Chapter 3: The Night of Blood and Fog

3.

I was nine years old then.

The memory returned in broken flashes—sticky mango pulp on my chin, the koel’s sharp cry in the guava tree, the hum of evening power lines. We’d just moved from a small town in Bihar to a village near Lucknow.

Our house circled a large, square chowk, where afternoons were spent shelling peas with Ma and evenings chasing fireflies. I was strictly forbidden to go out at night, but nine-year-old boys are always up to mischief.

The grown-ups told ghost stories, warning us about bhoot-pret after sundown, but my friends and I just dared each other to run past the neem tree. That night, while my parents weren’t watching, I climbed over the low wall and slipped out.

The smell of cow dung cakes drying in the corner mixed with the sweet scent of ripe guavas. I could hear the crickets chirping, the soft hoot of an owl in the distance. We were playing hide-and-seek in the abandoned courtyard.

The kid who was "it" was called Chotu.*

Everyone called him Chotu, even his mother. He was the tiniest in our gang, always eager to prove he could run faster, climb higher, yell louder. I hid behind a pile of firewood, watching Chotu pull the others from their hiding spots one by one.

Our laughter echoed, mixing with the distant bark of a stray dog. One by one, everyone was found except me.

The night grew cooler, and I heard an old transistor playing a film song somewhere. It was getting late; the other kids lost patience and went home.

Their voices faded into the night. Only Chotu refused to quit.

His stubbornness was famous. "Arjun, kahan chhupa hai tu?"

His voice echoed across the courtyard. "Arjun, I have to find you."

He kept calling my name, searching everywhere.

I pressed myself tighter against the firewood, grinning. But after a while, the fun faded. He couldn’t find me, and I stayed hidden so long I started to drift off.

My eyes drooped, sounds growing fuzzy. Half-asleep, I was jolted awake by a piercing scream.

A sound I’ll never forget—raw, terrified, slicing the night. I shot up in fright.

The moonlight made everything silvery and strange. Chotu was gone, and only a terrifying trail of blood stained the courtyard.

My hands turned cold. The sight didn’t register at first. It was a summer night. Just minutes before, the sky was clear, the moon bright.

You could see the stars, the peepal and mango trees. I didn’t notice when the thick fog crept in. The old tube light shone through the mist, turning everything milky.

The shadows became shapes, the shapes turned monstrous. Fog in summer was rare here, but that night was different.

A restless wind rustled the leaves. The blood trail twisted and turned into the thick fog. No one could tell how far it stretched.

I was terrified. I scrambled out from the firewood.

My heart pounded. "Chotu! Chotu!"

My voice was small and shaky. I took a few steps along the trail and saw a sneaker, soaked in blood.

It was Chotu’s.

Blue and white canvas, torn at the heel. The village was small, ringed by fields and a mango orchard on three sides.

We knew every shortcut, every hiding place. On clear days, you could see the old banyan tree from the courtyard.

Its thick roots stretched like fingers across the earth. The blood trail led toward the south.

My legs shook, but I followed. I looked in that direction—and in the thick fog, saw a huge black shadow waving at me.

A chill ran down my spine, colder than river water in January. The shadow’s arm rose and fell, slow and deliberate, like some ancient ritual I wasn’t meant to see.

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*Chotu: A common nickname for little boys in rural India.*