The road to Thalapur twisted through foggy hills, with the headlights of Deviyajeet Mishra’s car barely piercing the darkness. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his weary face—dark circles under his eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and the heavy burden of loss. The divorce had taken everything from him: his marriage, his child, and nearly his career. This assignment was his final opportunity. His editor’s words echoed in his mind: “No one else will go, Devi. You’re the only one desperate enough.”
The town appeared ahead, its old stone buildings engulfed by fog. Deviyajeet parked in front of the only inn, The Black Crown Lodge. The sign creaked ominously in the wind. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of mildew and something metallic—copper, perhaps, or rust. The innkeeper, a thin man with sunken eyes, barely spoke as he handed over a key.
“Don’t go out after dark,” he muttered, then vanished behind a curtain.
Deviyajeet’s room was bare: a bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the town square. He set up his camera and recorder, determined to document every detail of the murders that had plagued Thalapur. The victims—locals found mutilated, their bodies arranged in disturbing displays—had left authorities puzzled. The police suspected a cult, but whispers of something otherworldly lingered.
Night descended quickly. Deviyajeet went over his notes by the dim light of a flickering lamp. The wind howled, shaking the window. He glanced outside—the square was deserted, but something shifted in the shadows between the buildings. A figure? An animal? He zoomed in with his camera, but the image was too fuzzy to discern.
He turned back to his notes, but a sudden thud from the hallway startled him. The camera’s lens focused on the door. Silence. Then, a slow, deliberate scratching. Deviyajeet’s heart raced. He grabbed a wine opener from the desk and crept forward.
The scratching ceased. He flung the door open—nothing. The hallway stretched into darkness, the only sound the distant echo of his own breath.
Deviyajeet went back to his desk, feeling rattled. He took a look at the footage from his camera. In the corner of the frame, a shadowy figure was lurking just outside the door. He rewound the video, but the figure had vanished. Was it all in his head?
He thought it would be good to get some fresh air. Outside, the town was hauntingly silent. The mist thickened, hiding the streetlights. Deviyajeet’s breath turned to fog in the chilly air as he made his way to the town’s deserted church, said to be the location of the first murder.
The church doors were slightly open. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of decay. He turned on his camera’s night vision. The pews were flipped over, and the altar was stained with something dark. A faint sound echoed—a whisper or maybe a sigh. Deviyajeet’s hands shook as he moved the camera around.
Suddenly, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, the camera catching a blur of motion. Something darted behind a pillar. Deviyajeet moved closer, his heart racing. He rounded the pillar—nothing there. But on the floor, a fresh trail of blood led to a side door.
He followed it, the camera’s red light casting an unsettling glow. The door opened to a crypt. The air was thick with the smell of rot. He went down the steps, which were slick with moisture. At the bottom, the camera showed a chamber filled with bones. In the middle, a body lay sprawled on a stone slab, its chest ripped open, organs missing.
Deviyajeet felt his stomach turn. He decided to leave, but the door slammed shut behind him. The camera’s light flickered. From the darkness, a low growl echoed. Something shifted in the shadows—a massive figure with glowing eyes. Deviyajeet pressed against the wall, the camera capturing every horrifying detail.
The creature lunged at him. Deviyajeet screamed, and the camera fell to the ground. The footage became blurry, then went black.
He woke up in his room, soaked in sweat. Had it all been a nightmare? He checked his camera—the footage was ruined, filled with static and noise. But on his desk, there was a note: “You saw too much. Leave now.”
Deviyajeet wasn’t ready to give up. He talked to the townspeople, but they were tight-lipped,
The local doctor, Dr. Meera, agreed to chat. She took him to her clinic, where the victims' bodies were kept.
"The wounds aren’t human," she murmured. "They’re too precise."
Deviyajeet looked over the bodies. The cuts were clean, and the organs had been taken out with surgical skill. But on one victim’s arm, he spotted a weird symbol carved into the skin—a circle with a jagged line.
That night, Deviyajeet dug into the symbol. It matched an ancient cult, the Children of the Maw, who believed in sacrificing the living to summon a demon. However, the town’s records showed no sign of such a group.
He went back to the church, determined to find evidence. Inside, he found a hidden door behind the altar. It led to a secret chamber, its walls covered in the same symbol. In the middle, a stone well dropped into darkness.
Deviyajeet lowered his camera, recording as he went down. The well opened into a cavern. The air was thick with the smell of blood. He followed the tunnel, the camera’s light revealing more symbols and heaps of bones.
At the end, he stumbled upon a chamber lit by candles. In the center, a robed figure loomed over a tied-up victim. Deviyajeet’s breath hitched. The figure turned—it was the innkeeper. His eyes were black, and his mouth twisted into a grin.
"You shouldn’t have come," the innkeeper hissed.
Deviyajeet stepped back, but the tunnel collapsed behind him. The innkeeper moved closer, his form shifting, stretching—his skin splitting to show something monstrous underneath.
The camera caught it all: the transformation, the inhuman screech, the claws reaching for Deviyajeet. He bolted, the creature right on his tail. The tunnel twisted, the walls pulsing as if they were alive. He tripped, the camera slipping from his grasp.
He woke up in the town square, the sun rising. The townsfolk surrounded him, their faces expressionless. The innkeeper was among them, his eyes normal again.
"You saw nothing," he said. "Leave Thalapur."
Deviyajeet ran, his mind spinning. Had it been real? A hallucination? A nightmare? The footage on his camera was gone, erased. But in his pocket, he found a scrap of paper with the cult’s symbol.
Back in the city, Deviyajeet's narrative was dismissed. Nobody had faith in him.
The editor asked Devi, "Tell me one thing: why the hell did he leave you alive, and why did you go there risking your life without the police?" I believe you have started taking "DRUGS" and should take a break.
Deviyajeet replies with a tone of concern and a trembling voice, stating, "I DON'T KNOW."
You have to trust me...
His editor labeled him as unstable. However, at night, he began to hear whispers—voices beckoning him back to Thalapur.
One evening, while going through his notes, a photograph slipped out—a hazy picture of the creature. In the background, the townspeople appeared, their eyes shining with the same unnatural glow.
At that moment, The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He was still in Thalapur, trapped in the very church where it all began. The pain in his left arm, the sensation of his fingers being gone, all of it felt so real. But was it? Or was it just another delusion created by that horrifying creature?
Deviyajeet tried to focus, to remember what had happened. The last thing he could recall was the chase through the underground tunnels, the monstrous transformation of the innkeeper, and the suffocating darkness that seemed to swallow him whole. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. Had he somehow managed to escape the creature's grasp? Or had he been rescued, only to have his memories wiped? And if so, by whom?
As he struggled to stand, Deviyajeet felt a cold draft on his face. He looked up and saw the church's stained glass window shattered, its shards scattered across the floor. The wind howled through the gaping hole, sending a chill down his spine.
Suddenly, he heard a faint whisper, barely audible over the wind. Deviyajeet clawed at the air, trying to fight the swirling blackness, but it was no use. The whisper intensified, morphing into a guttural growl that vibrated in his skull. He was paralyzed, his body no longer his own.
He could feel the creature's presence, a chilling tendril snaking its way through his mind, reasserting its dominance.
He squeezed his eyes shut, Images flooded his mind – flashes of grotesque smiles, the chanting of the cultists, all orchestrated by that infernal voice. he had to resist, but his will felt like sand, slipping through his fingers. Then, the pain began.
It started subtly, a prickling sensation all over his skin, like a thousand ants crawling beneath the surface. But it quickly escalated, becoming an unbearable burning, as if his flesh was being slowly roasted from the inside out. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords seemed frozen, incapable of producing a sound.
He felt a tugging, a ripping sensation on his face. The creature was peeling him, layer by layer, extracting him from his own skin. The pain was excruciating, a raw, primal agony that threatened to shatter his sanity. His screams were trapped inside, silent and unheard.
Then came the violation of his eyes. He felt the pressure, a cold, unforgiving force pressing against his eyelids. The pain exploded behind his eyes, blinding him with white-hot agony. He could feel the creature’s… appendages, inserting themselves, probing, tearing. Then, the sickening pop as they were ripped from their sockets. Blackness. Pure, absolute blackness.
But the torment didn’t end there. He could feel the creature’s hot, putrid breath on his exposed flesh. He smelled rot, decay, the stench of the grave. And then, the teeth.
The first bite was a searing, bone-jarring shock. A chunk of flesh torn from his shoulder, the raw, exposed muscle throbbing with unimaginable pain. He thrashed, a silent puppet on the creature's strings. Bite after bite followed, each one a fresh wave of agony. His stomach, his chest, his legs – all subjected to the creature's ravenous hunger.
He felt the cold, wet gurgle of blood, his own life force draining away with each agonizing chomp. His consciousness flickered, threatened by the encroaching darkness.
He was drowning in pain, in terror, in the utter hopelessness of his situation.
As the creature devoured him alive, Deviyajeet's last coherent thought was a desperate plea. A plea for it to end, a plea for release from this unimaginable torment. But there was no mercy, no respite. Only the ceaseless gnawing, the tearing of flesh, and the horrifying certainty that his end was not only imminent, but excruciatingly, agonizingly slow. His life, his sanity, his very being, consumed by the monstrous hunger he had so desperately tried to escape. The church, bathed in the pale moonlight filtering through the shattered window, became his tomb, his screams forever echoing in the silent, empty halls.
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