Amitava Dasgupta
Chapter 1
High in the mist-wrapped hills of the Western Ghats, where the dense forests whispered old secrets and the air carried the tang of moss and rain-wet stone, stood the ruin of St. Thomas’s Church. The church had once served a small colonial outpost in the 1800s, built atop what locals called Kalapahad — Black Hill — a place they had always regarded with quiet dread. Now, over a century later, it was little more than a crumbling shell of stone, its bell tower broken, its arched windows gaping like blind eyes. The jungle had begun to reclaim the site: strangler figs coiled about the walls, wild orchids bloomed in the cracks, and monkeys sometimes leapt across the fallen roof. But no animal ventured inside after dark. On certain nights — especially near the new moon — the villagers of Kalaghat, nestled at the foot of the hill, spoke of hearing the ancient bell tolling at midnight. Its sound floated down through the forest like a lament, deep and hollow, chilling the blood. And sometimes, when the mist parted, those who dared to look up saw strange lights flicker among the ruins, and shapes — thin and still — gathered where once the pews had stood. Shapes that looked too human to be shadows.
The stories had passed from generation to generation, part of Kalaghat’s unspoken memory. Elders warned children never to wander toward Kalapahad after sundown. They spoke of the church’s dark history: how in its final days, during a terrible storm, the British priest — Father Elijah Cartwright — had sealed the doors and set the place ablaze, trapping himself and his congregation inside. His reasons were lost to time, though whispers told of a curse, of a ritual gone wrong, of something Father Elijah tried to contain at the cost of his soul. Since that night, the church had stood silent in the day but alive in the hours of darkness. Once, a group of city hikers had camped near the summit, mocking the villagers’ superstitions. At midnight, the bell tolled, and one among them — a young man from Pune — rose as if in a trance and walked toward the ruin, vanishing into the mist. His friends found no trace of him the next morning, only his footprints ending at the church door. For years afterward, woodcutters claimed to glimpse a lone figure at dusk standing at the hill’s edge, watching the valley with hollow eyes.
On this night, the mist lay thick over Kalaghat like a burial shroud. The moon was hidden, and the stars flickered faintly behind veils of cloud. In the village tea shop, the few souls still awake spoke in low voices of the bell and the church. An old woman, her hair white as ash, recited prayers under her breath as she poured tea for the gathered men. A farmer spoke of hearing the bell two nights past and of how his cattle had broken their tethers in terror. A retired forest ranger described seeing lights in the church and a figure at the pulpit, its arms raised in silent command. Outside, the jungle was unnaturally still — no chirp of cricket, no cry of nightjar — as though the earth itself held its breath. And then it came: the first deep toll of the bell, distant yet clear, rising from the mist like the voice of a lost soul. Dogs howled and cowered. The villagers fell silent, their faces pale, their eyes drawn toward the dark outline of Kalapahad.
The bell tolled again, each note heavier than the last, echoing through the valley and into the hearts of those who heard. As the final peal faded, the mist above the hill seemed to part for a heartbeat. The ruin of the church loomed in the moon’s weak glow, and within it flickered the pale light of phantom candles. Ghostly figures filled the nave, seated as if at mass, heads bowed, faces hidden in shadow. At the pulpit stood a darker shape — featureless, vast, more shadow than man — its presence heavy with dread. It raised an arm — skeletal, void-like — and the congregation, as one, bent their heads lower still, in fear or reverence none could tell. Then the mist swallowed the vision once more, and all was as it had been: the hill silent, the jungle watchful, and the villagers of Kalaghat left with the echo of the bell tolling in their souls. From that night on, they spoke even less of the church, for to speak of it, they feared, was to invite its darkness into their lives.
Chapter 2
The dawn after the bell’s tolling broke over Kalaghat with a strange hush. The mists clung longer than usual, reluctant to surrender the land to daylight, and when the sun finally pierced the fog, it cast the world in a pale, sickly gold. The villagers went about their work, but their eyes strayed often to the hill, as if expecting to see fresh ruin upon it. In the midst of this uneasy morning arrived Father Marcus D’Souza, a young priest from Mangalore sent by the diocese at the request of Kalaghat’s old parish. He was tall, thin, with kind eyes and a gentle voice that spoke more of compassion than commandment. His cassock was worn from travel, and his boots were caked in the red mud of the monsoon-ravaged trails. He rode a battered motorcycle, its engine coughing and sputtering as he entered the village, drawing curious stares from men and children alike. He had heard of Kalapahad, of course. The stories reached even the seminary — tales of a church that should have been a beacon of faith but became instead a prison of shadows. And yet, as he dismounted and greeted the villagers with a soft smile and a raised hand of blessing, his heart remained steady. Faith, he believed, was stronger than fear. And whatever curse clung to the ruined church, surely it could be lifted with prayer and sacrament.
Father Marcus was given shelter that night at the modest home of Peter Gomes, the village schoolmaster — a man of quiet dignity who kept the old ways but welcomed the church’s guidance. Over dinner — simple rice, dal, and pickle — Peter spoke cautiously of the church on the hill. His voice dropped low as he recounted what he had heard as a boy: that the British priest who built St. Thomas’s had defied the warnings of the local elders. Kalapahad, they said, had long been a place of burial for a tribe that worshipped gods older than the hills, gods who hungered for sacrifice. When the church rose upon that sacred ground, the balance was broken. At first, the church thrived. But then came the droughts, the sickness, the deaths. And then the final storm — a night of fire and thunder, when Father Elijah sealed himself and his flock inside to stop some horror that had been awakened beneath the earth. The villagers had stayed away since. Peter’s wife, Miriam, placed a protective thread on Marcus’s wrist as he listened. “Forgive me, Father,” she said softly, “but prayers alone may not be enough against what sleeps on that hill.”
The next morning, Marcus visited the old parish church at the village edge — a whitewashed building with cracked walls and a rusting cross atop its steeple. From here, Kalapahad loomed in the distance, a dark shape against the rising sun. He met the aged caretaker, Brother Joseph, who walked with a limp and eyes clouded with cataracts. Joseph, too, warned him gently but firmly. “Many priests came before you, Father. Some tried to bless that hill. Some tried to exorcise it. None stayed long. The land is not only haunted by spirits. It remembers its anger.” Marcus listened but felt no fear. His duty was clear: to bring peace where there was unrest, light where there was shadow. He gathered his holy book, a vial of blessed oil, and a rosary worn smooth from years of use. At dusk, as the villagers lit their lamps and shut their doors, Marcus stood at the foot of Kalapahad and gazed up at the path that led through jungle and mist toward the ruined church. The hill seemed to breathe, exhaling a slow, cold wind that stirred the trees and carried with it the scent of earth, old stone, and something else — something sharp and metallic, like blood.
As he began his climb, the forest fell silent around him, the chatter of birds and monkeys fading as if the creatures themselves dared not witness what was to come. The path was narrow and uneven, strewn with roots and stones, and as night deepened, the mists thickened, wrapping him in their damp embrace. Strange markings, worn by rain and time, appeared upon the rocks and tree trunks — symbols Marcus did not recognize, yet which filled him with unease. Once, he thought he saw movement ahead: a pale shape slipping between the trees, gone before he could call out. He pressed on, his prayers soft upon his lips, the rosary beads cool in his hand. And when he finally emerged from the jungle and stood before the church — its broken bell tower silhouetted against the starless sky — he felt for the first time the weight of the place. It was not only ruined; it was waiting. Waiting for him. The first faint toll of the bell sounded as if in answer, deep and mournful, and the shadows within the church seemed to stir. But Father Marcus squared his shoulders, made the sign of the cross, and stepped forward, his heart steady, his faith his only shield against the darkness of Kalapahad.
Chapter 3
The following morning, the mists still hung over Kalaghat, as though the hill’s curse had seeped into the very air. Father Marcus returned from his vigil at the church, weary but unshaken, though his mind churned with questions and unease. The bell had tolled again in the night, though no living hand had touched it. The shadows within the church had seemed to shift as he prayed, as if listening, or perhaps mocking his faith. Determined to understand what darkness gripped this land, Marcus sought out the elders of the village. Beneath the spreading branches of the ancient banyan at Kalaghat’s heart, they gathered — men with faces lined by time and sorrow, women whose eyes spoke of loss beyond words. The air was thick with incense and the sweet, heavy scent of marigolds strung upon the banyan’s limbs, offerings left by those who still clung to hope or fear. When Marcus spoke of the church, of his intent to bless the land and free it from its torment, a hush fell. It was Lakshman the potter, oldest among them, who finally broke the silence. His voice was low, roughened by age, but strong with the weight of truth. “Father,” he said, “do you not see? The church is a prison, not for the dead, but for something far older. It is not the spirits that curse us — it is what the spirits tried to seal away.”
Lakshman’s tale unfolded like a tapestry of dread. Long before the British came, before even the temple at Kalaghat’s edge was built, Kalapahad had been the seat of an ancient cult — one that worshipped the dark face of the earth, the power that sleeps beneath stone and root. They named it Kali Vetaal, the Hunger Beneath, the Shadow That Waits. It was said that human sacrifices were offered upon that hill in secret rites, their blood feeding the soil, keeping the entity dreaming. When the British arrived and raised the church upon that land, they broke the ancient pact. The offerings ceased; the balance was undone. First came the drought that withered crops for three years. Then the sickness that swept through both villagers and settlers alike, taking children first, then their mothers, then the strong men who remained. Father Elijah, the priest who built the church, had at first offered prayers and sermons, but when his flock dwindled and the land seemed to die, he turned to forbidden texts — books left behind by a Portuguese missionary who had studied the old faiths too closely. What Elijah found in those pages drove him to madness or enlightenment none could say. He sealed his congregation in the church, recited rites not meant for Christian tongues, and set the building ablaze — trying, the villagers believed, to trap the Hunger once more within stone and ash.
The villagers spoke of what came after — the nights when the bell first began to toll on its own, the shadows that gathered within the ruined walls. The dogs that vanished near the hill, the cattle found with eyes glassy and tongues swollen, as if choked by terror. The forest grew strange, they said. Trees twisted in shapes like men writhing in pain. The air grew cold even at summer’s peak. And always, the church loomed above, watching, waiting. Some who braved its doors at night — pilgrims, madmen, or thieves — were never seen again. Others returned pale, broken, whispering of a darkness beneath the stone, a voice that spoke in dreams, promising gifts of power or glimpses of eternity, if only they would help set it free. As Lakshman finished his tale, the banyan’s leaves stirred though no breeze touched them, and the air seemed to thicken with memory and fear. The villagers looked to Father Marcus with pity more than hope. They had seen priests come and go, each certain they could end the curse, each leaving defeated or worse. But Marcus’s eyes shone with quiet resolve. He did not believe in leaving a prison unguarded. If something waited beneath that church, he would face it — or die trying.
That night, Marcus sat alone in prayer beneath the banyan, seeking guidance. The jungle sang softly around him: the call of night birds, the chirr of insects, the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. But beneath those natural sounds, he thought he heard something else: a deep, slow heartbeat in the earth itself, as if the land breathed and dreamed in restless slumber. The words of the villagers echoed in his mind, mingling with his own doubts. Could faith alone bind what ancient rites had held in check? Could a single man hope to succeed where generations had failed? And yet — was it not his calling to try? When at last he rose, the stars glimmered weakly through the haze, and Kalapahad stood dark against the sky, the church at its crown like a black crown upon a buried king. Marcus made the sign of the cross, wrapped his rosary tight about his hand, and turned toward his quarters. Tomorrow, he would ascend the hill again — not merely to pray, but to search. He would find the source of the curse, and he would end it, or join those lost to Kalapahad’s hunger.
Chapter 4
At dawn, Kalapahad loomed like a great beast rousing from slumber, its slopes shrouded in coils of mist that clung to the jungle canopy and drifted down into Kalaghat. The villagers rose with the sun, but their eyes turned upward with dread, for they knew Father Marcus had resolved to climb the hill again that day. As he prepared — fastening his weathered boots, wrapping a woolen shawl against the chill — Peter Gomes tried one last time to dissuade him. “Father,” he said, his voice tight with worry, “what good can come of this? The church has stood in ruin for a century. Let it fall to dust. Let it be forgotten.” But Marcus shook his head gently. “If we forget, Peter, it will not forget us. The land aches for peace.” With that, he took up his small satchel — a flask of holy water, his Bible, a taper of blessed incense — and began the long, winding path up Kalapahad. The trail, once used by missionaries and villagers alike, was now little more than a tangle of stone and root, choked by vines. With each step, the forest seemed to close around him, the light dimming as if he walked into the throat of the earth.
The climb was steep, and the air grew heavy with the scent of damp leaves and decaying wood. Strange carvings marked some of the stones — spirals and jagged glyphs worn by time but still legible enough to raise the hair on Marcus’s neck. Birds watched silently from the branches, their bright eyes unblinking. Once, a shape moved in the undergrowth — too large for a dog, too silent for a man — and was gone before Marcus could see it clearly. His prayers became steady, rhythmic, a chant that seemed to hold back the pressing weight of the hill’s menace. At last, the trees thinned, and the church revealed itself through the mists: a ruin of blackened stone, its bell tower cracked, its cross long fallen. The roof had collapsed in places, allowing shafts of pale light to pierce the gloom within. Weeds and thorny bushes filled the nave. The great doors, once oaken and mighty, hung crooked on rusted hinges, one half torn from its post. As Marcus crossed the threshold, the temperature seemed to drop, and a great silence fell, as though even the wind held its breath.
Inside, the church felt less like a ruin and more like a tomb. Dust motes danced in the thin light, and the air smelled of old ash and stone. The altar stood scorched and broken, its carvings defaced, the crucifix shattered at its base. Marcus lit the incense and placed it upon a fragment of the altar, the smoke curling upward like a fragile prayer. As he began his blessings, a low sound echoed through the nave — not the tolling of the bell this time, but a whisper, faint and broken, as if voices spoke from beneath the earth itself. The ground seemed to tremble underfoot, so subtly Marcus wondered at first if it was merely his imagination. Then, from the shadows at the edge of the nave, figures began to take shape — pale forms, robed and cowled, seated as if in endless worship. Their faces were hidden, but the weight of their gaze fell upon Marcus like cold rain. And at the pulpit, as before, stood the dark figure — larger than any man, featureless, with arms that seemed to stretch wider than possible, as if to embrace or engulf the world.
The air grew thick with dread as Marcus stepped forward, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. He raised the Bible, reciting the prayers of deliverance, calling upon the saints, upon Christ himself, to cleanse the place. But the shadows did not retreat. The whispering grew louder, resolving into words in no tongue Marcus knew, a language that seemed older than speech itself. The dark figure raised its arms higher, and with it the bell tolled once — loud, close, as if from just above his head, though no bell remained in the tower. The ground beneath the altar cracked, a jagged line splitting the stone, and a breath of air — foul, hot, and ancient — rose from the depths. Marcus stumbled back, clutching his rosary, but his resolve did not waver. He understood now: the church was no sanctuary. It was a seal — and that seal was weakening. As he fled the ruin, the toll of the bell echoed through the forest once more, and the mist seemed to follow him down the hill, as if the Hunger Beneath had caught his scent at last.
Chapter 5
That night, the air in Kalaghat seemed charged with a strange stillness. The usual chorus of crickets and frogs was absent, as though nature itself recoiled from the events of the day. Father Marcus lay upon a straw mat in Peter Gomes’s small home, but sleep would not come. His body trembled from the cold that clung to him since leaving the church, though no fire seemed warm enough to chase it away. His mind replayed the dark figure at the pulpit, the cracked altar stone, the foul breath that had risen from beneath. Each time his eyes closed, he saw again the vast arms stretching toward him, the bell tolling in answer to that silent summons. And then came the dreams — or perhaps they were visions. A vast cavern beneath the hill, where roots dangled like nooses and stone pillars dripped with blood. A presence that filled the space, faceless and formless, yet terrible in its hunger. It whispered in a voice like grinding stone, not in words, but in urges — open the way… feed the earth… release the dark. Marcus awoke before dawn, drenched in sweat, his rosary clenched so tight in his fist that the beads had left welts upon his palm.
When he rose to wash at the village well, the first rays of sun revealed something that made his heart falter. Across his right forearm, where his sleeve had been torn during his flight from the church, was a bruise shaped like a claw — five dark marks, as if some unseen hand had grasped him in the night. The skin burned where the marks lay, and beneath the pain, a deeper chill seemed to seep into his bones. Peter’s wife, Miriam, saw the bruise as she brought water and gasped, retreating a step as she crossed herself in fear. “Father… the mark!” she whispered. “The Hunger knows you now.” Word spread swiftly through the village. By midday, the elders gathered once more at the banyan, their faces grim. Lakshman, the potter, spoke what all feared. “The seal weakens, and the thing beneath stirs. You have seen it, Father. Now it has seen you. The mark is a summons — or a warning. If you stay, it will come for you, and for us all.” But Marcus, though shaken, would not flee. “If the seal weakens,” he said softly, “then I must find a way to strengthen it. I will not abandon you to its hunger.”
Determined, Marcus sought knowledge where he could. He scoured the remnants of the old parish’s library — tattered hymnals, brittle catechisms, and, hidden behind a loose stone in the sacristy wall, a leather-bound journal stained by age and mildew. It was the journal of Father Elijah himself. By candlelight that night, Marcus read the priest’s final, desperate writings. Elijah spoke of dreams much like Marcus’s own, of a voice in the depths that promised salvation at terrible cost. He wrote of the old rites of the land — of stones arranged in patterns of power, of blood that fed the seal. In his madness or wisdom, Elijah had sought to bind the Hunger not with Christian blessing alone, but with the forgotten knowledge of the land’s first guardians. His final entry was a scrawl barely legible: The seal holds… but I hear it call my name. God forgive me… Marcus felt the weight of those words settle upon him like a shroud. If Elijah’s seal was failing, then time was short. And if the church had been built as a prison, not a sanctuary, then he must learn the ancient ways, or all would be lost.
The night deepened around Kalaghat, and with it, so did the fear. The mist from Kalapahad crept into the village streets, curling at doorways like seeking fingers. Dogs whimpered and hid beneath carts. Children woke screaming from dreams of dark waters and endless bells. And above it all, faint but unbroken, the tolling bell echoed down from the ruined church, though no hand touched its rusted tongue. Father Marcus knelt in prayer, but his voice faltered, for the mark upon his arm burned hot and cold by turns, and his thoughts were clouded by the voice in the dark. Release me, it seemed to murmur, and I will feed you with power, with secrets, with peace. But Marcus gritted his teeth, pressed his rosary to the mark until the pain made his vision blur, and whispered, “I will not yield.” Outside, the mist thickened, and the shadows seemed to dance beneath the cold, pitiless moon. The Hunger Beneath had begun to wake, and its gaze was now fixed upon the priest who dared to challenge its long dominion.
Chapter 6
Dawn broke with a pale, sickly light over Kalapahad, casting long shadows from the ancient trees. The mist clung low to the earth, reluctant to lift, as if the hill itself wished to remain hidden. Father Marcus, weary from a night of restless prayer and haunted dreams, rose with grim purpose. The mark on his arm had darkened further, its outline now jagged like lightning frozen upon his skin. He knew that prayers and blessings alone would not hold back the thing that stirred beneath the church. The journal of Father Elijah spoke of older protections — of a stone circle upon the hill’s northern face, built long before the British ever set foot on the land. With Peter Gomes at his side, Marcus set out at first light, determined to find the circle, to learn its secrets, and to restore its power if he could. The path led through thickets where the air grew cold and the very birds fell silent at their passing.
After an hour’s hard climb, they reached a clearing hidden deep within the jungle’s grasp. There, the circle revealed itself — ancient monoliths of black basalt, weathered and cracked, but still standing. Moss draped their surfaces like burial shrouds. Strange carvings adorned the stones: coiled serpents, open eyes, and symbols that hurt the mind to look upon for long. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and stone, and a hush seemed to fall upon the clearing, as if it lay outside of time. Marcus stepped within the ring, heart pounding, and felt at once the weight of ages press upon him. The ground beneath his feet seemed to hum faintly, as if the hill’s heartbeat echoed here most strongly. Peter hesitated at the edge, reluctant to enter. “Father,” he said, voice tight, “this place is not meant for us. It belongs to the old gods.” But Marcus shook his head. “If the seal is to hold, it must belong to us all. To the living who would keep the dark at bay.”
As Marcus examined the stones, he saw that several had fallen inward, as though some vast force beneath had pushed against them. The ground was cracked near the center, and the soil felt loose, disturbed. He knelt and cleared away the moss at the base of one stone, revealing an inscription in an ancient script — perhaps Sanskrit, perhaps older. From the journal’s notes, he recognized part of it: Here is bound the Hunger Beneath. Let no blood feed it. Let no voice wake it. His heart sank. The seal had indeed weakened, and the thing imprisoned below was straining at its bonds. Marcus sprinkled holy water upon the stones, chanting prayers of binding, but the wind rose as he spoke, scattering his words like dry leaves. The sun dimmed behind a sudden veil of cloud. And then came the whisper — soft, like a breeze through grass, yet clear in his mind: Break the stones, and I will give you peace. Let me rise, and the world will thank you for it. He recoiled, clutching his rosary, and the voice fell silent — for now.
They returned to the village as dusk approached, the jungle seeming to close behind them like a trap. The villagers watched their return with anxious eyes, for they could feel the hill’s growing unrest. That night, the bell tolled again, thrice — louder, clearer than before, as if the church itself called out to the darkness below. The mark upon Marcus’s arm throbbed in time with the bell, and his dreams were filled with visions of the stone circle shattered, of the earth split open, and a black tide rising to swallow all. He woke before dawn, breathless, determined. The old stones must be restored, the seal remade. But how, and at what cost? For now, the Hunger Beneath waited — but its patience was not endless, and the time to act was slipping away like sand through desperate fingers.
Chapter 7
Word of Father Marcus’s ascent to the stone circle spread through Kalaghat like wildfire. By morning, even the eldest villagers whispered of what might come next. The priest’s resolve seemed unshaken, but within him stirred doubt and dread. The old seal was failing — of this he was certain — but how could a man of God wield powers born of forgotten gods? In the dim light of dawn, Peter Gomes approached him quietly. “There is one who may know,” Peter said, after a long hesitation. “Beyond the jungle’s edge, at the mouth of the old ravine, lives a hermit — Keshav Baba. Some say he is mad. Others say he remembers what the rest of us fear to know. If you seek the ancient ways, Father, perhaps he can guide you.” Marcus did not hesitate. The bells of the ruined church had tolled again in the night, and with each toll the mark upon his arm had burned hotter. He gathered his satchel, blessed the village once more, and set out toward the ravine.
The journey took him deep into the heart of the jungle, where no path remained and the air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and strange flowers. Vines as thick as ropes hung low, and the calls of unseen creatures echoed through the gloom. Hours passed, and at last Marcus reached the ravine — a scar in the earth, its walls draped in moss and roots. There, in a crude hut of stone and thatch, sat Keshav Baba: thin as a reed, his beard long and tangled, his skin like old leather. His eyes, however, were sharp and clear, as if they saw beyond the world’s veil. Marcus bowed and explained his purpose, but Keshav raised a hand to silence him. “I know why you have come, Father. The Hunger has marked you. It calls, and you hear it in your blood.” His voice was like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “The church was built atop an older prison, but the British, in their arrogance, broke the seal to raise their house of worship. Father Elijah tried to mend it, but what he knew was not enough. The stones above — they are but keys. The true lock lies deeper.”
Through the day, Keshav spoke of the old rites — of offerings made at the turning of the seasons, of sacred ash drawn in patterns long forgotten, of chants that shaped the world before written word. He spoke of the Hunger Beneath as a thing without name, older than gods, older than man — a remnant of the dark that existed before creation. “It does not hate, it does not think. It only hungers. And once freed, it will devour all — soil, stone, sea, and soul.” Marcus listened, his heart heavy with the burden laid upon him. Keshav handed him a bundle wrapped in cloth: inside were small clay tablets etched with the sigils of the old seal and a vial of sacred oil pressed from jungle herbs known only to the hermit. “Take these,” Keshav said. “You will need them when the seal’s final test comes. But know this — no rite alone will hold the Hunger forever. Blood sealed it once. Blood may be needed again.”
As Marcus made his way back toward Kalaghat, dusk fell swift and heavy. The jungle seemed to close behind him, as if eager to trap him in its endless maze. The mist rose once more from Kalapahad, and the bell tolled faintly across the valley — once, twice, thrice — each peal stronger, nearer. The mark upon his arm glowed faintly in the gloom, pulsing like a second heartbeat. The knowledge he carried weighed upon him like a stone: the seal could be reforged, but not without cost. And the Hunger Beneath was stirring now, its long sleep ending, its eyes — if it had eyes — fixed upon the world it longed to consume. The time of decision drew near, and Marcus felt the shadow of that choice fall upon his soul.
Chapter 8
The village of Kalaghat lay cloaked in unease as Father Marcus returned under a blood-red dusk. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of wet earth and something sour, as though the hill itself exhaled decay. The villagers watched him come down the slope, their faces pale in the fading light, their eyes wide with fear. Above them, from the mist-wrapped ruin atop Kalapahad, the bell began to toll. Once. Then again. And again. Nine times it rang, each note deeper and louder than the last, until it seemed the sound came not from the bell alone but from the earth itself. The ground shuddered faintly, and a low moan rose from the jungle, as though the trees wept for what was to come. Marcus clutched the hermit’s bundle to his chest, the clay tablets and vial of sacred oil pressing against his heart like a final hope. But with each toll of the bell, that hope seemed thinner, more fragile, like glass poised to shatter.
That night, no one in Kalaghat slept. Fires were lit at doorways, talismans of neem leaves and turmeric strung across lintels, but these small protections felt hollow in the face of what stirred beneath the hill. The children wept, and even the elders sat in silence, their heads bowed. In the old rectory, Marcus prepared. By the dim glow of a single oil lamp, he laid out the tablets, tracing the sigils with trembling fingers. He mixed the sacred oil with ash from the hearth, as Keshav Baba had taught him, forming a dark paste with which to mark the stones. But in his heart, dread coiled tighter. The Hunger Beneath had tasted the world again, and its patience wore thin. Outside, the mist thickened, and the tolling bell rang on — twelve times, then thirteen — though no man touched it. The mark upon Marcus’s arm glowed faintly, a brand of the Hunger’s claim.
Before dawn, Marcus made his way once more up Kalapahad. The path seemed longer now, as if the hill resisted his climb. Roots snagged his feet, stones shifted beneath his steps, and the mist clung so thick he could scarce see his hand before his face. The bell tolled still, each note now a roar that shook the bones. At the stone circle, the ground had split further, a jagged wound in the earth from which rose a breath like the stench of rot and ruin. Marcus set to his task, placing the tablets at the cardinal points, smearing the ash-oil mixture upon the stones, chanting the hermit’s words in a voice raw with fear and faith. But the earth trembled beneath him, and the wind rose, carrying with it a voice that whispered in a hundred tongues: Futile. Too late. Feed me, and I will make the world anew. The temptation gnawed at him, but he pressed on, tears mingling with the sacred paste, heart pounding like a drum of war.
As dawn’s first light bled through the mist, the bell tolled one final time — a sound so loud, so deep, that it seemed to come from the roots of the world itself. Then it fell silent. The earth stilled, the wind died, and for a moment, all was still. Marcus knelt among the stones, exhausted, his work complete. But deep within the hill, he felt it: the Hunger had been checked, but not defeated. The seal held — barely. The true battle lay ahead, for the Hunger had tasted freedom, and it would not forget. And Marcus knew the price that might be required when next the bell tolled.
Chapter 9
The sun rose weak and pale over Kalapahad, its light unable to burn away the mist that clung to the hill like a funeral shroud. Father Marcus stood at the edge of the stone circle, his robes torn and stained with ash and sacred oil, his body trembling from exhaustion. The silence that followed the bell’s final toll was heavy—too heavy, as though the land itself held its breath. And then, faint but growing, came a new sound: the low, rhythmic thrum of the earth, like the heartbeat of something vast and hungry beneath the soil. The villagers gathered below, watching in silent dread as Marcus knelt once more, head bowed, clutching his rosary. He knew what Keshav Baba’s warning had meant now — the seal could be reforged, yes, but only if a life was given to bind it. Blood had sealed the Hunger before; blood would seal it again. And the land would not wait much longer.
Marcus descended the hill, his face pale but resolute. He called the elders to him, spoke of the price the land demanded, and offered himself. But before they could protest, Peter Gomes stepped forward, tears in his eyes, and took Marcus’s hands in his own. “No, Father,” he said softly. “You are our strength. Let it be me.” The villagers cried out, but Peter’s gaze did not waver. He had no family, no kin, and his life had been one of quiet service. “If my death can save Kalaghat, then let it have meaning.” Together they climbed the hill one last time, the villagers following in solemn procession, carrying torches against the creeping gloom. The stone circle seemed to pulse with anticipation, the earth’s tremor growing stronger with each passing moment. The sky darkened as clouds gathered, and a chill wind swept the hilltop, carrying with it the stench of rot from the crack in the ground.
At the center of the circle, Peter knelt. Marcus traced the sigils upon his brow with the last of the sacred ash and oil, his voice steady as he spoke the binding prayers. Peter’s hands were steady as he drew a small blade across his palm, letting his blood drip upon the stones. But the ground demanded more. With a final prayer, Marcus raised the blade, tears streaming down his face, and completed the grim rite. The earth shuddered violently, the crack sealing before their eyes, as if the hill itself drank deeply of the sacrifice. The stone circle glowed faintly, the ancient sigils burning with renewed strength, and then the wind fell still. The Hunger retreated, bound once more in darkness and silence. Peter’s body lay still within the circle, his face peaceful, as though he had merely fallen asleep.
As dawn broke fully at last, the villagers wept and gave thanks. Marcus remained at the stone circle, offering prayers for Peter’s soul and for the land that had been saved by his sacrifice. But deep within the priest’s heart lay the knowledge that this victory was not forever. The Hunger Beneath would stir again, in another age, in another time, when the seal weakened once more. And when that day came, would there be another willing to pay the blood price? For now, Kalapahad was safe. But the bell of the ruined church would one day toll again, and its call would echo through the generations, a reminder of the darkness that slumbered beneath.
Chapter 10
Years passed, and Kalaghat slowly healed from the wounds of that terrible night atop Kalapahad. The villagers rebuilt their lives, but none forgot the price that had been paid. A shrine was raised at the stone circle’s edge, humble and unadorned, where they left offerings of flowers, grain, and water at each full moon. Children were taught to fear the hill, to respect the seal that bound the Hunger, and to listen for the tolling of the ancient bell. Father Marcus remained in Kalaghat, his hair turned silver, his body bent with age, but his eyes sharp and watchful. He tended the shrine, led prayers at dawn and dusk, and walked the paths of the hill as a sentinel between the living and the dark. Yet in his quiet moments, he would pause and listen to the wind, half expecting to hear that cursed bell sound once more.
Seasons changed, as they always do. The jungle crept closer to the village’s edge, reclaiming forgotten paths. Storms battered the hill, and lightning struck the ruined church, toppling what remained of its spire. The stone circle endured, its ancient sigils faint but unbroken, though moss and time worked to hide them from sight. Travelers who passed through Kalaghat spoke of unease near the hill, of dreams filled with dark water and endless hunger, of shadows seen in moonlit clearings. A new generation of villagers grew up knowing only the stories, half believing, half doubting, but all wary of Kalapahad. And still the bell remained silent, its great iron mouth rusted and cracked, hanging crooked in the ruins like the skull of a long-dead beast.
But in the deepest hours of certain nights — nights when the wind howled through the valley and the mist lay thick upon the ground — some claimed to hear it. A faint toll, distant and hollow, carried on the storm’s breath. The old ones would wake with a start, clutching their talismans, whispering prayers taught to them as children. And Father Marcus, if still he lived, would rise from his bed, take up his rosary, and climb the hill in the darkness, his lamp a lonely glow against the night. There he would stand, among the stones, listening to the silence that followed, and offer his prayers anew. For he knew what others tried to forget: that the seal, though strong, was not eternal, and that the Hunger Beneath waited still — patient, endless, and dreaming of the day its prison would crumble.
So the legend of Kalapahad endured, passed from lips to eager ears, growing and fading like the mist itself. And always, beneath the telling, lay the truth: that some evils are too ancient to destroy, too vast to name, too hungry to forget. The bell of the ruined church had fallen silent for now. But one day — when time and memory grew weak, when the stones cracked, and the land grew tired — it would toll again. And when it did, the world would remember the price of its forgetting.
End
