The summer of 2001 in Kolkata was hot, sticky, and strangely unsettling. The kind of heat that made people edgy and shadows crawl longer than they should. That year, something ancient and malignant stirred under the pretense of an innocent school picnic.
Francis D’Costa was like any other seventeen-year-old boy of the time—restless, bright, full of chatter. His laughter often echoed in the hallways of his higher secondary school, a cathedral-like relic from the colonial era with gothic arches and iron railings that shrieked under footfalls. He was the kind of boy who would befriend everyone but confide in very few. His mind, though agile in academics, was always flickering with curiosity and mischief.
So, when their class teacher, Sister Beatrice, a gaunt woman with deep-set eyes and a voice that cracked like dry twigs, announced a picnic on 10th May, Francis couldn’t suppress the smile that curled across his face.
“One hundred rupees and a confirmation letter by tomorrow,” she announced. “No exceptions.”
Francis knew his father would never allow him. His family, strict Catholics, believed excursions were excuses for mischief. But after persistent pleading, and a dramatic promise to focus more on studies, his father relented—just this once.
It was the first time Francis would be allowed such freedom. That night, he lay in bed, unable to sleep, thinking of the open fields, laughter with his friends, maybe even sneaking in a game of cricket.
The morning of 10th May arrived with the stale heat of impending doom.
-I. Into the Jungle
The bus rattled through the outskirts of the city. Past squalid shanties, past decaying colonial bungalows, and finally into a stretch of road lined by dense trees—thick, gnarled, ancient things that swallowed sunlight and murmured in a tongue not spoken in centuries.
“Looks like a jungle,” someone muttered as the bus groaned to a halt.
The teachers disembarked first, surveying the area. Francis and his gang—Tapan, Jijo, Sameer—were already bouncing with excitement. They were told they could explore for a while before lunch at 12:30.
The forest was eerily quiet. Even the birds seemed to have absconded. As they wandered deeper, the air grew dense, the light dimmer. The trees pressed closer. Francis laughed at Tapan’s ghost stories and mimicked an owl, but inside, something gnawed—a chill, an itch in the back of his throat.
Then they smelled it.
It came like a wave—foul, metallic, sickly sweet. Like death masquerading as something organic.
"God, what is that?" Jijo gagged.
"Maybe a dead animal," Francis shrugged, though his eyes betrayed him.
They followed the smell—led by a morbid curiosity that would cost dearly. Beneath a broken tree, half-buried in dry leaves, lay the body of a boy, no older than them. His eyes were open, glassy. His mouth frozen in a silent scream. Flies had made their kingdom in his sockets.
Francis took a step forward, arm outstretched.
“Hey, don’t go there, Francis! It’s horrifying!” Tapan’s voice cracked, shrill.
That snapped Francis back. They turned and ran—screaming, breathless—back to the teachers.
Sister Beatrice’s face paled. A few whispered words into her walkie-talkie, and soon, sirens howled through the trees. The police came. Questions were asked. Nobody had answers.
The picnic was abruptly canceled.
As the students boarded the bus, the forest seemed to sigh in disappointment. Something had been interrupted. Something... ancient.
---
### *II. The Second Picnic & The Curse That Lingers*
Back at school, Francis managed to persuade the teachers for a second picnic at a different location. Surprisingly, they agreed.
The next day’s outing was uneventful. Sunny. Almost boring. But the memory of that decaying corpse lodged itself like a splinter in the minds of everyone, especially Francis. He had seen something else too—he didn’t tell anyone—but just before they ran, the dead boy’s finger twitched. Or so he thought.
That night, Francis dreamt of the forest. Only now it was alive—breathing, watching. The trees bled. The body sat up. “You’re next,” it whispered, its mouth filled with dirt.
---
III. The Birthday Paradox
Months passed. Life moved on, but Francis didn’t forget.
In the new academic year, he joined a private tuition near Park Circus. A charming couple ran it—“Tuition Uncle” and “Tuition Aunty” as everyone called them. They were warm, educated, and unnervingly polite. Their home was old-fashioned, with ivory curtains, floral cushions, and a musty smell that seemed to linger regardless of ventilation.
“Sit wherever you like,” Aunty smiled, eyes glittering. “Welcome to our family.”
Something about the way she said "family" made Francis stiffen.
Classes were ordinary—maths, science, the usual. Nothing strange—at first.
Then one day, as they all took a break, a senior student named Arup leaned toward Francis and said casually, “Hey, when did your school picnic happen?”
“10th May. Why?”
Arup’s face lost color.
“That’s the date,” he whispered. “Same thing happened in my time. Our school had a picnic on 6th April, 1999. Found a dead body near Rajarhat forest. Guess whose birthday it was?”
Francis blinked. “Whose?”
“Tuition Uncle.”
Goosebumps ran down Francis's arms.
“Yours was on 10th May, right?” Arup continued. “That’s Aunty’s birthday.”
It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t.
“Wait. Are you saying...?”
“I’m saying,” Arup said, eyes darting around, “every time there’s a death, it's always discovered near their birthdays. And somehow, the kid who finds it ends up joining this tuition. Always.”
---
IV. The Ledger of the Lost
Francis began digging. Quietly. Obsessed.
School records. Newspaper archives. Old student forums.
Over the past ten years, multiple bodies had been discovered on either the 6th of April or 10th of May. Always teenagers. Always linked to a school trip or outing. And without fail, at least one witness would end up joining this very same tuition.
The names matched.
Arup, whose 6th April picnic found a body.
Sutapa, whose dance workshop had an “accident” on 10th May, 1997.
Rajesh, a football camp on 5th April, 1995.
Each of them, now locked into the fold of Uncle and Aunty’s tuition.
And each body... was an ex-student of theirs.
---
V. The Birthday Offering
“Why don’t you stay for tea, Francis?” Aunty asked one Thursday.
He had lingered behind. The others had left. The room felt too quiet.
Francis shook his head. “I should go.”
But the door was already locked.
Uncle appeared from the hallway. He wasn’t smiling.
“You’ve been curious, haven’t you?” he said.
Francis’s heart pounded.
“Looking into old records. Asking questions.”
“What are you?”
Aunty stepped forward. Her eyes had no whites. Just endless, black pits.
“We are what you might call collectors,” she whispered. “Each year, we gift each other something eternal. The essence of youth. Of promise. A sacrifice.”
“You kill them.”
“We release them,” said Uncle. “And in return, we live on. Stronger. Wiser. Eternal.”
Francis backed away. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”
But the walls seemed to close in. The house groaned, alive.
“You’ve already been chosen, Francis. The jungle. That corpse. It marked you.”
Aunty raised her hands. The ceiling cracked. Shadows poured out, swirling.
Then—
A bell rang. The front door.
It rang again.
“Go,” Aunty said sharply. “Go answer it.”
Francis stumbled to the door, threw it open.
It was Arup. Pale. Terrified.
“They know. I told them everything. The police. They’re coming.”
Uncle and Aunty snarled. Their faces contorted, ancient and monstrous.
But the spell broke. The door flung wide. Sirens wailed.
The police stormed in.
The couple vanished into the shadows, their screams echoing like a dying wind.
---
VI. Epilogue: The House That Remains
The tuition center was shut down. The house sealed. But strange lights still flicker from its windows on the 6th of April and 10th of May every year.
Francis never returned to that neighborhood.
He lives quietly now. Still in Kolkata. Still hears whispers in the dark.
But sometimes, he dreams of the forest again.
The trees calling his name.
And a voice, soft as silk and sharp as bone:
“You were ours once. You will be again.”
---
"The Birthday Offering"is not a tale that ends.
It waits.
For the next 6th of April.
Or the next 10th of May.
And for the next curious child to follow the smell...
Into the jungle.
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