By Pratik Mishra
It was raining the night the stranger knocked on Vedant’s door.
Not a gentle drizzle, but a storm—the kind that makes the trees groan and the shadows dance outside your window. Vedant had just settled into his grandfather’s old cottage on the edge of the village, the one that everyone pretended didn’t exist. Most people in Devpur avoided it, calling it cursed, abandoned, haunted—whatever word made them feel less guilty for ignoring its presence.
But Vedant wasn’t afraid of stories. He was a man of logic. A 28-year-old freelance writer with a fascination for forgotten places and the secrets buried within them. That’s what brought him here in the first place—the mystery of his grandfather, Alok Mishra, who had died under strange circumstances and left him this decaying home and a notebook filled with cryptic messages.
He had just begun reading one of those entries when the knock came.
Knock... knock... knock.
It was 11:43 PM.
Vedant’s head snapped toward the door. No one ever visited. Not at this hour. Not in this storm. He waited, heart pulsing. Maybe it was a branch, or an animal.
Knock… knock… knock.
Three again. Slow. Deliberate.
He stood up, cautiously stepping toward the door. The wind howled louder. Thunder cracked like a whip.
“Who’s there?” he called out, trying to keep his voice firm.
A pause. Then a reply—soft, strained, and chilling.
“Help me… please…”
Vedant’s fingers hovered over the doorknob. Every part of his body screamed don’t open it. But curiosity, that ever-powerful force, pushed harder.
He opened the door.
And there he stood. A man, tall and soaked, dressed in a black overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, with a satchel slung over one shoulder. His face was shadowed, eyes barely visible, yet Vedant felt them—watching him with unnatural stillness.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the stranger said. “May I come in?”
Vedant stared. “Who are you?”
The man tilted his head. “Someone who knew your grandfather.”
That froze him. “Alok Mishra?”
The man nodded once.
Vedant stepped aside hesitantly. “Come in.”
The man entered silently, dripping rain onto the wooden floor. He didn’t take off his coat or hat. He looked around the room like he’d been there before.
“You live here alone?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“No one else comes?”
“No one even knows I’m here.”
The stranger smiled—barely. “That’s good.”
Vedant's stomach churned.
“Why are you here?”
The man unclasped his satchel and pulled out a small, carved wooden box. Its surface was worn, and symbols were etched into every inch—twisting, ancient, alien. At the center was a name. “Alok.”
Vedant stepped back. “That’s my grandfather’s name.”
The man nodded. “This was his burden. Now… it’s yours.”
“What is it?”
“Something that should never have been found.”
The stranger placed the box gently on the table and sat across from Vedant. His hands, pale and long, were oddly still.
“Your grandfather,” he began, “was not a madman, as people claimed. He was a guardian. A protector of something very old… and very dangerous.”
Vedant narrowed his eyes. “Of that box?”
The man nodded. “It’s called a Kalnayan—an ancient soul container. Inside it lies a fragment of a being that should never walk this world again.”
Vedant laughed nervously. “This is a joke, right? Some village myth?”
The man’s face didn’t change. “You’ve read his notebook. You’ve seen the warnings.”
Vedant’s smile faded. He had. Pages filled with sketches, riddles, and dire messages.
“It watches through the eyes of the curious.”
“Do not speak its name after midnight.”
“Burn the box if the voice returns.”
“You think there’s something in it?” Vedant asked, more to mock the idea than to believe it.
“I know there is,” the stranger said. “And it has already awakened.”
Vedant stared at the box. Something about it pulled at him—like it wanted to be touched. Opened.
“Why bring it here?” he asked. “If it’s so dangerous?”
“Because you are the last of your bloodline,” the stranger said. “Only you can seal it again.”
The lights flickered.
A sudden wind burst through the closed windows, as if the storm had found a crack to crawl in. The flames in the small fireplace dimmed to blue, then flared back to orange.
The box hummed.
Vedant stood slowly. “Is this some kind of test?”
“No,” the man said. “This is a warning. If you open it—truly open it—it will take from you what it took from your grandfather.”
Vedant was shaking now. “What did it take from him?”
“His soul.”
The room went silent.
Then the box opened—on its own.
No key. No hand. The lid creaked slowly upward, revealing… nothing. Just darkness. A swirling void, too deep for the size of the box. Vedant couldn’t look away. Something was moving inside. Slithering. Breathing.
The stranger stood. “It’s too late. You looked in.”
Vedant staggered back. “What is it?! What do I do?!”
“You must finish what your grandfather couldn’t.”
The storm outside screamed louder. The wind now sounded like voices—dozens of them, whispering, crying, chanting.
The stranger stepped forward and for the first time, removed his hat.
He had no eyes.
Just smooth, skin-covered sockets. Yet somehow, he still “looked” at Vedant.
“I am not what I seem,” he said.
Vedant backed up against the wall. “What the hell are you?”
“I am the Guardian. Created when your grandfather failed. Bound to this box… until someone seals it properly.”
“And how do I do that?”
The stranger raised the box. “You must give it something. A memory. A truth. Or a sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?”
The man’s face hardened. “Something you love… or something you fear.”
Vedant’s breath came in gasps. The room twisted. The walls bent inward. The whispers turned into screams.
Suddenly he was not in his cottage anymore. He stood in a memory—his childhood home, his mother crying, his father shouting. Then he was back in college, on the day his best friend died in a bike accident. Then he was on a train, alone, staring at an empty seat where his girlfriend once sat.
“Stop it!” he screamed.
The stranger—now glowing faintly—offered the box again.
“Choose, Vedant. Or the Kalnayan will choose for you.”
Vedant clenched his fists. “Take my fear.”
The box flared with light.
The voices stopped.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Vedant awoke the next morning on the floor. The rain was gone. The air smelled clean. Birds chirped.
The box sat closed on the table.
The stranger was gone.
He walked to the mirror and froze.
His eyes… were gone.
Just smooth, skin-covered sockets.
He screamed, but no sound came. He dropped to his knees, clawing at his face. Nothing.
The notebook lay open beside him. A new entry was written in his grandfather’s handwriting.
“The Kalnayan is never defeated. Only traded. I see now... it wanted a vessel. And now it has one.”
Vedant looked at the box one last time. It vibrated slightly.
Then went still.
THE END
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