Chapter 1: Whispers in the Wind
The sun dipped behind the rugged hills of Khemsar, casting long shadows across the village. Dusk arrived with a chill, carrying a restless breeze that rustled through the narrow, dusty streets. Beneath the sprawling branches of the ancient banyan tree on the outskirts of the village, Jagdeep’s shovel struck something hard.
“Baba, what is it?” Meera, his eight-year-old daughter, asked, peering into the shallow hole. Her voice was small, curious, as if the wind itself carried it away.
Jagdeep leaned closer, brushing away dirt to reveal the pale face of a doll. It was old—its porcelain skin chipped and cracked, eyes painted with a dull, lifeless stare. Its crimson lips were frozen in a smile that seemed too wide, too knowing. A sudden gust swept through the banyan's leaves, and the whispers began—soft, chilling, like a murmur just out of reach.
Meera shivered and grabbed her father’s hand. “Did you hear that, Baba?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind’s moan.
“It’s just the breeze, beta. Let’s go home.” But as Jagdeep wrapped the doll in his shawl and climbed onto their cart, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something cold, something ancient, had awakened beneath that tree.
That night, the doll sat on the old wooden mantel in their small house, surrounded by the crackling flames of the clay hearth. Meera watched it closely, her dark eyes wide, her little fingers tracing the hem of her cotton dress. Jagdeep and his wife, Suman, exchanged uneasy glances, but dismissed their worries as foolish. It was just an old toy, after all.
Yet, as the flames flickered, casting twisted shadows on the walls, the whispers returned—low, dissonant, like a child singing a forgotten lullaby. The wind outside swirled around their home, pressing against the shutters with an unnatural force. Meera’s gaze never left the doll.
“Can I keep it, Ma?” she asked suddenly, her voice distant, as if speaking from a dream.
Suman hesitated. “I don’t think—”
“She says she’s lonely. She wants to play with me,” Meera interrupted, her tone cold, eyes fixed on the doll’s cracked face.
The whispers grew louder, slipping through the gaps in the windows, winding through the house like a serpent. Suman’s skin prickled, a chill creeping into her bones. She moved to close the shutters, but they resisted, as if the wind fought to keep them open.
Later that night, long after the house had fallen silent, the footsteps began. Soft, shuffling, they moved across the creaky wooden floorboards, pausing outside Meera’s bedroom door. Suman awoke with a start, her breath catching in her throat. She strained to listen, but the footsteps ceased as quickly as they had started.
“Jagdeep, did you hear that?” she whispered, nudging him awake.
He groaned, turning over. “It’s just your imagination, Suman. Go back to sleep.”
But she couldn’t. She slipped out of bed and crept through the dark hallway, her heart pounding. As she reached Meera’s room, a shadow moved in the corner of her eye—just a flicker, but enough to send her pulse racing. She froze, staring into the dim light seeping through the cracked window. The doll sat on Meera’s bedside table, facing the door. Its head was tilted slightly to the side, and for a heartbeat, Suman could swear its expression had changed—its smile sharper, more sinister.
She shook her head, swallowing hard. It was just a trick of the light. She pulled the thin blanket over Meera and kissed her forehead. But as she turned to leave, a small voice, not quite her daughter’s, whispered from the darkness.
“She’s mine now.”
Suman spun around, her blood turning to ice, but Meera was fast asleep, her lips parted in peaceful slumber. The doll’s glassy eyes gleamed in the faint light, unblinking.
The following days, strange things continued to plague their home. Jagdeep’s tools disappeared from their usual spots, only to reappear in odd places—knives balanced on the edge of chairs, a hammer left in Meera’s bed. The whispers followed them through the house, weaving through the air like a faint melody. Meera’s behavior became erratic—talking to herself, or rather, to the doll. She would giggle at odd hours, her laughter echoing through the empty rooms.
One evening, as dusk settled over the village, Suman found Meera in the courtyard, holding the doll up to her ear as if listening to secrets. Her face was pale, her smile vacant.
“What are you doing, Meera?” Suman’s voice trembled.
“She’s teaching me a new song, Ma. She says we’ll sing it together tonight.”
That night, the wind howled with a ferocity that shook the walls. Suman bolted upright in bed, the sound of scraping filling the room—wood dragging across wood. She clutched Jagdeep’s arm, pulling him from his sleep.
“Listen! It’s that noise again!”
Jagdeep grabbed the lantern and crept into the hall, Suman following close behind. The sound led them to Meera’s room, but as they opened the door, their breaths caught. The doll was no longer on the bedside table; it sat in the center of the floor, its head turned toward them, its cracked smile gleaming in the lantern light. Meera stood beside it, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes wide with terror.
“She’s angry, Baba. She doesn’t like you watching us.”
A shadow passed over the walls, moving with a fluidity that defied reason. It circled them, brushing against their skin like icy breath. The whispers surged, filling their ears, drowning out their own thoughts. Jagdeep rushed forward, grabbing the doll, but as his fingers touched its cold porcelain, the lantern’s flame extinguished, plunging them into darkness.
In the pitch-black, the whispers turned to shrill laughter, bouncing off the walls. Jagdeep felt something tugging at his shirt, sharp nails digging into his skin. He stumbled back, nearly dropping the doll, his own scream swallowed by the cacophony. Suman clutched Meera, pulling her close, as the air grew colder, suffocating them with the stench of decay.
“Get out! Leave us alone!” Suman cried, her voice cracking with desperation. But the laughter only grew louder, more mocking.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the wind fell silent. The shadows retreated, and the whispers faded into the night. Jagdeep fumbled to relight the lantern, and its dim glow revealed Meera, sobbing in Suman’s arms, her face buried in her mother’s chest. The doll lay on the floor, its smile unchanged, but something about it felt different—like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
Jagdeep’s hands shook as he picked up the doll and threw it into an old chest, locking it tight. But as he turned the key, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over—that they had disturbed something that could never be contained.
Outside, the wind stirred once more, carrying with it a faint, childlike voice that drifted through the cracks in the walls, whispering a single, chilling word: “Soon.”
Chapter 2: Eyes That Never Blink
The sun rose behind a veil of dusty clouds, casting an eerie, muted light over the village of Khemsar. In the cramped courtyard of Jagdeep’s home, the villagers gathered—faces tense, whispers sharp. Suman clutched Meera to her chest, shielding her from their stares. The old village head, Shyam Lal, eyed the locked chest in the corner, where the cursed doll lay silent.
“You should have left it buried beneath that banyan,” he muttered, voice hoarse with age. “That doll holds a dark spirit—one bound by a curse. It’s not to be toyed with.”
Jagdeep’s jaw tightened. “It’s just an old doll. We aren’t superstitious. We’ll get rid of it, burn it if we have to.”
A woman in the crowd gasped, crossing herself with a trembling hand. “No! If you destroy it, the spirit will be unleashed! It will seek vengeance!”
Meera whimpered, burying her face into her mother’s shoulder, as Suman’s hand stroked her back, trying to calm her. “What do you mean?” Suman asked, her voice barely steady.
Shyam Lal’s dark eyes shifted toward the chest. “Long ago, a girl died beneath that tree—no one remembers her name, but she was wronged, her spirit left restless. It found refuge in that doll. As long as it stays intact, the spirit remains bound. But if you anger it... it will make you pay.”
That evening, the villagers dispersed, leaving the family with a warning that echoed in the cold air: Keep the doll, or face the spirit’s wrath. Jagdeep and Suman exchanged uneasy glances, but their resolve held firm. It was just a story, a tale to scare children. Yet, as night fell, the whispers returned—softer now, almost intimate, like a voice leaning close to your ear in the dark.
Suman sat by the hearth, trying to distract herself with chores, when she felt it—something watching. Her eyes flicked to the chest, and her heart skipped. The lock dangled open, the lid slightly ajar. She rose, creeping toward it, her breath coming in quick gasps. As she lifted the lid, the doll lay inside, its face turned toward her, eyes wide and unblinking.
Her skin prickled with cold. She slammed the chest shut and turned, but froze in her tracks. The doll wasn’t inside the chest anymore. It sat on the mantel, head tilted slightly to the side, its smile now a twisted leer. A scream clawed at her throat, but she choked it back, stumbling toward the bedroom.
“Jagdeep! Jagdeep, come quickly!”
He rushed out, alarmed. “What happened?”
Suman pointed to the mantel, but her words died as she saw it was empty. The doll was gone. “It was there... staring at me. It moved!”
Jagdeep sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re scaring yourself, Suman. Maybe you moved it and forgot.”
“I didn’t move it,” she hissed, her hands shaking. “I’m not imagining this!”
But he brushed her off, pulling her into the bedroom. “You need to rest.”
The doll reappeared the next morning—sitting at the center of the dining table, its head facing the door as if waiting for them. Jagdeep’s hand trembled as he picked it up, turning it to face the wall, but every time he glanced back, those painted eyes seemed to have shifted—tracking his every move. He threw a sheet over it, yet felt its gaze seeping through the cloth, pressing into his spine like a cold blade.
Meera, too, had changed. She no longer played outside, instead sitting for hours beside the covered doll, her lips moving in hushed conversations. Suman found her one afternoon, whispering secrets into the porcelain ear.
“She says she’s tired, Ma. She wants to rest.”
Suman yanked Meera away, heart racing. “You are not to talk to it, do you understand?” But Meera’s eyes glimmered with something distant, something cold. “You’ll make her angry,” she warned in a voice that was no longer entirely her own.
That night, the air in their home turned frigid. A storm rolled in, lightning flashing against the windows, casting the doll’s shadow long and warped across the walls. Suman bolted upright, her sleep shattered by a loud crash. She ran into the living room, finding the doll on the floor, the sheet shredded to pieces around it.
Jagdeep appeared behind her, eyes wide. “What the—? How did it get here?” He reached down to grab it, but as his fingers touched the doll’s cold surface, a shudder rippled through the house. The floorboards creaked and groaned, the walls vibrating with a low, unearthly hum.
The air thickened, pressing down on their chests, and a new sound filled the room—breathing. Slow, deliberate, like something ancient awakening after centuries of slumber. They turned, searching the shadows, but found only the doll, its head slightly cocked, mouth twisted into a grin that seemed to widen with each heartbeat.
“Put it back, Jagdeep!” Suman cried, backing toward the door. But as he moved, the lantern light dimmed, and something brushed past them—cold, sharp, like the caress of a claw. Jagdeep stumbled, dropping the doll, and it rolled to a stop at their feet, its eyes catching the glow of the dying lantern. For a split second, those glassy orbs glimmered with a malevolent life of their own.
And then, the breathing stopped.
Morning arrived, bringing an uneasy calm. Jagdeep and Suman barely spoke as they gathered for breakfast, but the tension crackled between them. Meera sat quietly, toying with a piece of bread, her eyes distant. The doll had been placed back in its chest, but the feeling of being watched never left.
By noon, the news spread through the village—Hari Singh, a local farmer, had been found dead in his fields, his face twisted in a mask of terror. His neck was snapped, his eyes wide open, as if he had seen something unimaginable in his final moments.
As the whispers of the villagers reached their home, Suman’s knees buckled, her mind racing back to the doll’s sinister grin, the shadow that had moved through their house the night before. She clutched Jagdeep’s arm, her voice cracking with fear. “Do you think... do you think the doll had something to do with this?”
He tried to dismiss it, but the doubt flickered in his eyes. “It’s just a coincidence. Don’t let those old stories get to you.”
But Suman knew better. There was something in the air—a presence that lingered, thick and suffocating. And as the day wore on, every creak, every rustle seemed to carry a hidden menace. That night, when they checked on the chest, they found it wide open, the doll gone once more.
And this time, a message was scratched into the wooden lid in jagged letters—letters that they swore hadn’t been there before: I see you.
Jagdeep’s blood ran cold, and Suman felt her knees give way as the realization crashed over them: the doll was no longer bound to its hiding place. It was out there, in their home, watching... waiting for its next move.
And somewhere in the shadows, those eyes—those eyes that never blinked—were waiting to claim their next victim.
Chapter 3: The Doll’s Dance
The wind howled through the narrow streets of Khemsar that night, rattling the windows like skeletal fingers tapping against glass. Inside Jagdeep’s home, darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and heavy, wrapping the house in a suffocating shroud. Suman lay awake in bed, listening to the eerie silence, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The chest in the corner had been locked tightly, the doll hidden away once more, but a gnawing fear chewed at her mind—what if it wasn’t enough?
It began with a faint creak from the living room, a sound so soft it might have been the house settling. But then came another noise—like something dragging across the floor, slow and deliberate, as if testing the weight of each step. Suman shot up, heart pounding in her chest, and reached out to wake Jagdeep. His eyes snapped open, and they exchanged a look of shared terror.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
Jagdeep nodded, his face pale in the dim light. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
He grabbed a lantern, its weak flame flickering, and stepped into the hallway. Suman followed close behind, unable to shake the feeling that something was watching from the shadows. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the soft thud-thud of something small moving across the wooden floor.
They rounded the corner, and the breath hitched in Suman’s throat. There, just beyond the doorway, the doll stood upright, facing away from them. Its tiny wooden feet shifted with a creak as it took a small step forward, then another, leaving faint scratches on the floor. The lantern light cast twisted shadows that seemed to dance around the doll, making it appear larger, more menacing.
“Impossible,” Jagdeep muttered, his grip tightening around the lantern’s handle. He stepped forward, but froze as the doll’s head turned slowly toward them, its eyes glinting in the darkness.
Suman stifled a scream as a giggle—a high-pitched, childlike sound—drifted through the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It was a sound that sent a chill deep into her bones, freezing her in place.
The doll’s mouth opened, its smile stretching unnaturally wide. Its wooden arms twitched, jerking upward in a grotesque imitation of a child’s dance. With each movement, its tiny feet scraped across the floor, leaving a trail of deep gouges. The sound was unbearable—a rhythmic scratching that echoed through the house like a macabre lullaby.
Morning brought no comfort. The house was in disarray—scratches marred the walls, furniture was overturned, and shards of broken glass littered the floor. The doll was back in its chest, but the lock had been snapped, twisted as if by an invisible hand. Suman sat in the kitchen, holding Meera close, as Jagdeep paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.
“This isn’t just a story, Jagdeep,” Suman said, her voice cracking. “We have to do something.”
Before he could respond, a knock echoed through the house, making them jump. An old man stood at the door—a priest wrapped in a faded saffron shawl, his eyes sunken and wary. Shyam Lal had sent him, he explained, to offer guidance. He stepped inside, glancing around the ruined home with a grim expression.
“You should not have disturbed the resting place beneath the banyan,” the priest rasped, his voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “This doll is no ordinary plaything. It carries a spirit—a child’s spirit that met a violent end. She was buried alive beneath that tree, her cries swallowed by the earth. But her soul found a vessel... this doll.”
Suman felt a chill crawl down her spine as the priest continued. “The spirit is restless, filled with rage. She seeks not peace, but revenge. Until she finds what she wants, she will not stop. She will torment you... and when she grows strong enough, she will kill.”
Jagdeep’s face hardened with disbelief. “What do you expect us to do? Keep it locked up forever?”
The priest shook his head, casting a fearful glance toward the chest in the corner. “She is beyond your control now. You must perform a ritual, one to bind her—though it may come at a cost.”
“What kind of cost?” Suman asked, her voice barely a whisper.
But the priest only muttered under his breath, casting shadows from the lantern's flickering flame across the walls. “Beware, for her laughter draws closer each night. And when it comes for you, it will be too late to run.”
Night fell quickly, shadows thickening in every corner of the house. Suman and Jagdeep lit every lantern, every candle they had, casting a halo of light around the living room. They sat together with Meera between them, eyes darting toward the chest where the doll lay hidden.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling like a wounded animal. But inside, another sound grew—a soft tap-tap-tap, like little feet on the floorboards. Suman’s pulse quickened as she realized it was coming from inside the chest. Jagdeep moved toward it, but Suman grabbed his arm, shaking her head wildly.
“Don’t open it!” she hissed. “If you open it, she’ll—”
But it was too late. The lid creaked open by itself, revealing the doll sitting inside, its head tilting upward to meet their gaze. It began to giggle again—a sound like nails scraping against glass, grating and endless. And then, with a sudden burst of movement, it leaped from the chest, landing on the floor with a jarring clack.
Suman screamed, pulling Meera behind her as the doll began its grotesque dance once more, spinning and twitching, its arms flailing as if caught in an unseen current. It moved faster, its laughter rising, filling the room until it drowned out the wind outside.
The lanterns flickered, and the room plunged into darkness. In the pitch black, Suman heard it—the scraping of tiny feet growing closer, the air turning colder with each breath. And then, a whisper brushed against her ear, so close she could feel the chill of it on her skin. “I see you.”
Jagdeep swung the lantern, its light sputtering back to life, and the doll was inches from Suman’s face, its wooden hand reaching out, fingers bent into claws. He swung again, smashing it to the floor, but the doll’s laughter only grew louder, echoing off the walls.
He grabbed a shawl, wrapping the doll tightly, and threw it back into the chest, slamming the lid down. The house shuddered with a final, deafening crack, and then the sound ceased—leaving only their ragged breathing in the silence that followed.
But even as they bolted the chest and prayed for morning, Suman could still hear the laughter, faint and mocking, somewhere in the walls, growing ever closer.
And she knew, deep in her heart, that the doll’s dance had only just begun.
Chapter 4: The Silent Scream
The dawn arrived with an eerie stillness over Khemsar, a silence that clung to the air like a death shroud. Inside Jagdeep’s home, the shadows stretched long and thin, as if reluctant to retreat into the light. Suman tiptoed into Meera’s room, expecting to find her daughter still curled up under her blankets. Instead, she froze at the doorway.
The bed was empty.
“Meera?” Suman’s voice trembled, bouncing off the bare walls. Panic clawed its way into her chest, and she began tearing through the house, calling out Meera’s name, checking closets and corners. Her cries grew frantic, echoing through the house as she ran back to Jagdeep, her face pale with terror. “She’s gone! Jagdeep, she’s gone!”
Jagdeep bolted out of bed, his heart thudding against his ribs. Together, they stormed through every room, flinging open doors and overturning furniture in a desperate search. But there was no sign of Meera—only the echo of their own ragged breaths.
Then Suman’s eyes landed on Meera’s bed, and she gasped, stumbling backward. The doll sat propped against the pillows, its wooden limbs arranged unnaturally, its face turned toward them. A sickening smile stretched across its carved lips, wider than before, almost splitting the painted mouth. Jagdeep swallowed hard as a chill settled into the room, heavy and suffocating.
“This... this can’t be happening,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he reached out to grab the doll, fighting back the revulsion that twisted his gut.
But as his fingers brushed its cold surface, a sound like distant whispers filled the air, swelling and growing louder until it filled the entire house. The whispers came from nowhere and everywhere, wrapping around them like a net.
Suman clutched her head, trying to drown out the noise. “We have to get rid of it! We have to burn it!” she cried, her voice breaking.
Without wasting another second, they bundled the doll into a sack and rushed outside to the yard, their breaths clouding in the morning chill. Jagdeep doused the sack with kerosene, his hands trembling as he struck a match. The flame danced in the wind before he tossed it onto the doll. A burst of fire roared up, engulfing the sack, crackling and hissing as the flames licked at the twisted smile hidden inside.
Suman clung to Jagdeep, the heat from the fire warming her face. For a moment, they both allowed themselves to hope that it was over—that the nightmare had been reduced to ashes.
But hope turned to horror the next morning.
Suman awoke with a start, feeling the cold prickle at her skin. She glanced toward the bedroom window—something was wrong. The curtains fluttered despite the absence of a breeze, and a shadow seemed to linger just outside the frame. She turned to wake Jagdeep, but her words caught in her throat.
There, at the foot of their bed, sat the doll—untouched, unburnt, its eyes glinting in the morning light. Its wooden hands were now splayed, almost as if mocking their feeble attempt to destroy it. Suman’s stomach churned, and bile rose in her throat.
“It’s back... Jagdeep, it’s back,” she choked out, backing away as if distance could lessen the terror coursing through her veins. Jagdeep’s face drained of color as he stared at the doll, realizing that their efforts had been in vain.
Desperation led them to the village outskirts, where they sought out a reclusive Tantric practitioner known for dealing with darker forces. The Tantric’s hut was buried deep within the forest, hidden among ancient trees that twisted into unnatural shapes. He was a hunched figure with hollow eyes, his fingers stained with the ashes of countless rituals.
The practitioner listened as Suman and Jagdeep spilled their story, his expression darkening with each word. “This is not an ordinary spirit,” he rasped, his voice low and raspy. “It is bound by rage, feeding on your fear. The more you are afraid, the stronger it becomes.”
Jagdeep’s hands trembled as he held out the doll, its eyes staring back with a malevolent glint. The Tantric hesitated before taking it, his brow furrowing. “I will perform a ritual, but understand—this spirit does not wish to leave. It craves something more than vengeance.”
He began the preparations at twilight, drawing intricate patterns around the doll with black powder. Incense filled the air, thick and acrid, as he chanted in a language that was old before the village itself had been born. Suman and Jagdeep watched from the doorway, their hearts pounding as the shadows stretched and twisted around the flickering flames.
At first, the doll lay still, its eyes vacant. But then, a shiver ran through its small frame, and its wooden fingers twitched. Suman let out a sharp gasp as the air around them turned icy. The Tantric’s chanting grew louder, more insistent, but so did the presence in the room, pressing down on them like a weight.
The doll’s head jerked upward, turning toward the Tantric with a sickening crack. Its mouth opened wide—far too wide—and a laugh, twisted and warped, filled the room. The Tantric faltered, sweat beading on his brow as he tried to maintain the chant. But the doll’s eyes blazed with a sinister light, and the air crackled with a static charge.
Then, in a heartbeat, the laugh stopped, replaced by a low, rumbling growl. The doll’s limbs began to move, its head twisting at impossible angles until it faced Jagdeep and Suman directly. The Tantric’s voice broke, and the flames around them flared high, casting monstrous shadows on the walls.
Suman felt something cold brush against her cheek, like an invisible hand, and a voice whispered in her ear, barely more than a breath. “She is with me now.”
Before she could react, the doll’s mouth snapped shut, and a piercing scream tore through the room. It was a sound that bypassed the ears and went straight to the bones, vibrating through every nerve. The windows shattered, sending shards of glass flying, and the walls seemed to tremble under the force of the unearthly cry.
The Tantric fell to his knees, clutching his ears as blood seeped through his fingers, his chants turning to desperate pleas. But the doll’s scream only grew louder, more frenzied, and then it stopped abruptly, plunging the room into a heavy, dreadful silence.
Suman’s ears rang, her vision blurred, and she collapsed against the doorway, struggling to breathe. Jagdeep reached out to her, his face etched with horror as the doll slowly turned back to face them, its smile wider than ever before.
The Tantric’s eyes were wide with terror as he crawled away, gasping for breath. “I... I cannot help you,” he stammered, backing toward the door. “It’s too strong. You have to leave this place... before it’s too late.”
But as the Tantric fled into the darkness, leaving the family alone with the doll, Suman knew in her heart that escape was no longer an option.
The doll’s dance had become a game—a deadly game that would only end when it decided. And somewhere in the shadows, she heard a whisper, soft and mocking, echoing through the broken windows:
“She’s waiting.”
Chapter 5: The Final Night
The sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows that crept through Khemsar like dark fingers. Inside Jagdeep’s home, the air was thick with dread, each breath a struggle as the final light faded from the sky. Suman, Jagdeep, and their son Aryan huddled in the dimly lit room, the doll placed at the center like a silent predator. Its carved face seemed to twist with a new malice, its eyes glinting like shards of glass in the faint lamplight.
Jagdeep’s voice wavered as he whispered, “We need to end this tonight. Before it... before it takes anyone else.”
But even as he spoke, the air shifted, carrying a low, mournful wail that wound through the rafters like a distant sob. The lamp flickered, casting shadows that seemed to dance along the walls, warping into grotesque shapes. Aryan clutched his mother’s arm, eyes wide with fear.
Suddenly, the doll’s head jerked upward, and its lips began to move—not with the playful, sinister smile from before, but in a contorted grimace of pain. A voice, high-pitched and hollow, filled the room. It was the voice of a child, but twisted beyond recognition, like nails scraping across glass.
“You took everything from me,” it hissed, the words stretching out unnaturally, echoing in the small room. “I was buried in the dark... forgotten... but now, you will remember my suffering.”
Suman gasped as the air turned icy, her breath fogging in front of her. Her mind reeled, trying to piece together the fragments of the Tantric’s warnings, the villagers’ stories, and the doll’s relentless pursuit. But as she stared into the doll’s eyes, she saw something behind the malice—a glimpse of a girl’s face, eyes wide with terror, her mouth open in a silent scream.
“Who... who are you?” Suman forced the words out, her voice trembling.
The room seemed to close in on itself, the shadows pressing tighter. The doll’s eyes glowed with a sickly green light, and the child’s voice grew louder, more frantic. “I was left to die beneath the banyan tree... my bones crushed beneath the roots... forgotten. They took my life, and now, I take theirs.”
Jagdeep staggered back, the realization crashing over him like a wave. “The sacrifice... it’s seeking revenge,” he muttered, his mind racing. But before he could say another word, the doll’s head twisted with a crack, and it lunged forward, its tiny limbs moving with a speed that defied nature.
Chaos erupted in the small room. The doll darted across the floor, its limbs bending at impossible angles as it clawed at Jagdeep’s legs. He swung a lantern at it, the flame casting wild arcs through the darkness, but the doll dodged with an unnatural agility, its laughter bubbling up from deep within its wooden throat.
Suman grabbed Aryan’s hand and pulled him toward the door, but it slammed shut with a force that rattled the entire house. The wind howled through the cracks, carrying the whispers of the spirit’s wrath. Jagdeep staggered back, his face bloodied from the doll’s attack, desperation etched into his every movement.
“We need to bury it!” he shouted, his voice barely cutting through the cacophony. “Back under the banyan tree—now!”
Suman nodded, her face pale but resolute. Together, they wrestled the thrashing doll into a burlap sack, its limbs kicking and twisting inside. Aryan sobbed as they dragged the sack out of the house, stumbling through the darkened village streets toward the ancient banyan tree that loomed like a sentinel in the night.
The air grew colder as they approached the tree, the shadows thickening into a black fog. The ground beneath their feet seemed to shift and writhe, as if the very earth resisted their presence. The sack bucked in Jagdeep’s grip, the doll’s muffled screams rising to a fever pitch.
Suman fell to her knees beside the tree, digging frantically at the dirt with her bare hands. “It’s almost dawn—we don’t have much time!” she cried, her fingers raw and bleeding as she clawed through the roots.
But just as they uncovered the shallow pit, the sack tore open, and the doll burst free. It landed on the ground in a crouch, its head snapping toward them with a speed that made their hearts stop. Its eyes burned with a green fire, and its mouth opened wide, wider than humanly possible, letting out a scream that tore through the night.
Suman clutched her ears, her vision blurring from the sheer intensity of the sound. Jagdeep lunged at the doll, trying to shove it into the pit, but it twisted away, sinking its teeth into his arm. He cried out in pain, falling backward as the doll turned on Aryan, its small hands reaching out with deadly intent.
“No! Leave him alone!” Suman screamed, grabbing a broken branch and swinging it with all her strength. The branch cracked against the doll’s face, splintering into pieces, but the doll barely flinched. It turned its burning gaze on her, its expression a mask of hatred.
“You will join me... all of you,” it whispered, the voice rising in pitch until it became a deafening shriek. The earth beneath the banyan tree began to split, roots twisting upward like skeletal fingers, grasping for the family.
Jagdeep, blood streaming down his arm, lunged at the doll one last time. He grabbed it by the head, forcing it into the pit as Suman shoveled the dirt back in, covering the doll’s writhing body. The ground shuddered violently, as if the tree itself was resisting the burial. But Suman kept digging, even as the roots lashed at her like living whips, refusing to let the doll escape.
With a final push, Jagdeep pinned the doll down, forcing its face into the earth. Its screams turned to choked sobs, and then to silence as the dirt swallowed it whole. The wind died down, the whispers fading into the distance, and the air grew still.
The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, bathing the banyan tree in a pale, gray light. Suman and Jagdeep collapsed onto the ground, panting, their hands caked with mud and blood. Aryan huddled beside them, trembling, but the terror in his eyes was slowly being replaced by the faintest glimmer of hope.
But as they caught their breath, a low, rumbling laugh rose from the earth beneath the tree. The ground trembled again, and a voice, distorted and warped, echoed through the village:
“It is not over.”
And in the shadows beneath the ancient roots, the glint of green eyes shone, waiting for the next darkness to fall.
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