, taking the receipt. As I turn to leave, she adds, "You know, this place… it sees a lot. Sometimes, things come back with the samples." Her gaze flicks to the ceiling, then back to me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Be careful."

Her words send a shiver down my spine. I hurry out of the lab, back into the relative safety of the city streets. The rising sun casts long shadows, but they offer no comfort. I am alone with my thoughts, and the growing certainty that I have stepped into something far more dangerous than I could have imagined.

Two days crawl by, each moment a torment of anticipation and dread. Sleep offers little respite, haunted by fleeting images of the woman in white and the ominous presence that seems to follow me. I try to focus on my work, but the numbers and charts blur into meaningless shapes. My colleagues notice my distraction, offering concerned glances and awkward questions. I brush them off, unable to explain the horrors that consume me. Finally, the 48 hours are up. I drive back to the forensic lab, my hands clammy on the steering wheel. The city seems different, tainted by the darkness I now carry within me. As I enter the lab, the receptionist barely glances up. ´Name?´ she asks, her voice still devoid of emotion.

I tell her my name is Chetansh and she types it into the computer. ´Ah, yes,´ she says, her eyes widening slightly. ´The results are in. Dr. Kapoor wants to see you in his office.´ Dr. Kapoor. That´s a name I hadn´t heard before. A wave of unease washes over me. Why does the head of the lab want to speak with me personally? I follow the receptionist down a sterile corridor, the air thick with the smell of chemicals and formaldehyde.

She stops at a door with a small nameplate that reads ´Dr. Alok Kapoor - Director.´ She knocks softly and opens the door. ´Mr. Chetansh is here to see you, Doctor.´ Dr. Kapoor looks up from his desk, his eyes sharp and intelligent. He´s a man in his late fifties, with a neatly trimmed beard and an air of quiet authority. ´Please, come in, Mr. Chetansh,´ he says, gesturing towards a chair. ´Have a seat.´ I sit down, my heart pounding in my chest. The office is filled with books and scientific journals, a testament to Dr.

Kapoor´s dedication to his profession. But there´s something else in the room, a subtle undercurrent of unease that I can´t quite place. ´I have the results of the blood sample you submitted,´ Dr. Kapoor says, his voice calm and measured. ´And I must say, they are… unusual.´ He pauses, his gaze intense. ´The blood is human, no doubt about that. But it contains traces of something else. Something… unnatural.´

Dr. Kapoor leans forward, his expression grave. ´We've identified a complex organic compound, unlike anything I've ever seen. It's interwoven with the blood cells, almost as if it's a part of them. I consulted with some colleagues, specialists in biochemistry and… folklore. Their consensus is… well, let's just say it points towards something not of this world.´ He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. ´There are mentions in ancient texts, obscure rituals, of entities that can… alter their physical composition. Entities that blur the line between life and death.´ My mind races, trying to reconcile the scientific jargon with the supernatural horror I experienced on the haunted road. ´Are you saying… the woman was… not human?´ Dr. Kapoor sighs, running a hand through his hair.

´I'm not saying anything definitively, Mr. Chetansh. I'm a scientist. I deal in facts, in evidence. But the evidence… it suggests something… extraordinary. And potentially dangerous.´ He opens a file on his desk, revealing a series of spectral images and chemical diagrams. They are unfamiliar and fill me with dread. ´There's something else,´ he continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ´Since we analyzed the sample, strange things have been happening in the lab. Equipment malfunctions, unexplained noises, shadows moving in the periphery… My staff is… unsettled.´ He looks at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and apprehension.

´Mr. Chetansh, I don't know what you've stumbled upon, but I urge you to be careful. Some things are best left undisturbed.´ He slides a copy of the analysis report across the desk. ´This is all I can give you. But please, if you uncover anything more, anything that could help us understand what's going on, I implore you to come back.´ I take the report, my hands trembling. The weight of it is far heavier than the paper it's printed on. As I stand to leave, Dr. Kapoor stops me. ´One more thing, Mr. Chetansh,´ he says, his voice low and urgent.

´I've alerted a colleague of mine, a Professor Sharma, at the university. He specializes in ancient folklore and… paranormal phenomena. He may be able to provide some context to what you've found. I will give you his contact details, and you can speak with him.´ He scribbles an address on a piece of paper and hands it to me. ´Please, be careful,´ he repeats, his eyes filled with worry. ´You've opened a door to something… ancient and malevolent.´ I leave the lab, the report and the address burning a hole in my pocket. The city streets seem even more menacing now, the shadows deeper, the air colder. I am no longer just an ordinary man seeking justice for a murdered woman. I am a player in a game far beyond my understanding, a pawn in a battle between worlds. And I have a feeling that the game has only just begun.

Professor Sharma's address leads me to a dilapidated building near the university. The paint is peeling, the windows are grimy, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of dust and decay. It feels more like a haunted house than a professor's residence. I hesitate, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. But I know I have no choice. I have to find out more about the unnatural compound in the blood, about the entities that blur the line between life and death. I climb the creaking stairs to the third floor, the shadows deepening with each step. The hallway is dimly lit, the silence broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional scuttling sound from within the walls. I find the door with Sharma's nameplate and knock, my knuckles rapping against the rotting wood.

A moment later, the door creaks open, revealing a figure shrouded in shadow. It´s a man, tall and gaunt, with piercing eyes that seem to see right through me. He wears a worn kurta and his grey hair is dishevelled, as if he hasn´t slept in days. This must be Professor Sharma. ´Mr. Chetansh, I presume?´ he says, his voice raspy but commanding. ´Dr. Kapoor called ahead. Come in, come in.´ He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. The apartment is even more unsettling than the building itself. Bookshelves line the walls, overflowing with ancient tomes and forgotten manuscripts. Strange artifacts are scattered about – skulls, bones, amulets, and objects I can't even begin to identify. The air is thick with the smell of incense and something else, something musty and ancient.

Professor Sharma gestures towards a worn armchair. ´Please, sit down. Tell me everything.´ I sit, feeling like a trespasser in a forbidden realm. I recount my experience on the haunted road, the woman in white, the blood sample, and Dr. Kapoor's findings. As I speak, Professor Sharma listens intently, his eyes never leaving my face. When I finish, he nods slowly, his expression grave. ´You have stumbled upon something very old, Mr. Chetansh, something very dangerous. The compound in the blood… it is a residue of a ritual, a binding agent used to tether a spirit to this world.´ He pauses, his gaze distant. ´The woman you saw… she is not merely a ghost. She is something more… something trapped. And her killer… he knows more than he should.´ He rises from his chair, pacing the room restlessly. ´This is not just a simple murder, Mr. Chetansh. This is a violation, a desecration. And it has awakened something… something that will not rest until it is satisfied.´ He stops, turning to face me. ´You are in grave danger, Mr. Chetansh. You have become a part of this… you are now a target.´ But his words do not scare me, instead make me resolute to find the truth.

Professor Sharma's words resonate deeply, not as a threat, but as a call to action. My unease transforms into a steely resolve. "What can I do?" I ask, meeting his intense gaze.

He stops pacing and fixes me with a look. "Understanding is your first weapon. The woman's spirit is bound to a specific purpose, fueled by vengeance. We need to understand the ritual that binds her, the circumstances of her murder, and who performed it." He gestures towards a massive, leather-bound book on one of the overflowing shelves. "This," he says, his voice hushed, "is the Tantra Rahasya – a compendium of ancient rituals, some benevolent, others… unspeakable. It contains knowledge that should have remained buried."

He pulls the book from the shelf with surprising strength and lays it on a table laden with occult paraphernalia. Dust motes dance in the dim light as he flips through the brittle pages, stopping at a diagram depicting a complex geometric symbol. "This symbol," he says, pointing to the intricate design, "is a Yantra, a focal point for spiritual energy. This particular Yantra is used in rituals of binding and vengeance. The blood you collected… it was likely used to activate it."

He looks up at me, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "The ritual requires specific elements – a sacrifice, a binding agent, and a catalyst. The woman was the sacrifice. The compound in her blood is the binding agent. You, Mr. Chetansh, are the catalyst."

I frown, confused. "Me? How?"

"By witnessing her, by taking the blood, by seeking justice. You have become entangled in her fate. The entity, the one who performed this ritual, will see you as a threat, an obstacle to their plans." He pauses, his expression grave. "We need to find out who performed the ritual, and why. The Tantra Rahasya might hold clues, but it will take time to decipher. Time we may not have."

He picks up a small, intricately carved wooden box from the table. "This," he says, opening the box to reveal a collection of dried herbs and powders, "is a protective blend. It will shield you, to some extent, from malevolent energies. Carry it with you always." He hands me the box, and I take it, feeling a faint warmth emanating from within.

"But where do we start?" I ask, feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of the task.

Professor Sharma strokes his chin, his eyes narrowed in thought. "We start with the woman herself. We need to learn her name, her story. Perhaps there are local legends, forgotten tales that might shed light on her identity and her killer." He looks at me expectantly. "I am confined to my research, but you, Mr. Chetansh, you are mobile. Return to the road where you first saw her. Speak to the locals, the villagers, the tea stall owner. Listen to their stories. Someone, somewhere, knows something."

His words ignite a spark of hope within me. I may be a target, but I am not helpless. I have a purpose, a mission. "I'll go," I say, my voice firm. "I'll find out who she was, and I'll bring her killer to justice."

Professor Sharma nods, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Be careful, Mr. Chetansh. You are walking a dangerous path. Trust your instincts, and never underestimate the power of the darkness you are facing."

I leave Professor Sharma's apartment, the small wooden box tucked safely in my pocket, a tangible reminder of the danger that now shadows me. The air outside feels cleaner, but the oppressive weight of the city seems amplified, as if the darkness I'm now attuned to permeates everything. I decide to drive straight back to the tea stall, the image of the kind old owner a comforting beacon in this growing storm.

The drive is uneventful, but my senses are heightened, every shadow seeming to writhe, every rustle of leaves sounding like a whispered threat. The road, once merely a route home, now feels like a path into the heart of a nightmare.

I arrive at the tea stall just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and bruised purple. The old owner, a man named Ganpat, is just closing up for the night. He looks up as I pull in, his face etched with wrinkles that speak of a life lived close to the earth.

"Namaste, beta," he greets me, his voice raspy but warm. "Back so soon? Something troubles you."

I nod, my throat tight. "Ganpatji, I need your help. I saw something on the road that night… a woman… a ghost."

Ganpat's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't seem surprised. He pours me a cup of chai, the sweet, milky aroma filling the air. We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the chirping of crickets and the distant rumble of a passing truck.

"That road… it has a story," he says finally, his voice low. "Many stories, whispered on the wind. Some say a woman was murdered there, years ago. Her body was never found."

He pauses, stirring his own tea with a spoon. "They say she haunts the road, seeking justice. But the police… they never listened. They called it a lovers' quarrel, a crime of passion. They closed the case, but the whispers remained."

My heart pounds in my chest. This is it. This is the lead I was hoping for. "Do you know her name? Anything about her?"

Ganpat shakes his head sadly. "Only the whispers. Some say her name was Maya. She was a beautiful girl, they say, with eyes like the night sky. She was from a nearby village, but I don't remember which one. It was a long time ago."

"Is there anyone who might remember? Anyone who knew her?" I ask, my voice urgent.

Ganpat thinks for a moment, his brow furrowed. "There is an old woman, Lakshmi, who lives in the village of Rampur, about five kilometers from here. She is very old, very wise. She knows the stories of this land. If anyone remembers Maya, it would be her."

Rampur. I commit the name to memory. "Thank you, Ganpatji. You've been a great help."

He smiles sadly. "Be careful, beta. That road… it is not a place for the living after dark."

I finish my tea, the warmth spreading through me. "I will be, Ganpatji. I promise."

I leave the tea stall, the image of Lakshmi, the old woman of Rampur, burning in my mind. Rampur is my next destination. I decide to drive there immediately. It is already dark but I feel compelled to investigate the case further, despite the potential danger.

The drive to Rampur is short, but the darkness feels thick and suffocating. The headlights of my car cut through the gloom, illuminating only a small patch of the road ahead, making me feel increasingly isolated. The trees lining the road seem to twist and contort into grotesque shapes, their branches like skeletal arms reaching out to grab me. I clutch the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white, and try to focus on the road. Rampur is a small village, little more than a cluster of houses huddled together in the darkness. The only light comes from the flickering lamps in a few of the windows, casting long, eerie shadows. I drive slowly through the narrow streets, searching for someone who might know Lakshmi. Finally, I spot an old man sitting on a porch, smoking a beedi. I pull over and roll down the window.

´Namaste,´ I say, my voice echoing in the stillness. ´Can you tell me where I can find Lakshmi´s house?´ The old man looks up, his eyes squinting in the dim light. He takes a long drag on his beedi, the tip glowing red in the darkness. ´Lakshmi? You mean the old woman?´ he asks, his voice raspy. I nod. ´Yes, I need to speak to her.´ He points down the street with his beedi. ´Take the next left, then the first right. Her house is at the end of the lane.

You can´t miss it. It´s the only one with a neem tree in the courtyard.´ I thank him and drive on, following his directions. The lane is narrow and bumpy, the houses on either side looming over me like silent watchers. Finally, I reach the end of the lane and see it – a small, dilapidated house with a large neem tree in the courtyard. The tree´s branches are gnarled and twisted, its leaves rustling in the night breeze. A single lamp burns in the window, casting a warm, inviting glow. I park the car and get out, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The air is heavy with the scent of wood smoke and something else… something earthy and ancient. I walk towards the house, my heart pounding in my chest.

I am about to meet someone who might hold the key to unlocking the mystery of the woman in white, someone who might know the truth about her murder. I reach the door and knock, my knuckles rapping against the weathered wood. A moment later, the door creaks open, revealing a figure shrouded in shadow. It is an old woman, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, her eyes deep and knowing. This must be Lakshmi. ´Namaste,´ she says, her voice surprisingly strong. ´I have been expecting you.´

Lakshmi's words send a shiver down my spine. "Expecting me?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. She nods slowly, her gaze unwavering. "The wind carries many whispers, child. I know why you are here. You seek the truth about Maya." She steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. "Come in. The night is long, and the story is longer." I step inside, the air immediately feeling warmer and heavier. The room is small and sparsely furnished, but it feels strangely comforting. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Lakshmi gestures towards a low stool. "Sit. I will make some tea." As she prepares the tea, I take in the details of the room. There are photographs on the walls, faded and cracked with age. A small shrine stands in one corner, adorned with flowers and incense. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and spices. Lakshmi hands me a cup of tea, the steam warming my face. "Now," she says, settling onto a cushion opposite me. "Tell me what you know." I recount my experience on the haunted road, the woman in white, the blood sample, and my conversation with Professor Sharma. As I speak, Lakshmi listens intently, her eyes never leaving my face. When I finish, she nods slowly, her expression grave.

"Maya," she says softly. "Her story is a sad one. She was a beautiful girl, full of life and laughter. She loved to dance and sing. She was promised to a good man, a farmer from a neighboring village." She pauses, her gaze distant. "But then… then she met someone else. Someone who was not good for her. Someone who brought darkness into her life." "Who was it?" I ask, my voice urgent. Lakshmi shakes her head sadly. "I do not know his name. He was a city man, a newcomer. He had money, influence. He swept her off her feet." She takes a sip of her tea. "Maya became infatuated with him. She broke off her engagement. Her family was heartbroken. They tried to warn her, but she would not listen. She was blinded by love." "And then?" I press. "And then… she disappeared. It was the year 1998," Lakshmi reveals, her voice heavy with sorrow. "One night, she went to meet him, and she never returned.

Her family searched for her everywhere, but they could not find her. The police investigated, but they found nothing. The case went cold." "But she was murdered, wasn't she?" I ask. Lakshmi nods slowly. "Yes. I believe she was. I believe that city man… he killed her. He probably thought he could get away with it." "Why do you think so?" I ask. Lakshmi's eyes narrow. "Because I saw him. A few days after Maya disappeared, I saw him driving away from the road where you saw her ghost. He was alone, and he looked… relieved. He was smiling. It was a smile that made my blood run cold." A chill runs down my spine. "Did you tell the police?" Lakshmi shakes her head. "I tried. But they did not believe me. They said I was an old woman, that my eyes were failing. They dismissed me. And the city man… he was powerful. He had connections.

I was afraid. I did nothing." I can see the regret in her eyes. "Do you remember anything else about him? Anything that could help me find him?" I ask. Lakshmi closes her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration. "He had a car… a black car. It was big and shiny. And he wore a ring… a large, gold ring with a stone. I remember the stone… it was red, like blood." The black car. The gold ring with the red stone. These are the details I need. "Thank you, Lakshmi," I say, my voice filled with gratitude. "You have given me hope." Lakshmi opens her eyes, her gaze piercing. "Hope is a dangerous thing, child. It can blind you to the truth. Be careful. This man… he is dangerous. He will not hesitate to protect his secrets."

Lakshmi rises slowly, walking over to the shrine in the corner. She picks up a small, intricately carved wooden box. "Take this," she says, handing it to me. "My grandmother gave it to me. It belonged to her grandmother before that. It is a protective charm, passed down through generations of women in my family. It may help you on your path."

I take the box, turning it over in my hands. It is surprisingly heavy, the wood smooth and worn with age. "What's inside?" I ask.

"Open it," Lakshmi replies, her eyes filled with an unreadable emotion.

I lift the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, is a small, tarnished silver amulet. It is shaped like a stylized eye, with a dark, obsidian pupil. I pick it up, feeling a strange energy thrum through my fingers.

"The eye sees what others cannot," Lakshmi says. "It protects against ill intentions. Wear it always."

I fasten the amulet around my neck, feeling a slight tingle against my skin. "Thank you, Lakshmi. I don't know how to repay you."

"Just find Maya's killer," she says, her voice firm. "That will be payment enough."

I nod, my resolve strengthened. "I will. I promise you, I will find him."

The night is growing late. I bid Lakshmi farewell and step back out into the cool night air. The village is silent, the houses dark and still. As I walk back towards the tea stall, I can't help but feel a sense of unease. Lakshmi's warnings echo in my mind. This man... he is dangerous. He will not hesitate to protect his secrets.

Ganpat is waiting for me, his face etched with concern. "Everything alright, beta?" he asks, using a term of endearment.

"Yes, Ganpat," I reply, trying to sound reassuring. "I learned some important things."

"About Maya?"

I nod. "I know who she was, and I have a description of the man who likely killed her. A city man with a black car and a gold ring with a red stone."

Ganpat's eyes widen. "A black car... like a Scorpio?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"I don't know," I say. "Lakshmi just said it was big and black."

Ganpat falls silent, his gaze distant. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and troubled. "There used to be a man who drove through here in a black Scorpio. A wealthy man from Indore. He would come to the village every few months. No one knew what he did here."

My heart pounds in my chest. "Do you remember his name?"

Ganpat shakes his head. "No. He kept to himself. But he always wore a gold ring. A big one, with a red stone. Everyone noticed it."

"When did you last see him?" I ask, my voice urgent.

"It must have been... twenty six years ago," Ganpat replies. "Around the time Maya disappeared."

Twenty-six years. It all fits. The time frame, the car, the ring. This man... he could be Maya's killer. "Ganpat, this is important. Can you remember anything else about him? Anything at all?"

Ganpat closes his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remains silent for a long moment, and then he speaks, his voice barely audible. "He always parked his car near the old banyan tree, just outside the village. He would sit there for hours, talking on his mobile phone. This was back when mobile phones were new, you know. Very expensive. He always seemed angry, agitated. As if he were arguing with someone."

The banyan tree. It's a start. "Ganpat, you've been a great help. Thank you."

"Be careful, beta," Ganpat says, his eyes filled with concern. "This is dangerous. Leave it to the police."

I shake my head. "The police couldn't help Maya twenty-six years ago. I don't know if they can help her now. But I can try."

I spend the night at Ganpat's tea stall, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The image of the man in the black car, the gold ring with the red stone, haunts my dreams. As soon as the first rays of dawn touch the horizon, I set off towards the banyan tree. I need to see if it holds any clues, anything that can help me identify Maya's killer.

The banyan tree stands a short distance outside Rampur, its massive trunk and sprawling roots dominating the landscape. It is ancient, its branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled fingers. As I approach, I feel a strange sense of foreboding, a heavy weight in the air. The tree seems to emanate a palpable energy, a silent witness to the secrets of the past. I circle the tree slowly, examining the ground around it. The soil is hard-packed and barren, worn smooth by countless footsteps. There is nothing immediately obvious, no discarded cigarette butts or faded scraps of paper. Just the earth and the roots of the ancient tree.

 I run my hands over the rough bark of the trunk, searching for any sign, any clue. A name carved into the wood, a scrap of fabric snagged on a branch. But there is nothing. The tree remains silent, its secrets locked within its ancient heart. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. I need to think like a detective. What would this man have left behind? What could still be here after all these years? My gaze falls to the roots of the tree, the massive, sprawling roots that snake across the ground like giant pythons.

 They are partially buried in the soil, their surfaces covered in dirt and moss. I kneel down, running my fingers along the exposed portions of the roots. And then I feel it. A small, smooth object lodged between two roots. I pull it free. It is a button. A simple, ordinary button. Black plastic, about the size of a thumbnail. It could be from anything. A shirt, a coat, a pair of trousers. But something about it feels significant. I examine the button closely. It is slightly worn, its surface scratched and faded. On the back, I see a faint inscription. It is partially obscured by dirt, but I can make out a few letters.

"RAY..." it reads. "RAY..." What could that mean? Rayon? Rayban? Raymond? Raymond. The name rings a bell. Where have I heard that name before? I rack my brain, trying to remember. And then it hits me. Professor Sharma. He mentioned a textile factory, a wealthy family with a dark secret. The Raymond Textile Mill. Could there be a connection? I stand up, my heart pounding in my chest. This could be it. This simple button could be the key to unlocking Maya's murder. I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dial Professor Sharma's number. He answers on the third ring, his voice sounding tired and strained.

 "Professor Sharma, it's Chetansh. I think I've found something." "What is it, Chetansh? I'm very busy." "I found a button near the banyan tree outside Rampur. It has an inscription on the back. It says 'RAY...'" There is a long silence on the other end of the line. And then Professor Sharma speaks, his voice low and grave. "Raymond... That button... it's from the Raymond Textile Mill. That factory is owned by the Rathore family, an influential and wealthy family here in Indore. Chetansh, you need to be careful.

You are treading on dangerous ground." "Rathore..." I repeat the name, my mind racing. "Do you know anything about them? Anything that could help me?" "The Rathores are an old family, with deep roots in Indore. They have a reputation for being ruthless and powerful. They are not people you want to cross." "Do you know if anyone in the Rathore family owned a black car back in 1998?" I ask.

 Professor Sharma pauses, his voice thoughtful. "I believe the patriarch, Vikram Rathore, drove a black Mercedes-Benz back then. He was quite proud of it. Always kept it spotless." Vikram Rathore. The black car, the wealth, the influence. It all fits. "Professor Sharma, thank you. You've been a great help." "Chetansh, I must warn you again.

 Leave this alone. The Rathores are not to be trifled with. You are putting yourself in grave danger." "I know," I reply. "But I can't stop now. I have to find out the truth." I hang up the phone, my mind made up. Vikram Rathore. He is my prime suspect. I need to find out more about him, about his connection to Maya.

I need to find proof. As I turn to leave, I notice something else near the base of the tree. A small, dark stain on one of the roots. It is partially hidden by dirt and moss, but it is definitely there. I kneel down, examining it closely. It looks like blood. Old, dried blood. I reach into my bag, pulling out another sterile swab.

 I carefully collect a sample from the stain, placing it in a sterile vial. I have a feeling this blood could be the final piece of the puzzle. The proof I need to bring Vikram Rathore to justice. But as I stand up, I hear a sound. A rustling in the bushes behind me. I turn around, my heart pounding in my chest. And then I see him. A tall, imposing figure standing in the shadows, his face obscured by the darkness. He is watching me, his eyes glinting in the dim light. He is wearing a gold ring. A large, gold ring with a red stone.

A cold dread washes over me as I lock eyes with the figure in the shadows. The gold ring, the red stone, it’s unmistakable. This has to be Vikram Rathore. He steps out of the darkness, his face now illuminated by the morning light. He is older than I imagined, his face lined and weathered, but his eyes are sharp and piercing. He exudes an aura of power and menace.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice deep and gravelly. "And what are you doing here?" I swallow hard, trying to maintain my composure. "I'm Chetansh," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "I'm just... looking around." "Looking around?" he repeats, his lips curling into a sneer. "At this hour? And with those... things?" He gestures towards the vials in my hand, the blood sample and the button. "What are those?" I hesitate, trying to think of an explanation. But I know that anything I say will likely be met with disbelief. "I'm a... researcher," I stammer. "I'm studying the local flora and fauna."

He laughs, a harsh, humorless sound. "A researcher? In Rampur? I highly doubt that. You're snooping around, aren't you? Trying to dig up things that are best left buried." He takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Chetansh, who sent you?" I remain silent, refusing to answer. He takes another step, closing the distance between us. He is now standing just a few feet away, his presence imposing and intimidating. "I asked you a question," he says, his voice now a low growl. "Who sent you?"

I steel myself, trying to project an air of confidence that I don't feel. "No one sent me," I say, my voice stronger this time. "I'm acting on my own." He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. And then, he smiles. It is a chilling smile, devoid of warmth or humor. "I don't believe you," he says softly. "But it doesn't matter. Whether you're acting alone or someone put you up to this, the result will be the same."

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, silver object. It is a switchblade, its blade glinting in the sunlight. My heart pounds in my chest. This is it. This is how it ends. "You know too much," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "And that is a very dangerous thing." He flicks open the switchblade, the sound sharp and menacing. He lunges towards me, the blade aimed at my chest. I react instinctively, sidestepping his attack. The blade misses me by inches, slicing through the air.

I stumble backwards, trying to create some distance between us. He advances, his eyes filled with a cold, murderous rage. I know that I can't fight him. He is stronger, faster, and he has a weapon. My only chance is to run. I turn and flee, sprinting through the trees, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I can hear him behind me, his footsteps pounding on the ground. I glance over my shoulder, seeing him gaining on me. He is relentless, his determination unwavering. I know that I can't outrun him.

 He will catch me eventually. Desperation claws at me. I need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere he won't find me. I spot a small, overgrown path leading into the forest. It is barely visible, hidden beneath a tangle of vines and bushes. It is my only hope. I veer off the main path, plunging into the undergrowth. The branches scratch at my face and arms, the thorns tearing at my clothes.

But I don't stop. I push through the thick vegetation, forcing my way deeper into the forest. I can still hear him behind me, his footsteps growing closer. But the undergrowth is slowing him down. He is struggling to navigate the tangled vegetation. I reach a small clearing, a hidden sanctuary in the heart of the forest. In the center of the clearing stands an ancient, crumbling temple. It is partially obscured by vines and moss, its stone walls cracked and weathered.

It looks abandoned, forgotten. But it offers me a chance to hide, a chance to escape Vikram Rathore's wrath. I run towards the temple, hoping that it will provide me with the protection I need. I reach the entrance, a dark, gaping doorway that leads into the unknown. I hesitate for a moment, a sense of unease washing over me.

The temple emanates a palpable darkness, a feeling of ancient secrets and forgotten horrors. But I have no choice. It is my only hope. I step inside, plunging into the darkness. The air is thick and heavy, filled with the scent of decay and the echoes of the past. I can hear Vikram Rathore behind me, his footsteps growing closer. I know that he will follow me inside. I am trapped. The temple is my sanctuary, but it is also my prison. And I have a feeling that the horrors within its walls are far more dangerous than Vikram Rathore himself.

The darkness inside the temple wraps around me like a shroud. The air is thick with the scent of mildew and something else, something ancient and acrid that prickles at the back of my throat. I stumble forward, my hands outstretched, trying to find my way. Dust motes dance in the slivers of light that penetrate the gloom, illuminating crumbling walls adorned with faded carvings. Grotesque figures leer from the stone, their expressions twisted in silent screams.

Behind me, I hear the scrape of stone against stone – Rathore has entered the temple. Panic floods me, but I fight it down. I need to think, to find a way out of this labyrinth.

I move deeper into the temple, my footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. The floor is uneven, littered with rubble and debris. I pass through a series of chambers, each one more unsettling than the last. In one room, I see a stone altar stained with a dark, viscous substance. In another, I find a pile of bones, their shapes suggesting they once belonged to something other than a human.

The air grows colder, and a low hum vibrates through the temple. I feel a presence, something watching me from the shadows. It is not Rathore. This is something else, something ancient and malevolent that has been dormant within these walls for centuries.

I hear Rathore's voice, distorted and amplified by the temple's acoustics. "Chetansh! I know you're in here. Come out, and I promise to make it quick." His words are laced with a chilling calmness that sends shivers down my spine.

I ignore him, pressing on, deeper into the heart of the temple. I reach a large chamber, its ceiling lost in shadows. In the center of the room, I see a raised platform, and on the platform, a stone idol. The idol is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is a grotesque amalgamation of human and animal features, its face contorted in an expression of eternal torment. Its eyes are hollow sockets, but I feel as if they are staring directly at me, piercing my soul.

As I gaze upon the idol, the humming intensifies, and the air crackles with energy. The shadows around me seem to deepen, and I feel a growing sense of dread. I am not alone here. Something is with me, something ancient and powerful.

Suddenly, a voice whispers in my ear, so close I can feel its breath on my skin. "You seek justice for Maya," it rasps, the voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "But justice comes at a price."

I whirl around, but there is no one there. The voice seems to emanate from the idol itself. Fear grips me, but I force myself to stand my ground. "Who are you?" I ask, my voice trembling.

The voice laughs, a low, mocking sound. "I am the guardian of this place, the keeper of its secrets. And you, Chetansh, have disturbed my slumber."

Rathore's voice echoes through the temple once more, closer now. "Chetansh! Where are you hiding?"

The guardian's voice whispers in my ear again. "You are trapped, Chetansh. But perhaps... perhaps I can help you. If you are willing to pay the price."

I am caught between two evils – Rathore, the man who seeks to kill me, and the ancient entity that lurks within the temple. I have no idea what the guardian wants, but I know that it cannot be good.

But I am running out of options. Rathore is closing in, and I have nowhere else to go. I take a deep breath and steel myself. "What is the price?" I ask.

The guardian's voice, a rasping whisper, fills the chamber. ´The price, Chetansh, is a piece of yourself. A memory, a feeling, something precious that you hold dear. In exchange, I will grant you the power to escape this temple and exact your vengeance.´ The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

A piece of myself? What does that even mean? Can I trust this entity? Doubt gnaws at me, but Rathore's heavy footsteps are getting closer. He is definitely near this chamber now. ´I don't understand,´ I say, my voice barely above a whisper. ´What kind of memory? What kind of feeling?´ The guardian chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. ´That is for me to decide. Once the bargain is struck, I will take what I need.

But be warned, Chetansh, the taking will not be painless.´ I hesitate. The thought of losing a part of myself is terrifying. But the alternative – facing Rathore and his switchblade – is even worse. And there is Maya, her spirit trapped, her murderer walking free. Justice demands a price, doesn't it? ´And how do I know I can trust you?´ I ask, trying to sound braver than I feel.

´How do I know you will keep your word?´ The guardian's voice turns cold. ´Trust is a luxury you cannot afford, Chetansh. I offer you a chance, a slim hope in a desperate situation. Take it, or perish. The choice is yours.´ Rathore's voice booms through the temple, closer than ever. ´I know you're in here, Chetansh! Just give up! It will be easier for both of us!´ I can hear the desperation in his voice, the fear that I might escape. That fear is all the answer I need. I take a deep breath, steeling my resolve. ´I accept,´

I say, my voice trembling but firm. ´I accept your bargain.´ The moment the words leave my lips, a wave of energy washes over me. It is like a thousand needles piercing my skin, a burning, searing pain that makes me want to scream. I clutch my head, my vision blurring, as memories flicker through my mind – my childhood in Mau, my parents' loving faces, my first love, my dreams for the future. The guardian's voice whispers in my ear, closer than ever. ´Which one will you sacrifice?´ And then, I feel it – a tugging, a pulling sensation deep within my heart.

It is as if a part of me is being ripped away, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The pain intensifies, becoming unbearable. I scream, a primal sound of agony and loss. And then, just as suddenly, it stops. The pain fades, the energy dissipates, and the memories recede. I am left standing in the chamber, gasping for breath, my body trembling. But something is different.

Something is missing. I try to grasp what it is, but it is just beyond my reach, a phantom limb that I can no longer feel. The guardian's voice whispers in my ear, satisfied. ´The bargain is struck. I have taken what I desired. Now, I shall grant you your wish.´ The ground beneath my feet begins to tremble, and the air crackles with power.

A section of the wall in front of me shimmers and fades, revealing a hidden passage. ´Go, Chetansh,´ the guardian whispers. ´Escape this place and claim your vengeance. But remember, every action has consequences. And the price you have paid will not be forgotten.´ I look at the hidden passage, then back at the idol. A part of me wants to stay, to understand what just happened, to reclaim what I have lost.

But Rathore is still out there, and Maya's spirit still cries out for justice. I turn and flee into the passage, leaving the guardian and the crumbling temple behind. As I run, I can't shake the feeling that I have made a terrible mistake. That the price I have paid is far greater than I can possibly imagine. As I run through the tunnel, I can hear Rathore behind me. I can tell I am not rid of him.

The hidden passage twists and turns, a claustrophobic tunnel carved into the earth. The air is stale and damp, and the darkness is absolute. I stumble blindly forward, my hands scraping against the rough stone walls. Behind me, I hear Rathore's enraged shouts, growing louder. He is gaining on me. But something has changed within me. The guardian's bargain, the loss of that precious piece of myself, has left me with a cold, hard resolve. Justice for Maya. That is all that matters now. I will not let Rathore escape. I will not let him continue to terrorize the innocent. I reach the end of the passage and burst out into the open air. I am in the forest again, but in a different part, deeper and more wild than before. The trees are gnarled and twisted, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms. The ground is covered in a thick layer of moss and decaying leaves. I can hear Rathore crashing through the undergrowth behind me. He is close.

I stop running and turn to face him. He emerges from the trees, his face contorted with rage, the switchblade glinting in his hand. ´You can't escape me, Chetansh!´ he snarls. ´I'm going to enjoy watching you die!´ I stand my ground, my heart pounding in my chest. But I am not afraid. The guardian's power courses through my veins, giving me a strength and a clarity I never knew I possessed. ´You murdered Maya,´ I say, my voice cold and steady. ´You can't run from what you did.´ Rathore laughs, a harsh, mocking sound. ´Maya was a fool. She got in my way. And now, so have you.´ He lunges at me, the switchblade aimed at my heart. But I am ready for him. I sidestep his attack, the blade missing me by inches. I grab his wrist, my fingers tightening around his bone. He cries out in pain, dropping the switchblade. I don't give him a chance to recover. I slam my fist into his face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone.

He stumbles backwards, blood streaming from his nose. I advance on him, my eyes filled with a cold, burning rage. I am no longer the Chetansh who arrived in Rampur, the naive business analyst from Mau. I am something else, something darker, something driven by vengeance. I grab Rathore by the throat, my fingers digging into his flesh. He gasps for air, his eyes wide with terror. ´You're going to pay for what you did,´ I say, my voice a low growl. ´You're going to pay for Maya.´ I squeeze harder, cutting off his air supply. He struggles, kicking and flailing, but I hold on tight. His face turns red, then purple. His eyes bulge from their sockets. And then, finally, he goes limp. I release my grip, and Rathore collapses to the ground, his body twitching. I stand over him, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my body trembling. He is dead. Maya's murderer is dead. Justice has been served.

But as I look at Rathore's lifeless body, I feel a strange emptiness inside me. The vengeance I craved has brought me no satisfaction, no peace. Instead, it has left me with a hollow ache, a profound sense of loss. The guardian's words echo in my mind: ´Every action has consequences. And the price you have paid will not be forgotten.´ I have killed a man. I have taken a life. And in doing so, I have become something I never wanted to be. The forest seems to close in around me, the shadows deepening, the trees whispering secrets in the wind. I am alone, lost in the darkness, forever haunted by the choices I have made. As I walk away from Rathore's body, I know that my journey is far from over. That the true horror has only just begun. I must find a way to free Maya's spirit. I must find a way to atone for what I have done. But I have no idea where to start, or how to escape the darkness that has consumed me. I feel an urge to purify myself of the evil I committed and so I decide to go to Kashi, the holy city.