After week's of wandering through villages, struggling under foreign tongues and unfamiliar rooftops to even seeing a real monster through his way in the last village, Vansh had finally returned to his village.
The moment his feet touched the cracked, familiar soil, an emotion surged within him—something warm, almost forgotten. He walked slowly, deliberately, not just towards home, but into memory itself. The village was still the same: vibrant, buzzing with murmurs and spice-scented breezes. The same crooked stalls with uneven roofs lined the street, and the same vendors, albeit a bit older, called out prices for jackfruit and rice cakes. Children ran barefoot, splashing in mud puddles, their laughter echoing through the banyan trees.
He inhaled deeply—earth, smoke, sweat, and jaggery. No city, however grand, had a smell like this.
He strolled through the market, brushing fingers over cloth canopies, smiling at passing elders who squinted at him, trying to recognize the bearded young man in worn city clothes. When he finally reached the outer edge of his home, a familiar structure greeted him—a square plot, enclosed by a boundary wall, within which stood four large huts. Each hut had a specific purpose: the kitchen, the bathing hut with two rooms, and the large central hut with three rooms. They had not changed. The mud walls had been patched in places, and the thatched roofs were thicker, but they were still home.
As he entered, his grandmother, bent but sharp-eyed, greeted him with a brief smile and a touch on the forehead. His elder brother Navendu embraced him warmly, his arms solid with the fatigue of daily survival. Their mother, tearful but composed, immediately shuffled to the kitchen to prepare something for him, murmuring about how thin he'd grown.
As the sky turned golden with dusk, Vansh unwrapped a secret he'd been keeping close. From within his dhoti, coiled carefully, he pulled out a small glass tube, wrapped in cloth and tied with string. He revealed it to Navendu and whispered, “Kept it hidden from the British. It’s medicine. Strong stuff. Foreign. It helped me once when I was nearly gone. Give this to Bhabhi. It'll help.”
Navendu nodded, grateful and quietly hopeful. They sipped chai under the neem tree, talking like they used to, about harvests and politics, about gods and ghosts, about how much the world had changed while their village stayed stubbornly still.
As the sunset melted into night, Navendu and their mother began to prepare to leave the house. Vansh, puzzled, stood by the doorway, watching them wrap themselves in shawls and carry satchels. “Where are you two going?” he asked.
His mother simply smiled and replied softly, “We'll be back by sunrise”
Navendu looked at him and added, “Stay with Dadi. Keep an eye on her... and your bhabi.”
He nodded toward his hut, where his wife, pale and trembling, lay in one of the dark rooms. Sick. Barely conscious. Her breaths were short and uneven. Fever had taken her for weeks now.
Puzzled but trusting, Vansh did as he was told. He entered the room where his sister-in-law lay under a thin blanket, her skin glistening with sweat. His grandmother sat beside her, eyes scanning every breath. Her hands moved slowly, wiping the girl’s head with a damp cloth.
Vansh crouched next to her and whispered, “Did dada give her the medicine?”
Grandmother nodded silently, not lifting her eyes. She got up and walked away.
The house grew silent as the crickets chirped outside. Vansh tried to sleep, but something gnawed at him. He turned on his side, then to the other. The silence was unnatural. It wasn't peace—it was pause. The kind that comes before something awful.
And then...
Thud.
A single, sharp knock.
Thud. Thud.
Repetitive. In the same rhythm. Not a hand knocking—but something heavier. A head?
He sat up quickly.
Another thud. This time, closer.
He peered through the small square window near his cot. Darkness stared back at him.
“Who’s there?” he yelled, voice shaking slightly.
No response.
Another thud.
He threw the thin sheet off him and stormed to the front door. He yanked it open wide—only to be greeted by emptiness. No one. Just thick, unnatural darkness. Even the moon, usually radiant above the trees, was swallowed by a foggy veil.
But the thuds continued.
Even with the door wide open, they hadn't stopped. He realized they weren't coming from the entrance.
They were coming from inside the courtyard. From near Navendu’s hut.
Vansh turned, and his blood froze.
Standing before Navendu’s room was a woman—tall, motionless except for the terrifying act she performed over and over again. Dressed in a white saree, her long black hair hung wildly, covering her face. Her arms hung down unnaturally low, as if dislocated. She slammed her head into the wooden door repeatedly, the sound echoing into the night.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Vansh couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His legs trembled. His mouth was dry. The image in front of him was wrong, wicked, cursed.
He wanted to run. But he also wanted to protect his sick sister-in-law. Gritting his teeth, he yelled, “Step away! Back off! I’ll throw stones at you!”
The woman didn’t react. She kept banging her head against the door.
Desperate, he scanned the ground for stones or sticks.
Then—a whisper.
“Vansh… come here.”
He turned sharply.
His grandmother stood in the opposite hut, her face illuminated only by the faint glow of an oil lamp behind her.
He ran to her, panting, nearly in tears.
“This is Inhuman,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What is she doing? She’s going to enter Bhabhi’s room!”
Grandmother placed a calm hand on his shoulder. “Let her be.”
“What?!”
“I said let her be.”
“I’ll burn her if I have to,” Vansh said, grabbing a lantern and holding it up.
But then... everything stopped.
The thuds ended.
The silence was so dense that Vansh could hear the wind itself slow down.
Even the insects had ceased.
And then came the wail.
High-pitched. Distorted. Like the voice of something not made by God.
Vansh turned again—just in time to see the woman was no longer by the door.
She was halfway across the courtyard, running directly at him, arms wide, screaming.
Vansh's grandmother screamed in horror.
Morning.
Vansh woke up on the floor, gasping. Sweat drenched his clothes. His hands shook uncontrollably.
Navendu was beside him, offering a glass of water. Their mother hugged him tightly.
“Are you ok?” Navendu said quietly.
“I almost died,” Vansh muttered, gulping the water.
“Poor boy,” said the grandmother, as calm as ever.
The family gathered in the central room. Vansh was still recovering, his body trembling from the encounter.
“That woman,” Grandmother began, “She’s a Sankhachurna.”
“A what?” Vansh whispered.
“A soul of a woman who died before unsatisfied of how her married life ended. She lingers… searching for a host to continue her ‘married life’. To be a wife. To fulfill her duty… and desire.”
She continued, “Three months ago, a woman nearby died in childbirth. Her husband, grieving, began to act strangely. He was found dead a few weeks later—torn apart. Since then, something has changed. As your bhabi became pregnant, the Shankachurna has been trying to get a grasp onto her.”
Vansh’s eyes widened.
“She wants to live again,” his grandmother whispered. “And for that, She’s chosen your sister-in-law.”
That’s why Navendu and Mother leave the house every night—to keep Navendu safe.
“We cannot let her see Navendu or things might get worse.”
“And what are we doing about this?” Vansh asked, standing up, furious.
His grandmother looked away. “Some things… we can't fight with sticks and fire. Some things… we endure.”
Vansh collapsed to the floor, defeated.
Wondering, what to do about this nightmare.
