The night did not end — it only faded into a colder silence.
When dawn finally pushed through the fog, revealing the slope below and the still line of pine trees, the lodge did not feel lighter. If anything, the air inside had thickened, as though the darkness had settled into the walls instead of leaving.
Mr. Shastri stood near the window, his face marked with shame. Denial had drained away, leaving only urgency — and fear.
Aarav broke the silence. "We don't have time. Whoever performed the ritual… we need to find him."
Shastri's voice was low, hesitant.
"I never met him directly. It was arranged through someone in the village. He came quietly, carrying his bundles and tools, and worked in silence, as if the room itself belonged to him. He moved with a kind of restless certainty, drawing circles on the floor, muttering words I couldn't follow. My wife prayed while I stood still, listening, afraid to interrupt. When it was done, he left just as suddenly — no farewell, no promise, only a warning. And the weight of what he had stirred remained behind, heavier than anything I had imagined."
Kabir folded his arms. "You don't even know his name?"
"I know the village," Shastri replied quietly. "That's all."
Riya didn't hesitate. "Then we're not wasting another minute. We go there. Now."
They all squeezed into Shastri's car without another word.
---
The path downhill was narrow, slick with the night's moisture, forcing Shastri to drive slowly. The tires crunched over loose gravel, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. Even the morning felt subdued. A dog barked somewhere far away, the sound echoing briefly before being swallowed by silence again.
Nobody spoke.
After nearly half an hour, the road opened into a small cluster of old houses. Faded walls, uneven rooftops, and narrow lanes that looked barely used. A man taking a slow morning walk paused when the car stopped beside him.
Shastri rolled down the window. "Excuse me… the shaman who used to live here?"
The man looked at them carefully before pointing toward a narrower lane. "Second house after the bend. Wooden gate. You'll know it."
They followed the direction, the car moving even slower now.
Finally, Shastri stopped. He looked ahead for a moment, as if confirming something, then spoke quietly. "This is the place."
Kabir knocked.
No response.
He knocked again, harder this time.
Footsteps approached from inside — slow, cautious. The wooden gate creaked. The door opened slightly, revealing a man in his late twenties. He looked tired, guarded, and instantly suspicious.
"Yes?"
Shastri stepped forward. "We're looking for your father."
The man's expression shifted instantly, the warmth draining from his face. "You're late."
The words settled heavily between them.
Aarav frowned. "Late… what do you mean?"
The man opened the door wider, his voice flat. "He's gone. Sudden sickness. High fever. Delirium. He kept saying someone was calling him back." He paused, eyes briefly unfocused. "Three days later… he was dead."
Silence followed.
Kabir let out a slow breath. "So he just… died? Like that?"
The man looked at him, something bitter in his eyes. "No. Not like that. He died scared."
Shastri's voice trembled. "Was it… because of the ritual?"
The man's expression hardened instantly. The grief in his eyes sharpened into anger. "Every evilness has a price," he said, his voice tight. "And he paid for it." He looked directly at Shastri now. "You might be paying one too."
The words hit harder than expected.
Aarav stepped forward before Shastri could respond. His voice was cold. "He's not paying," he said. He gestured toward Meera. "Someone else is."
The man's gaze flicked toward her, pale and silent. His jaw tightened. He stepped aside. "Come in."
---
The air smelled of stale incense and damp wood, as if prayers had once filled the space but had long since faded. The room was dim, curtains half-drawn, letting in thin strips of pale morning light.
Faded photographs hung unevenly on the wall. One of them showed an older man with sharp, penetrating eyes, strands of beads wrapped around his neck. Even in the picture, his gaze felt unsettling — as if it followed anyone who looked too long.
The son noticed them staring. "He stopped everything before he died," he said quietly. "Burned most of his things. Books… threads… whatever he used. Said he had made a mistake."
Riya spoke softly. "What mistake?"
"He wouldn't say. Only that something followed him back."
Aarav leaned forward. "Listen… we need your help."
"No." The response came immediately.
Kabir spoke carefully. "You don't even know what we're asking."
"I know enough," the man cut in. "You want me to continue the same nonsense that cost me my father."
Riya stepped closer. "This isn't nonsense. Something has attached itself to her. We're desperate."
Aarav's patience snapped. He gestured toward Meera. "Look at her. She's a victim of what your father did. We don't know any of these things — rituals, spirits… none of it. But she's suffering because of it. We're not forcing you to do anything. Just help us understand. Any hint… any direction… anything that might help."
The room fell quiet, the weight of his words hanging between them.
The man's resistance cracked, pity seeping through. His eyes flicked toward Meera again, pale and silent. His voice softened, but bitterness lingered. "I left all that behind. After his death, I swore I'd never touch these things again. I don't chant. I don't read. I don't even keep the old books. I hated them. I hated what they did to him. To us."
Riya's voice was gentler now. "We understand. But she might not survive this."
The man hesitated, torn between anger and pity. Finally, he exhaled. "There is… someone else."
Kabir leaned forward. "Who?"
The man hesitated again, as if reconsidering. "You won't like him… and he won't try to be liked."
Aarav replied firmly. "We don't need to like him."
"He lives farther up, beyond the old quarry road. People don't go there unless they have no choice. He's different."
Kabir raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
The man gave a humorless laugh. "He doesn't care about people. He insults them, throws them out, sometimes refuses even to listen. Drinks a lot. Talks to himself. Half the village thinks he's mad."
"That doesn't sound promising," Kabir muttered.
"But," the man continued, "if anyone knows how to break something like this… it's him."
Shastri spoke for the first time since entering. "Will he help us?"
The man shrugged. "Depends on his mood. And whether he believes you."
Riya frowned. "So we're supposed to walk into the hut of a drunk, half‑mad shaman and hope he listens?"
The man's tone was flat. "If you want answers, that's your only chance."
Aarav straightened. "Where exactly do we find him?"
The man stepped outside, pointing toward a narrow trail vanishing into the trees. "Follow that road till it splits. Take the broken path. You'll see a hut near a dried banyan tree."
He paused, then added in a lower voice, "And be careful. He's not just rude."
Kabir frowned. "Meaning?"
The man held his gaze. "He enjoys telling people things they don't want to accept."
Kabir let out a dry breath. "Perfect. An unstable shaman with zero patience. Just what we are hoping for."
Riya gave him a sharp look. "At least it's something."
Aarav adjusted the strap of his backpack. "We don't have options. If he's the only one who might know how to stop this, we go."
The man exhaled slowly, as if weighing whether he should say it at all. Finally, his voice dropped.
"His name… is Bhairav Kaal."