Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Forgotten Invitation

Vikram Sharma stared at the yellowed envelope in his hand, his heart thumping a little too fast. It had appeared in his mailbox that morning, no stamp, no address—just his name written in shaky black ink that looked like it was drawn with an old quill. He was alone in his small Pune apartment, the kind with peeling paint and a single fan creaking overhead. At 28, life felt heavy: no steady job since the bridge project ended, bills stacking up like forgotten books, and a quiet ache for something more than blueprints and lonely evenings. This letter promised a "heritage survey" in some village called Kabra, with good pay. It felt like a lifeline."Why not?" he muttered to himself, tearing it open. The words inside were simple: Come to Kabra Village Cemetery at dusk. Bring your tools. Work is waiting. No phone number, no name. A silly part of him wanted to toss it, but the emptiness in his wallet won. He packed his theodolite, notebook, flashlight, and a thermos of chai, then hit the road in his old SUV. The drive through Maharashtra's hills was beautiful—green valleys dotted with banyan trees, their roots hanging like wise old beards. But as the sun dipped low, painting the sky orange and purple, doubt crept in.Kabra Village was tiny, just a cluster of mud houses and a single tea stall where a few men sat smoking beedis. Vikram stopped for directions. "Kabristan? Now?" said the oldest one, his eyes wide with worry. "Bad time, bhaiya. Stay away after dark." Vikram forced a smile. "Just work, uncle. Nothing to fear." Superstitions didn't scare him—he built bridges, measured land. Ghosts were stories for kids.The cemetery gates came into view at the road's end: tall iron ones, rusted and wrapped in vines, creaking in the breeze like they were breathing. He pushed them open, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet. Inside, the air turned cool and thick, smelling of wet earth and wildflowers. Graves spread out like sleeping giants—some with cracked stone markers in faded Gujarati script, others just low mounds covered in grass. It must have been old, maybe from British times, when railways brought workers and soldiers who never went home.Vikram set up his equipment near a big banyan tree, its branches twisting like protective arms. Click—first photo. The light was fading fast, shadows stretching long. He worked quickly, noting angles, sketching maps. But then the fog came. Not normal mist, but a soft, glowing haze rolling in from a nearby ravine, wrapping around his legs like a curious cat. His skin prickled. "Wind," he told himself, zipping his jacket.That's when he heard it—a whisper, soft as leaves rustling, like someone reciting a prayer far away. He froze, shining his flashlight. Nothing but empty graves. Heart racing now, he laughed nervously. "Echo from the village." But it came again, closer: Pani... pani... Water? He shook his head and moved toward the center, where a small stone building squatted like a forgotten temple. Its door hung half-open, and inside, moonlight hit a slab carved with words: Sulochna Mistry, 1892-1910. Beloved Daughter.A wave of sadness hit him, unbidden. Who was she? So young. His own life flashed—parents gone too soon in a accident, no siblings, just him against the world. The air hummed now, gentle at first, then stronger, like the earth was sighing. More whispers layered in, women's voices soft and sad, pulling at his chest. His light caught a flicker—shadows dancing between stones, quick as fireflies. "Animals," he whispered, but fear tightened his throat.He turned to leave, but the fog thickened, blurring the gates. Branches snapped behind him, and a quiet sob echoed—heartbreaking, like someone lost and alone. Panic surged. He ran, boots slipping on wet grass, roots snagging like hands. Bursting out, he slammed the gate shut, chest heaving. Looking back, the fog swirled, and for a second, he swore eyes glowed from the shadows.That night in his flat, Vikram scrubbed the dirt off, but the chill stayed. He lay awake, the sob replaying in his mind. Sleep came fitful, filled with dreams of dark water and a girl's face, pale and pleading. He woke clutching the crumpled letter, tears on his cheeks he couldn't explain. By morning, he swore it was imagination. But two days later, an unsigned check arrived—exactly the amount promised. Tucked inside: First visit done. Come again.Vikram's hands shook as he held it. Part of him screamed to run away. But another part, lonely and curious, whispered back. The pull had started, gentle as fog, strong as roots.