Pritha Mukherjee
One
Ani Roy stepped off the weather-stained bus and into the wet embrace of Cherrapunji’s legendary monsoon, the rain falling in silvery sheets that blurred the world into watercolor. His boots sank into the mud as he adjusted his camera bag, glancing back at Neel, who was wrestling with their gear under a dripping umbrella that had already given up its fight against the elements. Before them stood the lodge—a crumbling colonial relic with moss-eaten walls and narrow verandas that seemed to shiver under the weight of relentless rain. The carved wooden sign swung gently, its letters half-faded by decades of storms: “Mawphlang Rain Retreat.” It looked less like a retreat and more like a forgotten corner of the world, but Ani felt an electric thrill tighten in his chest. Here, wrapped in mist and rumor, lay the promise of a story his subscribers would never forget. As they approached the entrance, the caretaker emerged, a tall, wiry figure in traditional Khasi attire layered under a patched raincoat. His eyes, dark and ancient as wet stones, met Ani’s with quiet warning. “When the rain sings, don’t walk outside,” Bah Kynshi Mawphlang murmured, his voice heavy with something that felt older than fear.
The interior smelled of damp wood and age-old incense, where thin curtains of mist drifted in through the broken panes and settled like watchful spirits in the corners. They signed into a guest register whose pages felt brittle with time, and Ani glanced around, noting details through the lens of a storyteller: the flickering oil lamp above the reception desk, the cracked photograph of the lodge’s founder in sepia tones, the faint, stubborn scent of earth after rain that never seemed to leave. Neel muttered under his breath about mold and leeches, but Ani only half-listened, his focus already on the strange quiet that wrapped itself around them despite the roar of rain outside. Pyn, the young Khasi girl who helped with the lodge’s upkeep, offered them tea with a shy, sidelong glance, her silver bangles catching the lamplight like slivers of moon. Nearby, another guest sat in the lounge—a woman, glasses fogged by the humidity, scribbling something in a leather-bound journal. Ani guessed she was an academic, drawn here like him by whispers of the unusual, the unsettling. For a moment, he felt the heavy pulse of history around him, an invisible heartbeat rising from the ground below, as if the earth itself was remembering.
As night fell, rain drummed a lullaby on the tin roof, and Ani lay awake in his narrow bed, the shadows of swaying branches painting restless shapes across the damp walls. Neel snored softly on the other bed, the comforting weight of exhaustion pulling him into sleep, but Ani’s mind was a restless tide. Bah Kynshi’s warning replayed itself in the darkness: When the rain sings. What did it mean for rain to sing, in a place that had built its life around downpours? Outside, the world was hidden in curtains of mist and rain, as though the lodge itself floated in a sea of memory. Somewhere downstairs, the woman with the journal coughed, and a floorboard creaked as if someone was walking where they shouldn’t. The air felt thick, scented faintly with wet earth and something older, sour-sweet, like decaying flowers. And though Ani had chased ghost stories and rumors from ruined temples to forgotten forts, tonight the shadows felt closer, the rain louder, whispering secrets against the windowpanes. He closed his eyes, telling himself it was just the wind, just the stories he carried with him, but deep down, something in the hush between each raindrop felt alive—waiting for those who dared to listen.
Morning arrived in Cherrapunji not as a sunrise but as a slow lifting of the mist, revealing the rain-soaked lodge wrapped in moss and memory. Ani and Neel, umbrellas useless against the sideways drizzle, explored the lodge grounds with cameras slung over their shoulders, every step sinking slightly into the sponge-like earth. The caretaker, Bah Kynshi Mawphlang, watched from the veranda, his eyes as unreadable as the carvings that decorated the lodge’s old wooden beams. Inside, the low hum of a generator mixed with the ever-present drumming of rain, and Ani’s curiosity sharpened into determination: this place, forgotten by tourists except for a few odd souls each year, felt like it guarded stories too heavy for daylight. In the lounge, the woman with the leather-bound journal introduced herself as Mitali Das, an archaeologist studying ancient Khasi burial customs. She spoke with careful precision, her words occasionally drowned by the thunder, and Ani found himself drawn to her mix of skepticism and wonder. Over cups of hot, smoky tea, Mitali explained that the lodge was rumored to be built on top of a centuries-old burial ground once used by Khasi clans to lay their dead to rest under monoliths of stone. Neel raised an eyebrow and cracked a nervous joke about “room service from the afterlife,” but Ani could almost see the ghosts of those stones under the green slopes outside, hidden now by ferns and fog.
Later, Ani wandered through the halls, camera recording the slow decay: walls patched with damp stains, corridors where the flickering bulbs barely kept the gloom at bay. The caretaker’s voice followed him like a shadow, warning against disturbing what lay beneath. In a back hallway, he noticed old photographs nailed crookedly to the walls—sepia images of the lodge in its early days, when British officers and missionaries stayed here, smiling beside Khasi porters whose expressions seemed carved from stone. One photograph made Ani pause: a group of guests from decades ago, standing beside what looked like mossy monoliths half-buried in the hillside. The faces in the photo were blurred by age or moisture, but a strange pattern of symbols etched into the stones stood out, curling like ancient vines. Just then, Pyn appeared beside him, almost silently, her damp hair falling over her face. She spoke softly, barely above the rain’s whisper: “Better not look too long… they don’t like being seen.” Before Ani could ask who “they” were, she slipped away, leaving only the smell of wet earth and something faintly floral behind.
That night, the rain seemed to deepen, falling in waves that rattled the old glass panes and dripped steadily through the cracks in the roof. Ani couldn’t sleep, haunted by the photo and the weight of stories pressing around him like the mist outside. He stepped into the hallway, camera in hand, drawn toward the lounge where the low glow of a hurricane lamp still burned. Mitali was there, cross-legged on the floor beside her open journal, sketching the burial symbols from memory. “I think these stones mark something older than anyone admits,” she murmured, tracing spirals and lines that seemed to come alive in the lamplight. Ani sat beside her, the rain’s roar against the roof their only companion. Beyond the windows, the world was nothing but darkness and the restless sigh of falling water. Suddenly, a floorboard groaned in the hallway beyond, followed by the faintest echo of footsteps. Mitali froze, pencil hovering above paper. Together, they listened, breath held, as the rain seemed to shift from random drumming to something almost patterned—like words half-heard in a forgotten tongue. For a moment, Ani thought he saw a pale shape move across the reflection in the window, vanishing into the dark. Then only the rain remained, steady, secretive, and impossibly alive.
Three
The rain deepened its hold on the night, falling in torrents that made the very walls of the lodge tremble as though remembering the centuries they had stood against storms. Ani awoke to that relentless drumbeat, the thin blanket damp against his skin from the humid air that refused to leave the rooms untouched. Neel mumbled in sleep, rolling over with a soft snore, but Ani felt an invisible pull toward the corridor beyond their door. Grabbing his camera almost by instinct, he stepped out, the dim light from hurricane lamps throwing restless shadows on the damp-stained walls. The lodge seemed different at night—longer somehow, with corners that dissolved into darkness before the eye could fully adjust. The smell of wet earth mingled with something older, a sour-sweet trace that raised the tiny hairs at the back of Ani’s neck. Somewhere deeper in the corridor, a soft sound rose and fell—a voice, lilting and fragmented, like a lullaby half-remembered through generations. Ani’s pulse quickened. He followed the sound, the wooden floorboards groaning softly beneath his steps, until he reached the lounge where the lamp still burned low, its flame bending in the draft as though it too had seen something that made it recoil.
There, standing barefoot on the old rug soaked from dripping raincoat hems, was Pyn. Her hair hung wet over her face, the silver bangles on her wrist catching what little light there was, glinting like ghost-fires. Her eyes were open, yet unfocused, pupils reflecting the trembling lamplight. The words spilling from her lips were not Khasi as Ani had heard it before; they felt older, rawer, like the echo of a language carved into stone long before letters were inked on paper. Ani raised his camera, torn between fear and that familiar compulsion to record what others wouldn’t believe without proof. Through the viewfinder, Pyn seemed less like herself and more like a figure made of mist and memory, her voice weaving through the rain’s steady rhythm. And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the chant stopped. Pyn blinked, confusion clouding her gaze, her lips trembling as she whispered almost to herself, “They’re not resting. The rain keeps them awake.” Ani stepped forward, asking her what she meant, but her gaze slid past him as if he were only another shadow in the storm. She turned and walked away, feet silent on the old wood, leaving behind the hollow hush of words that refused to settle.
The next morning dawned without light, only a softer grey where night had been, and the rain’s song droned on without pause. At breakfast, the caretaker Bah Kynshi’s face looked older, lines deepened as if he too had listened to something that stole years in a single night. Ani mentioned Pyn’s trance hesitantly, watching for a flicker of reaction. Bah Kynshi exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging. “The spirits walk when the rain sings,” he said quietly, his voice rasping like wind through bamboo. “This land was never meant to be disturbed. Stones hold memories, and memories hold hunger.” Before Ani could press further, Mitali joined them, her eyes shadowed by her own restless night. She’d heard footsteps outside her room too, though when she’d opened the door, there had been nothing but mist coiling through the hallway. Then came the news that cracked the fragile morning: a guest, a lone traveler staying two rooms down, had disappeared. His bed unslept, his belongings untouched. Only the rain outside bore silent witness, drumming softly against the earth that had swallowed yet another secret in the night.
Four
The rain had settled into a patient, endless murmur by afternoon, a veil of silver threads that blurred the hills beyond the lodge into shifting shadows. Ani, camera in hand, followed Mitali up the moss-slicked path behind the lodge, where forgotten stones leaned drunkenly under the weight of time and lichen. Each step felt heavier, the air dense with the scent of wet earth and something faintly metallic, like old blood on ancient rock. Mitali paused beside a half-buried monolith, its surface scored with curling lines that seemed almost to move when caught by the fleeting light. She traced a gloved hand along the grooves, her brow furrowed in concentration. “These markings,” she murmured, “they’re older than the colonial period, older even than the clan burials I came to study. This place… it wasn’t just for the dead. It was meant to keep something contained.” Ani felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain, the camera lens catching the monolith’s scars, each curve whispering stories in a language that could no longer be spoken aloud.
Deeper into the grove, half-hidden by ferns and mist, they found more stones forming a broken circle. The ground inside was sunken, dark with rainwater that glistened like pooled obsidian. Mitali knelt, her notebook balanced on her knee, sketching the formation with quick, careful strokes. “It’s a binding ground,” she whispered, as if afraid the stones themselves might overhear. “To trap a spirit, you don’t bury it. You pin it with memory, mark it with stone, and hope it forgets its hunger.” Ani’s pulse quickened, the thrill of discovery battling the raw unease rising in his chest. The caretaker’s words returned to him, heavy as the sky above: When the rain sings, they walk. His camera captured Mitali’s face, pale and intent, the rain streaking her glasses until her eyes were hidden behind rivulets of water. Between the stones, Pyn stood silently, hair plastered to her face, her expression caught somewhere between fear and recognition—as though a part of her belonged among the moss and stone.
They returned to the lodge as dusk coiled around the hills, the rain thickening into a drumming shroud that blurred the world beyond arm’s reach. In the common room, Neel sat hunched over his laptop, his usual easy grin absent, replaced by a brittle tension. Ani showed him the footage of Pyn’s trance from the night before, the words spilling from her mouth like an old prayer. Neel’s hand hovered over the pause button, his face pale. “Ani, listen,” he whispered. Beneath Pyn’s voice, barely audible through the hiss of rain, another sound pulsed: a distant, rhythmic chant, low and almost human—but not quite. The lodge seemed to tighten around them, walls damp and breathing, as if listening. Bah Kynshi appeared in the doorway, water streaming from his coat, eyes fixed on the screen. “You shouldn’t have filmed it,” he said quietly, voice as soft and cold as the mist curling around the stones. “They don’t like to be remembered. And the rain… it remembers everything we forget.” His words lingered in the lamplit room, settling over them like fresh earth on an unquiet grave.
Five
The night was thicker than any Ani had experienced before, the kind of darkness that seemed to press down on the world, suffocating it under layers of wet fog and shadow. The rain, if anything, had only grown heavier, now crashing like waves against the lodge’s roof, filling every crevice with its relentless rhythm. Ani sat in the lounge with Neel, the two of them trying to dissect the events of the day. Mitali had retreated to her room to study her sketches, and Pyn had disappeared once more, as though swallowed whole by the rain. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, and despite their rationalizations, the feeling that something beyond their comprehension was stirring in the lodge seemed too real to ignore.
Neel was the first to break the silence, his voice tight. “We need to get out of here, Ani. This place, these stories—it’s not just some local legend. Something’s wrong, man.” He had been pacing back and forth, his hands running through his damp hair, his anxiety getting the better of him. “The way Pyn talked last night—her eyes—I’ve seen that look before, back home, when someone’s not just dreaming but hearing something… something real.” Ani wanted to reassure him, but the words caught in his throat. The pulse of fear in his chest seemed to echo in rhythm with the rain. Something about this place, about the very land itself, had him caught in its grip. “I’m not sure we can just leave, Neel,” Ani said, trying to steady his voice, but even he wasn’t convinced. “The story’s too big. If there’s something here—something supernatural—then we need to know what it is. We can’t just run.”
It was then that the floorboards creaked in the hallway. Both men went still, the noise so faint they almost dismissed it—but then came another. Closer. Like footsteps moving through the shadows, slow and deliberate, with no one visible. The sound wasn’t just the usual settling of old wood—it felt purposeful. Ani stood abruptly, his heart pounding, the camera already in his hands. “Stay here,” he told Neel, his voice barely a whisper. Neel, wide-eyed and on edge, nodded. The footsteps continued, drawing him down the hall toward the old wing of the lodge, the part that had been abandoned for as long as anyone could remember. It was a section of the lodge that the caretaker always warned them to avoid, the one that had once housed the original owners—long before it had become a tourist retreat.
The air grew colder as Ani walked down the dark hallway, each footstep ringing louder than the last. The lamp fixtures along the walls cast eerie pools of light that only seemed to deepen the shadows. It was in the farthest corner of the hall, beyond the old, cracked portraits and the faded furniture, that he saw it: a door slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beyond. The footsteps had stopped. His breath caught in his throat. With trembling hands, he pushed the door open, revealing an old study, its contents covered in dust, the furniture draped in white sheets as if abandoned in haste. At the far wall, a large, cracked window framed the misty landscape outside, rain streaking down the glass in slow, endless rivulets. But what drew his attention were the markings—carved deep into the walls, swirling patterns that matched the ones from the burial grounds.
A sharp noise broke his trance—a distant whisper, followed by the faintest sound of something scraping against the floor. Ani spun around, his camera’s night vision mode flickering on, casting a greenish hue over the room. In the corner, a figure stood, shrouded in mist, its features distorted by the rain and shadow. Ani’s heart nearly stopped. It was Pyn, but not quite—her form was faded, almost transparent, like a memory not quite held onto. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stared at him, unseeing. She was speaking again, but the words were not her own. They were guttural, like something ancient and raw, words Ani didn’t understand, words that dripped from her lips like poison.
“Pyn?” Ani asked, his voice barely a whisper. He took a tentative step forward, his camera capturing every second. The figure did not move. Instead, the air grew colder still, and a dark presence seemed to wrap itself around him, pulling at his chest, weighing him down. The walls felt like they were closing in, the rain outside somehow louder, more oppressive. He reached out, his fingers trembling, but as he did, the figure dissolved into the mist, vanishing without a trace, leaving only the echo of those unintelligible words in the stillness of the room.
Ani stood frozen, his breath shallow, eyes darting around the room, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The world felt off-balance, as if the ground beneath him was no longer solid. He backed out of the room slowly, unsure of what he had just witnessed, but knowing that it had been real—too real. He rushed back down the hall to find Neel, but when he reached the lounge, his friend wasn’t there. The door to the outside was wide open, the sound of rain crashing in as though someone had left it carelessly ajar.
He ran outside, his heart hammering in his chest. The world was swallowed by mist and rain, the lodge now little more than a shadow behind him. As he stood there in the storm, trying to find any sign of Neel, he realized with chilling clarity that the disappearance that had taken place here wasn’t just some accident, some unfortunate event. No, this place, this cursed ground, was alive with something far more ancient and insidious. The spirits that walked when the rain sang were not just myths—they were real, and they were claiming their due.
“Neel!” Ani shouted, his voice lost in the downpour. But the only reply was the deafening roar of the rain and the whisper of something else in the wind—something that sounded, just faintly, like a distant laugh.
Six
The storm had grown into a violent crescendo by morning, the sky churning in shades of charcoal and slate. Ani stood on the lodge’s front steps, soaked to the bone, staring into the maelstrom. The world was indistinct, swallowed by the thick mist that wrapped around everything like a suffocating blanket. Neel was still missing, and with every hour that passed, the reality of the situation seemed to bend and distort, like a photograph that had been left out in the rain. The lodge was eerily quiet now, as if holding its breath, the usual hum of distant conversations and clinking dishes absent. Bah Kynshi had locked himself in his quarters, refusing to speak to anyone, and Pyn—well, Pyn had simply disappeared into the mist like she always did when the spirits came calling. It was just Ani now, alone with the rain and the eerie silence of a place that seemed too haunted to exist in the real world.
Mitali joined him on the steps after a while, her face pale, her eyes sunken from lack of sleep. She had spent the night in her room, trying to make sense of the strange occurrences, but it seemed as though every answer led to more questions. “I’ve been through every manuscript, every text I brought with me,” she said, her voice shaky. “There’s nothing that explains what’s happening here. The stones, the chants, Pyn’s trance—they’re not just stories anymore. There’s something… alive here, something tied to the land, to the rain.” She paused, her eyes flitting nervously toward the woods beyond the lodge. “And it’s angry. Whatever it is, it’s angry.”
Ani turned to her, his face grim. “Angry? You mean the spirits? The ones Bah Kynshi was warning us about?”
Mitali nodded, her gaze unfocused as though she could already see things he couldn’t. “Yes, the spirits. They were never meant to be disturbed, Ani. The burial ground… it was a prison, not a resting place. The Khasi believed that the rain could hold memories, that it could trap the souls of the dead in its endless cycle, and if you disturbed the land or the stones, you released something terrible.” She shuddered, pulling her jacket tighter around her. “I think that’s what’s been happening here. People have been coming and going, trampling on the land, taking from it without understanding the cost. And now, the spirits have started to feed.”
Ani’s stomach churned, the words sinking deep into his bones. “Feed?” he repeated, barely able to comprehend it. “You mean, they’re—what—taking people?”
“Not just people,” Mitali murmured, her voice barely audible above the howling wind. “They’re taking their memories, their essence—everything that makes them who they are. The rain… it remembers everything. When it falls, it wakes up the past, and the spirits can walk. They only return when there’s blood, when the ground demands it. Neel’s not gone, Ani… He’s been claimed. By the land. By the rain.” Her voice broke on the last word, and Ani’s heart lurched. He felt his grip tighten on the railing, his knuckles white against the wet metal.
Before Ani could respond, a sharp cry echoed from somewhere within the lodge. It was Pyn’s voice, high-pitched and strangled, carried on the wind like a warning. Without thinking, Ani bolted inside, his camera swinging wildly as he rushed down the hall. The cry came again, followed by the unmistakable sound of shuffling footsteps, like something dragging itself across the wooden floor. He reached the far hallway, the one that led to the old part of the lodge, and the door at the end of the corridor was slightly ajar, just as it had been the night before. His heart hammered in his chest, and every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but he pressed forward, his camera aimed ahead, capturing everything.
Inside, the room was even darker than it had been before. The storm outside had blocked any trace of light from the dying lamps, and the shadows here felt more like things than mere absence. At first, Ani thought it was just his imagination—the fog swirling thickly through the air, the rain battering against the windows—but then he saw her. Pyn was kneeling in the center of the room, her body unnaturally still, her hair damp and tangled around her face. She was whispering something, but the words didn’t sound like anything he had ever heard. They were low and guttural, like a language that had been lost to time, and yet there was something disturbingly familiar about them. The walls around her seemed to hum in response, the air growing colder as the sound increased in intensity, like a chant, a ritual being performed.
Ani stepped forward, his voice trembling. “Pyn? What’s happening?” He reached for her shoulder, but as soon as his fingers brushed her skin, she jerked back, her eyes wide and wild with fear. For the first time, Ani saw something unmistakable in them: not the trance-like state he had witnessed before, but the raw, terrified recognition of a mind trying to break free of something it couldn’t escape.
“They’re coming,” Pyn gasped, her voice a whisper full of horror. “They’re already here, Ani. The spirits—they want more. The rain… it brings them, and it won’t stop until it takes everything.” She raised her hand, pointing toward the window, where the rain now beat against the glass with a violence Ani had never seen. For a moment, the world seemed to shudder. The air crackled with an energy that made his skin crawl. And then, through the misty window, he saw it: a shadow, dark and shapeless, moving in the woods outside, drawing nearer with every heartbeat.
A cold chill gripped Ani’s spine as the shadow took shape—human, but distorted, and with every step it took, the earth seemed to bend beneath it. His breath caught in his throat. “Neel…” he whispered, but the figure was not Neel. It was something else, something that walked in the rain, something that should have been left buried.
The shadows in the room seemed to grow deeper, and the wind howled, carrying with it the haunting sound of voices that spoke in unison, rising like an ancient chant from the bowels of the earth. Pyn screamed, her voice tearing through the silence, but it was drowned out by the storm. “We have to stop it, Ani,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “We have to stop it before it takes us too.”
Ani’s heart raced as he turned toward the door. The spirits had come for them, and the rain—now heavier than ever—was their gateway. There was no turning back now.
Seven
The storm outside had reached its peak, a violent symphony of thunder and crashing rain that seemed to shake the very foundations of the lodge. The windows rattled in their frames, the wind howling through the cracks in the ancient wood, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and something far older, something that lingered in the air like an ancient curse. Inside, the air was thick with the suffocating presence of the spirits, and Ani could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest, making every breath feel like a struggle. Pyn’s terrified face remained etched in his mind as she had pointed toward the shadow in the distance, her words a haunting echo in his ears: “They want more. The rain… it brings them.”
The lodge felt like a prison now, the walls closing in, and Ani had a sudden, overwhelming urge to escape, to flee into the storm and never look back. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave Mitali behind, and he couldn’t leave Neel to whatever fate the spirits had already chosen for him. There was no running now. Only one thing remained—understanding what the spirits wanted, what the rain had awakened, and how to stop it.
Mitali had disappeared into the old wing of the lodge, drawn by some invisible force, and Ani found himself following, his feet moving mechanically, his mind racing. The shadows in the hallways seemed to shift with him, warping around him as though the building itself were alive, breathing, feeding on the terror in the air. Each step he took felt heavier than the last, as if the floorboards were resisting his movement, forcing him to stay in this place, this cursed ground where the rain had turned the world upside down. He reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of the door to the study—the room where he had seen Pyn, where the spirits had spoken through her. The door creaked open of its own accord, a gust of cold air rushing past him, carrying with it the faintest whisper of voices from beyond. He stepped inside.
The study was different now. The shadows had deepened, stretching across the room like tendrils, creeping along the walls and floor, their shapes too fluid to be real. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something else—something metallic and bitter, like blood. The desk was still covered in dust, the papers left untouched. But in the center of the room, Mitali stood, her back to him, staring at the window. Her body was unnaturally still, her posture rigid, like a statue carved from stone. Ani approached her slowly, his breath catching in his throat. Her lips were moving, but no sound came from them.
“Mitali?” he called softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
At the sound of his voice, she turned, her eyes wide and unblinking, completely devoid of recognition. There was nothing in her gaze but emptiness. Her face had changed, too. Her skin was paler than before, almost translucent, as though the life had been drained from her. And her lips, though unmoving, continued to form the same word over and over, like a mantra: “Hunger. Hunger. Hunger.”
Ani stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the presence in the room, the oppressive weight of it pressing down on him, urging him to join the chant, to let the rain and the spirits consume him. The walls seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her words, the air thickening, and for a moment, he thought he saw something moving in the shadows—something far larger than Mitali, something that wasn’t human.
“Mitali,” he tried again, his voice shaking, but this time, his words were barely his own, swallowed by the sound of the chant, the low, guttural growl that came from the depths of the earth. The shadows twisted and writhed, dark shapes moving like smoke, and he felt the floor beneath his feet tremble. Mitali’s eyes flickered, her pupils shifting like liquid, her face now an inhuman mask, as if the spirits that had taken her were now wearing her skin.
“They are coming,” Mitali whispered, the words now slipping from her lips in a voice that was not her own, a voice deep and ancient, thick with the weight of centuries. “The hunger… it is insatiable… and you will feed it, too.”
Ani stumbled back, his pulse racing, his mind spinning. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. There was only the chant, the pulse of the spirits, and the overwhelming desire to run. But he couldn’t. He had to stop it. He had to break the cycle before the spirits claimed him, before they claimed everyone.
Suddenly, the door behind him slammed shut with a deafening crash, and the room went dark, the only light coming from the dim glow of his camera. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to close in, and Ani felt the temperature drop sharply, his breath coming out in visible puffs. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, as if the building itself were sinking into the earth, into the grave that had been dug for it long ago.
And then, just as quickly as the darkness had descended, it was gone. The room returned to its previous state—dim, but ordinary—save for one terrifying detail: Mitali was gone. In her place stood Pyn, her eyes wide and glassy, her body swaying gently as though carried by the weight of the rain outside. The camera in Ani’s hand clicked on by itself, capturing her image in the eerie, unnatural stillness.
“They are waiting,” Pyn said softly, her voice far too calm for the situation. “They always wait when the rain sings. And now they’ve claimed what they came for.”
Ani’s hands shook violently as he turned the camera toward the window, the rain now falling in sheets, but through the mist, a figure could be seen, standing at the edge of the trees. It was tall and unnatural, its outline blurred by the rain, but unmistakable—Neel. He stood motionless, staring at the lodge with an expression of utter emptiness. His face was pale, his body unnaturally stiff, as though he, too, had become part of the rain.
“They’re feeding,” Pyn whispered again, her voice a breath in the storm. “And they will never stop until everything has been claimed.”
Ani’s heart sank, and for the first time, he understood the true cost of disturbing this land. The spirits weren’t just hungry for flesh. They were hungry for memories, for souls, for everything that made a person whole. And they would not stop until they had consumed every last trace of humanity.
The lodge was not a refuge. It was a tomb.
Eight
The storm had not relented, but the rain had quieted slightly, shifting into a rhythmic, almost deliberate patter, like the whispering of unseen voices. It was as though the earth itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Ani stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway, staring out through the cracked windows of the lodge. Neel’s figure remained outside, motionless, a dark silhouette in the relentless downpour, his features obscured by the mist and rain. Despite the distance, it felt as though he was staring back at Ani with eyes that were no longer his own—eyes that had been taken, swallowed by the spirits of this cursed land. The wind outside howled in a way that was more like a mournful wail, carrying with it the distant sound of a chant, a low, vibrating hum that made the walls tremble. The spirits were calling, and they were gathering.
Pyn stood beside him, her form a faint blur in the shadows, her eyes empty and distant, as though she had already crossed over into the realm of the dead. Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath, but it cut through the air like a knife. “It’s too late, Ani. They’ve already begun. The rain doesn’t just drown the earth—it swallows the soul. And once it takes you, you’re not truly gone. You live in the rain, in the hunger.”
Ani swallowed hard, his throat tight with dread. The air felt thick with oppression, and his thoughts seemed slow, weighed down by the strange power of the lodge, the spirits that had infested it, and the relentless force of the storm that seemed to push against the boundaries of reality itself. The images of Mitali and Neel, their bodies taken and transformed, flashed in his mind, the once-familiar faces now alien, marked by the hunger of the rain and the spirits that had claimed them. He had thought he could fight it, that he could find a way to stop the spirits, but the truth was undeniable now—there was no escaping it.
“The ritual,” he murmured, the word falling from his lips like a prayer. “We have to stop it. There’s got to be a way.”
Pyn’s hollow eyes met his, and for the first time since the storm had begun, a flicker of something human seemed to pass through her. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “The ritual,” she repeated softly, “isn’t something you stop. It’s what sustains them. The rain feeds on the living, and it keeps the dead. You can’t undo what’s been done.” Her voice trembled slightly, a crack forming in the otherwise cold tone. “But… if you choose… you could try. You could end it. You could make the rain stop.”
The words hung in the air, hanging between them like a fragile thread. Ani turned toward her, his heart hammering. “What do you mean? How?”
She stepped closer, her feet barely making a sound against the damp floor. “The only way to break the cycle… is to offer what the rain wants most.” She paused, her breath cold as the storm outside. “A soul.”
Ani’s stomach twisted at the thought, his body recoiling. “You mean… I would have to sacrifice someone? For the rain to stop?”
Pyn’s gaze darkened, her eyes hollow pits of sorrow and resignation. “No. It’s not a sacrifice, Ani. It’s a bargain. The rain takes what it wants when it’s offered freely. It takes the memories, the essence of who you are. It doesn’t just drown the body—it drowns the soul. But in return, it leaves the land at peace. The hunger will end. The storm will stop.”
For a long moment, Ani stood there, frozen by the weight of her words. He had thought that the spirits were mindless, hungry entities, but they were something more, something older and more insidious. They weren’t just seeking destruction—they were seeking completion, a return to something that had been broken long ago. And in their endless hunger, they fed not only on the living but on the very essence of life itself. The lodge, the burial ground, the spirits—they were all part of an ancient, insatiable cycle. And there was no way to stop it without paying the ultimate price.
Ani’s mind spun. If he offered himself to the spirits, if he allowed them to take his essence, would that end the rain? Would it stop the storm, the hunger, and the restless dead that walked when the rain sang? Or would it simply be another link in an unbroken chain of suffering, another soul lost to the earth?
“What happens to me?” Ani asked, his voice shaking, barely a whisper. “If I give them what they want… what happens to me?”
Pyn’s lips parted, but no words came out. She didn’t need to speak, because Ani already knew the answer. He would be gone. Not dead, but erased. His memories, his very being, would be consumed by the rain, leaving nothing behind but an empty vessel, a shadow walking in the mist. He would become a part of the hunger. The spirits would have their claim.
A cold wind swept through the open window, the mist swirling around the room like ghosts drifting between the realms. The storm had reached its peak again, the rain now a wall of sound that made everything feel unreal, as if the lodge were floating in a different world entirely. The rain had become a living thing, a force that existed outside of time and reason, and it would not stop until it had taken everything.
“I can’t do this,” Ani whispered, his voice breaking as he backed away from Pyn. “I can’t give them what they want. There has to be another way.”
Pyn’s expression softened, a fleeting look of sympathy crossing her face. “There is no other way, Ani,” she said quietly. “You’ve seen the truth. The spirits walk. The hunger calls. And the rain will not stop until it has claimed what it came for.”
Ani looked back toward the window, his mind racing, his heart heavy with the weight of his choices. Neel’s figure was still standing in the rain, unmoving, like a ghost waiting for him to make his final decision. And in the distance, beyond the mist, beyond the storm, Ani saw something else—something he hadn’t noticed before. The shadows in the woods were stirring, moving closer, like a slow tide that could not be stopped.
The hunger was here. And it was coming for him.
In that moment, Ani knew there was only one way to break the cycle.
The rain would stop when he gave everything he had, when he became a part of the land itself, a part of the hunger. But it wouldn’t end with him. It wouldn’t stop until it had consumed all of them.
And so, with a final, painful breath, Ani made his choice. He stepped toward the window, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision, knowing that whatever happened next would be the end of this story, the end of the hunger—and the end of him.
Nine
The rain fell harder now, a constant, driving force that pounded the earth beneath Ani’s feet like an unstoppable tide. The storm’s intensity seemed to match the growing roar in his mind, a cacophony of fear, uncertainty, and resignation. He stood at the window, staring out at the mist-drenched woods, Neel’s unmoving figure a distant silhouette, like a marionette strung by invisible strings. The hunger was close now, its shadow wrapping around the lodge, pressing in on the walls, sinking into the ground, into the very air. Ani could feel it—could almost taste it—as though the land itself was alive, breathing, waiting.
He turned away from the window, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Pyn’s words echoed in his mind: The spirits feed on souls, not bodies. They want your essence, your memories, your very being. And he knew now, with a terrible certainty, that the price of stopping this—of ending the hunger—was his own soul. His life, his memories, everything that made him Ani Roy would be taken, consumed by the rain, by the spirits, leaving nothing behind but an empty shell.
But there was no other choice. He couldn’t let Neel remain like this, an empty vessel, a puppet of the hunger. He couldn’t let Mitali, or Pyn, or anyone else become another lost soul, swallowed whole by the storm and the insatiable spirits. And so, he made his choice, the only choice that seemed possible now.
“I have to end it,” he whispered to himself, though the words felt foreign, as if they didn’t belong to him anymore.
Pyn was standing behind him, her form still shrouded in the eerie mist, her eyes empty and hollow. “You understand what this means, Ani?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a breath. “Once the rain has claimed you, there is no going back. You will be gone from this world, lost to the hunger, to the spirits.”
Ani nodded, his gaze fixed on Neel, still standing in the distance. The storm howled louder, the winds whipping around the lodge, as if urging him forward. He could feel the pull of it—the call of the spirits, the promise of an end to the rain, the hunger. But even knowing the cost, a part of him hesitated, a part of him still clung to the hope that there might be another way.
There wasn’t.
“I’ll do it,” Ani said, his voice thick with finality. “I’ll give them what they want. I’ll offer myself to the rain, to the hunger. But I’m not doing it alone.”
Pyn’s hollow gaze softened, just a little, and for a brief moment, Ani thought he saw something in her eyes—a flicker of humanity, a reminder of who she once was. “You understand the price,” she repeated, her voice almost pleading now, as though she were warning him. “Once the rain has taken you, you will be part of the hunger forever. The land will claim you. The spirits will feed on you. And there will be no end, no peace.”
Ani didn’t answer her. Instead, he stepped toward the door, his hand resting on the weathered handle. He could feel the rain, cold and oppressive, pressing against the glass, pushing in from the outside, demanding to be let in. He opened the door and stepped out into the storm.
The wind hit him like a wall, the rain slashing across his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He could barely see through the mist, but he could feel the presence of the spirits, like a thousand eyes watching him, waiting for him to make his final move. Neel was still standing there, motionless, his back turned toward the lodge. Ani called his name, but the wind swallowed the sound, and Neel didn’t move. It was as though he wasn’t really there—just another shadow in the storm, another lost soul who had already been claimed by the rain.
But Ani kept moving forward, his feet sinking into the wet earth, the mud sucking at his shoes. Each step felt heavier, like the land itself was trying to pull him under, to claim him before he could make his final decision. He reached Neel, his hands trembling as he gripped his friend’s shoulder, turning him slowly.
Neel’s eyes were empty, hollow, just like Pyn’s. He wasn’t Neel anymore. He was a shell, a body that had been consumed by the spirits. The rain had already taken him—his memories, his essence—leaving only a vacant vessel behind. Ani swallowed hard, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a physical force. He had come to stop this. He had come to end the hunger. But he hadn’t realized how far gone Neel truly was, how much of him had already been swallowed by the storm.
And then Ani knew. The rain, the hunger, the spirits—they didn’t just take the living. They took the memory of the living, the essence of who they were. And Neel had already given himself to them, willingly or not.
“Ani…” Neel’s voice came, faint and distant, like a whisper carried on the wind. The words didn’t make sense, just fragments, like echoes in the storm. “I’m not me… anymore…”
Tears burned in Ani’s eyes, and he fought to hold them back. This wasn’t the end he had imagined. This wasn’t how he had thought he’d stop the hunger. But it didn’t matter. There was no choice now. Neel was gone. Mitali was gone. The spirits had claimed them both, and there was only one thing left to do.
Ani closed his eyes for a moment, the wind howling in his ears, the rain beating down on his skin, and when he opened them again, he made his decision.
“Take me,” he whispered to the storm. “Take me. I give myself to you.”
The wind screamed, the rain lashed against his face, and the earth trembled beneath his feet. The air around him crackled with a strange energy, a pulse that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth, a force that had been waiting for this moment. And then, all at once, the ground beneath him gave way, and the spirits came, rising from the earth, from the rain, from the very land itself. They surrounded him, their forms shifting and writhing in the mist, reaching for him with outstretched hands, their eyes hollow and ancient, their hunger insatiable.
And as Ani stood there, his heart pounding in his chest, he knew that the rain would stop. The hunger would cease. The spirits would be sated. But he would be gone. A part of the land. A part of the storm. A memory swallowed by the hunger.
And as the darkness closed in around him, the last thing Ani heard was the sound of the rain, softening, fading, as the hunger claimed him completely.
Ten
The storm had finally ceased, its fury spent, leaving behind an eerie stillness that blanketed the world in a heavy, oppressive silence. The rain, once relentless and suffocating, had melted into the earth, leaving only the memory of its terrible weight. The lodge, battered but standing, loomed against the quiet landscape, its walls streaked with water, its windows dark. In the woods beyond, the mist still clung to the trees like a shroud, but the restless energy that had thrummed through the air was gone. The hunger had been sated.
Yet, in the wake of the storm, something felt different. The land seemed at peace, but there was no comfort in that peace. It was a hollow quiet, a stillness that spoke of things lost, of memories erased, of lives that had been consumed by the insatiable spirits of the rain. The hunger had claimed its due, and now, all that was left were the remnants—echoes of lives that had once been, flickering like forgotten dreams.
The caretaker, Bah Kynshi, emerged from the shadows of the lodge, his face gaunt, his expression unreadable. He looked at the horizon, where the storm clouds had finally broken apart, revealing a sky painted in soft shades of gray. The wind had died down, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves in its wake. But even in the calm, Bah Kynshi’s eyes were clouded, as if he could still feel the weight of the spirits lingering, like ghosts refusing to leave.
The lodge was empty now. Pyn, Mitali, and Neel were gone. And Ani… Ani was no longer the person who had arrived here, full of ambition and curiosity. He had given himself to the hunger, to the rain, to the spirits, and in doing so, he had become a part of the land itself—a part of the cycle that could never be broken. The cycle that had existed for centuries, long before the first settlers had arrived, and that would continue long after the lodge crumbled into ruins.
Bah Kynshi reached the edge of the woods, his footsteps slow, his face somber. He didn’t need to turn back to know that the lodge was now just a hollow shell, a place marked by the weight of the spirits’ hunger. The rain would come again, as it always did, and with it, the spirits would rise once more. The cycle would continue. The hunger would never end.
The caretaker’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the woods, the shadows of trees stretching long in the fading light. The land would not be at peace for long. The rain would call again, and when it did, it would call to those who were not yet lost, to those who still walked among the living. They, too, would eventually become part of the land—part of the hunger. There was no escaping it. The spirits had made that clear.
In the distance, Bah Kynshi saw something shifting in the mist. A figure, standing tall, its outline barely visible through the fog. It was human in shape, but not quite. Its form was distorted, as though it were made of smoke, of mist, of the very rain that had brought it to life. And in that moment, Bah Kynshi knew that the spirits had not been appeased. They were only waiting—waiting for the next cycle, for the next offering, for the next soul to feed the hunger.
The figure moved slowly, its steps deliberate, and Bah Kynshi took a step back, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. The spirits were not finished. The hunger had not been sated—not yet.
And so, as the last remnants of the storm disappeared into the horizon, the land remained silent, holding its breath, as the cycle prepared to begin again.
In the distance, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a faint, almost inaudible chant, like a memory long forgotten. The rain was coming. And with it, the spirits would walk once more.
The hunger was never truly satisfied.
End
