Nayantara - Echoes of the Taken

Chapter 2

Shri’s office didn’t feel solid anymore—like the walls could cave in any second. The lights buzzed overhead, sharp and annoying, as he grabbed at his desk, hands shaky, and hit the intercom button. “Anil,” he said, his voice rough and low, “get in here.” The door opened fast, and his secretary stepped in—Anil, thin and wide-eyed, holding a notepad tight. Shri’s words came out quick and messy. “Cancel all my appointments. No—pass it to the juniors. All of it. Book me a flight to Nagpur tomorrow—early. And a car—I need one waiting there at the airport.” Anil scribbled fast, glancing at Shri’s sweaty face, then looking away quick. “Yes, sir,” he said soft, slipping out like he didn’t want to stay. Shri slumped back in his chair, breathing hard. The room felt like it was closing in. He left late, grabbing his briefcase like it could hold him up, his arm aching from its weight. Outside, the car waited, its engine humming quiet. He fell into the backseat, the leather cold against his damp skin. The city blurred by—neon lights smearing into the dusk, horns blaring far off. Fear squeezed his chest tighter with every breath. How did it come to this? What did I do to deserve this? The questions clawed at him, relentless. The car slowed, and his bungalow came into view, small and plain but somehow dark and heavy tonight. The driver opened the door with a click, and Ramu, the caretaker, shuffled out, grabbing the briefcase with rough hands, his eyes down like he knew something was wrong. Inside, Shri threw himself onto the bed, the springs groaning under him. He held a glass of whisky, hands shaking so bad it spilled a little. He stared out the window at the garden—roses and marigolds glowing soft under the night lights. They looked pretty, but it didn’t help—the emptiness inside was too big. He got up, glass still in hand, and stumbled to the window. The night air hit him, cool and sharp, cutting through his foggy head. The flowers moved in the breeze, their shadows shifting on the grass. Then the past hit him hard, pulling him back. Dust kicked up around a younger Shri as he walked a hot, dry path. Ahead, the village garden burst with color—wild flowers stretching up like they wanted the sky. The cottage beyond looked old, its walls cracked and stained, the roof sagging low. Sweat stuck his shirt to his skin as he got closer, his heart pounding with excitement and nerves. This was it—his big chance—but the air felt heavy, like the house didn’t want him there. He pressed the bell, the sound fading into quiet. He waited, each second dragging, until the door creaked open. A middle-aged man stood there, his face lined deep, his eyes blank. “I’m Dr. Shridhar Varma,” Shri said, his throat dry. “Here for Dr. Pratap.” The man grunted, nodding him inside, and Shri stepped into a dim room that smelled old and worn. The living room was a mess—cushions spilling stuffing, a scratched-up table. Shri sat on a shaky chair, feeling uneasy as shadows moved in the corners. The man put a glass of water down with a thump, muttering, “Saheb’ll come,” then disappeared. Shri sipped the water—it tasted off, metallic—and looked around at the cracked walls, an old oil lamp flickering weird shapes. Something didn’t feel right, an itch at the back of his neck he couldn’t shake. Then Dr. Pratap walked in, a guy in his forties with a smile that didn’t quite fit. “Sit, sit,” he said, his voice warm but sharp underneath. “This place isn’t much, but it’s mine now.” Shri smiled back, trying to relax as Pratap flopped onto the sofa. “Not many come out here,” Pratap said, eyeing him close. “You saw how despairing it is on the way here, right? Bus late?” “Four hours,” Shri said, letting out a small laugh. Pratap grinned bigger, like he knew something. “So, right on time.” They laughed together for a second, but it felt thin, like it could snap. The caretaker came back with a tray—tea steaming, biscuits falling apart. Shri grabbed a cup, the heat burning his hands as Pratap watched him steady. “Tell me,” Pratap said, leaning in, his voice dropping, “why’s a young doctor like you picking this nowhere spot?” Shri looked at him straight. “You, sir. Your work is an inspiration—it’s why I’m here.” Pratap laughed loud, sharp and empty. “Me? My reasons weren’t so high and mighty.” His smile twisted a little, something dark peeking through. Shri pushed a bit. “I’d like to hear, if you’d tell me.” Pratap’s face went cold, his jaw tight, eyes cloudy. “Another time,” he said quick, hands moving like he wanted it gone. “Dinner—what do you want?” The switch was fast, shutting something off, and Shri’s stomach twisted at the shift. “I was thinking I’d go to my quarters,” Shri said careful. “They said there’s a room—” “Not ready,” Pratap cut in, short and hard. “Dirty, falling apart—we didn’t think you’d show. Tomorrow, Prakash’ll fix it. Tonight, you stay here. Spare room. Small, but fine.” Shri nodded, keeping his questions down. “Okay.” The room was cramped, choking with old tribal junk—masks gaping wide like they’d scream if you touched them, spears leaning in corners with tips glinting sharp under the faint light, tapestries hanging ragged, threads pulling loose like they’d seen too much. But one thing hit harder than the rest: a dark wooden statue shoved against the far wall, its carved face all jagged edges and wild lines, caught somewhere between a god and a damn nightmare. Shri couldn’t peel his eyes off it as he dropped onto the cot, the thin mattress sagging under his weight like it was tired of holding anything up. Moonlight stabbed through a cracked window, jagged and cold, catching the statue’s rough curves, making it look alive—too alive. Exhaustion clawed at him—the bus ride had been hell, a rattling, dusty grind that left his bones aching and his head pounding—but that thing, it sat heavy on him, pressing down like a fist on his chest, daring him to look away. He didn’t want to sleep, not with that staring at him, but his body gave out, dragging him down fast. His eyes fluttered shut, the dark swallowing him whole, and for a second it was quiet—just the hum of the night outside, the creak of the cot settling. Then—a sound ripped through it, low and rough, like gravel scraping under a boot, yanking him awake. His heart slammed hard, a wild thud against his ribs, and he bolted upright, breath catching in his throat. The room was pitch now, the moonlight a thin, pale s***h barely cutting the black, and there—right there at the foot of his bed—was the statue. Except it wasn’t wood no more. It was tall, lean, alive, towering over him, its eyes two burning red slits glowing hot in the dark, locking onto him like they’d already claimed him. Its skin glistened, slick and wrong, like it’d crawled out of something wet and rotting, and when its mouth cracked open—slow, deliberate—it showed teeth, sharp and busted, jagged edges catching the faint light. Shri’s scream stuck, lodged somewhere deep, his whole body frozen as fear clamped down like iron. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe right, just sat there, pinned under those eyes, his pulse hammering so loud it drowned everything else. The thing leaned in closer—too close—its head tilting like it was sizing him up, and its breath hit him, cold and sour, stinking of damp earth and something dead. It whispered, low and garbled, words he couldn’t grab, slithering into his ears like smoke he couldn’t shake. The air turned thick, heavy, pressing on his chest ‘til it hurt, and the walls—they started bending, warping inward like the room was collapsing, squeezing him in with it. His hands clawed at the blanket, fingers shaking, sweat beading cold on his neck as he stared into that red glow, waiting for it to lunge, to rip him apart. Every creak of the cot, every rustle outside, spiked the dread higher, his mind racing—what the hell is it, what does it want, why me?—and still, he couldn’t yell, couldn’t fight, just sat there, trapped in its pull. Then—snap—it was gone. Like a rope cut loose, the weight lifted, the air thinned, and the room snapped back, walls straight, moonlight steady. The statue was just wood again, back against the wall where it belonged, still and silent, its carved face blank under the pale glow. But Shri was wrecked—shaking hard, breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his shirt sticking to his skin with cold sweat. He swung his legs off the cot, feet hitting the floor loud in the quiet, and stared at it, chest heaving. Was it real? A dream? His head spun, the line between sleep and awake blurring into a mess, but those eyes—those red, burning eyes—stuck in him, branded deep. He stumbled to the window, shoving it wider, gulping the night air like it could wash the stink of that thing off him. Outside, the wind hissed through the trees, low and restless, and he leaned there, hands gripping the sill, waiting for his heart to quit racing, for the room to feel safe again. But it didn’t. That statue sat there, dark and heavy, watching him still, and he knew—sleep or no sleep—something had shifted, something was awake now, and it wasn’t letting go. Back on the cot, he sat stiff, eyes locked on it, waiting. The moonlight shifted, shadows stretching long and thin across the room, playing tricks—every flicker a hint of movement, every gust outside a whisper of that voice again. His mind churned, digging up stories he’d heard about Shivalkot, half-remembered scraps from years back—curses, spirits, things tied to the land that didn’t let go. Was this one of ‘em? Had Pratap known? The thought hit hard, tying this to why he was here, to the call that dragged him back. He rubbed his face, hands rough against stubble, trying to shove it down, but the weight stayed, pressing heavier now, like the statue wasn’t just wood—it was a door, and he’d cracked it open.