Chapter 1: The Secret Buried in the Hills

When we were children, we played a cruel prank and tricked the panchayat member’s grandson into the dried-up well deep in the hills outside Kaveripur.

Back in those childhood days, the hills around Kaveripur were wild and mysterious to us—full of monkey chatter and the scent of mango blossoms. Somewhere, a koel called, and the air was thick with the promise of summer rain. We didn’t think much about consequences, only about outsmarting the local bully. The well itself was a thing of local legend; elders said even snakes were afraid to live there.

We sealed the well’s mouth with stones and covered it with fallen leaves.

Hands trembling, we gathered whatever big stones we could. Kabir muttered a quick 'Bhagwan maaf kare' before we rolled the first stone. Rolling them with grunts and nervous glances at each other, the leaves crunched underfoot as we camouflaged the well. Not a trace left—just another patch of dusty ground among the gulmohar roots.

As we watched the police search for a month without any results, we secretly felt pleased.

Standing behind the bushes, hearing the shouts of the constables and the wails of Chotu’s family echoing in the hills, a strange mix of fear and thrill twisted in our stomachs. The clang of steel buckets and the smell of burning kerosene from their lanterns mixed with our guilt. No one suspected us. Evenings, as the sun set behind the hills, we would exchange nervous, victorious glances. What did we know about guilt then?

When we grew up, the five of us all became wealthy.

Time is a strange thing. From grubby-kneed children, we became men with gold watches and silk ties. In WhatsApp groups, we’d send each other Diwali greetings, never mentioning the past, but our bond was always tinged with something unsaid.

But then, to our shock, we heard that someone planned to build a villa right on top of the dried-up well.

It was like a slap of cold water. We’d all seen enough Hindi serials to know: the past always comes back. My hands shook as I read the builder’s notice on our old school friends’ group. For the first time in years, that place haunted our dreams again.

Afraid of being exposed, we agreed to go back and deal with the remains.

Our WhatsApp group came alive with frantic messages. One by one, everyone agreed. There was a sense of dread, but also that old, familiar feeling of us against the world.

The five of us set out together, but only four reached. The ringleader from those days, Arjun, was nowhere to be found.

Arjun, always the big boss in school, was missing. His phone was unreachable, and his flat in Pune locked up. His absence unsettled us even more.

Under their pressure, I had no choice but to crawl into the dark mouth of the well myself.

I protested, but their eyes were hard—old loyalties meant nothing now. My shirt clung to my sweaty back as I bent over the stones, the torch shaking in my hand.

Shining my torch down, I suddenly saw two skeletons lying at the bottom of the dried-up well.

My breath caught. Dust motes floated in the torch beam, and the air below smelled of old earth and something else—something foul and forgotten. The bones seemed to grin up at me.

Just as I was about to shout in shock, I heard the sound of stones being dragged above my head…

Panic rose in my throat, hot and metallic, as gravel rained down from above and the first stone scraped back into place. My hands scrabbled at the rope, and I realised what they were about to do. My own heart pounded like the drums at Ganpati visarjan, echoing in the pit.

His words made my mouth go dry. My worst nightmares were coming true.

And in the dark, it felt like someone—or something—was listening.