The scent of butter tea and freshly baked khambir bread mingled with the smokiness of sizzling skewers. A vendor clanged a ladle against a massive brass pot, serving up steaming bowls of thukpa to shivering travelers. Nearby, a group of Ladakhi women, dressed in their traditional gonchas, bartered in lilting voices over apricots and dried cheese. I drifted towards a quiet corner where a weathered bookshop sat, its wooden shelves sagging under the weight of ancient manuscripts and yellowed maps of the Silk Route. As I traced my fingers over a brittle page, a sudden hush fell over the crowd behind me. It was as if the market had exhaled all at once.
Somewhere nearby, the sizzle of something frying in a well-seasoned pan sent a smoky aroma curling through the crisp mountain air—spiced meat, maybe, or momos stuffed with something unnameable.
I stopped at a small convenience stall where I asked for a cigarette. As I was lighting it up at the opposite stall infront of me I noticed an aged man wearing a heavy old jacket and a thick shawl wrapped around him- a lopka that’s what it looked like, thick and warm but cheap enough for a regular person to find at a thrift market. I walked towards the stall, it was what appeared to be an Old Books & Scrolls Stall.
“can I help you?”
“ you’re the one who checked into that wretched guest house, we saw your car at the entrance”
“word travels around fast I guess” I said with a startled look. I had never been comfortable with unaccounted attention on me and here I seemed to have already drawn some suspicious eyes.
“you must be familiar with what happened there”
“I’ve heard of it, daughter of MLA found dead in the nearby wilderness.. an animal attack they say”
The old man gave a filthy smirk
“you don’t seem to believe that story”
“An animal? If that makes them sleep better at night, let them believe it.”
“How many jungles do you see around here young man? How many aggressive animals? Ive lived here all my life and believe me the only creature dangerous enough to do something like that after the devil is man himself?
“ So you suspect foul play ? or is it just another horror mystery you’re looking to sell?” I said pointing towards the section of the Tantrik Upanyas and another rack with the Rahasya Upanyas. Tantrik Upanyas and Rahasya Upanyas are Hindi literary genres, with the former delving into mystical occult practices and supernatural rituals, while the latter weaves suspenseful mysteries filled with secrets, crime, and paranormal intrigue. I recalled my grandfather having an enormous collection when I was a kid. I got into trouble a few times for being caught reading it. I was told it was too dark and unsettling and somewhat invited negative energy.
However I always had a knack of unravelling the unexplored so I read them anyway and therefore I felt this old man’s doubt sprung from his exposure to the same literature.
“ I hope you enjoy your stay?” he said with a frustrated tone and pulled out what appeared to be a tiny book with some 100 or so pages, it was the size of my palm.
“ that’s on the house, however do not get too excited to read this one before you see everything“
“The hell is that supposed to mean” it almost felt like the old man knew my tendancy.
I received no reply just a stern look, then he just ignored my presence and tended to his other customers.
I opened the little book he handed me, it wasn’t written in any language or script I had ever encountered in my life. Something even beyond bizarre than hieroglyphics.
I had had it with people twisting reality to suit their own outlandish fantasies. It was like the search of evidence or proof somehow did not seem necessary anymore.
I explored the market further, chatted with the locals, ate a plate of the spiciest momos I had ever had.
By the time I reached the end of the market it was already 1 pm. I had reached an intersection point where three roads met. One looked like it led to a modest residential area with small houses, some sun dried brick houses, some with flat roofs. It was obvious that my arrival at Anant Vraj had invited some ominous chatter across the nearby area. Almost as if there was a story that everyone could see except myself. “ This is an escape not another job” I had to keep reminding myself. Entering into situations where I was not invited had led to the dark brain rot I was existing in.
Just as I was wandering within my own thoughts, I collided with a frail looking woman carrying what appeared to be a plastic box that opened the moment it fell. I was unsettled to see what fell out of the box, bones, not from poultry, larger more developed bones, similar to what could be fingers or maybe toes. The woman gave a bloodcurdling cry but the people surrounding her were unfazed. It was as if they deliberately wanted to steer clear. Just then two uniformed women came and cuffed the old woman. The uniform was of J&K Police. One of them took out a walkie talkie and barked a bunch of protocol related jargon “ requesting and apb for possible trafficking suspect” “Trafficking? What kind of trafficking were we looking at” I looked at the texture of the bone, I could tell they weren’t old . Whatever happened took place recently. As I was about to turn away and make a desperate attempt to escape the scene, the other female officer grabbed my hand and said “ you’re a witness to this arrest, we need you to come down to the station and give a statement.”
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I hesitated, my instincts screaming at me to refuse, to disappear into the alleys of the market before I got tangled in something I didn't understand. But before I could protest, the officer’s grip tightened.
“It won’t take long,” she said, though her tone made it clear that refusing wasn’t an option.
The old woman, now restrained, was muttering under her breath—low, guttural words that sent an eerie chill up my spine. I didn’t recognize the language, but something about it felt… directed at me.
The bystanders had already moved on, barely sparing a glance. It was as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe normally. I had only come here to escape, to wander, to forget. But now, with those bones lying in the dirt and the old woman’s eyes burning into mine, it felt like I had been dragged into something much darker.
Something that had been waiting for me.
The station was a modest, cold building with pale, peeling walls and the lingering scent of damp paper and cheap disinfectant. A ceiling fan creaked rhythmically overhead, circulating the faint musk of old case files, cigarette smoke, and sweat. The officers led me past rows of metal desks cluttered with paperwork and half-empty chai cups, the air buzzing with low conversations and the occasional burst of a ringing phone.
The woman—still cuffed—was forced onto a wooden bench in the corner, her thin wrists looking almost skeletal against the metal. She muttered something under her breath, her eyes darting wildly, as if searching for an unseen presence in the room. A younger officer handed a report to the woman who had dragged me here.
"Sir," she said, addressing a senior officer seated behind a metal desk, "This is the witness."
The officer looked up from his files, his tired eyes scanning me with a mix of skepticism and disinterest. He was a stocky man with a neatly trimmed mustache, his uniform slightly wrinkled, as if he'd been wearing it for too many hours.
"Name?" he asked, flipping open a logbook.
I hesitated. "Divyansh."
"Full name?"
I exhaled sharply and gave him the rest. He scribbled it down, then leaned back in his chair, sizing me up.
"You were at the market when the suspect was found in possession of human remains?"
Human remains. The words made my stomach tighten.
"Yeah," I nodded, my voice feeling distant. "She ran into me. The bones spilled out. They weren’t old. Looked fresh."
The officer exchanged a glance with his colleague, his face hardening slightly. "And you’re sure they weren’t animal bones?"
"I've seen enough chicken bones to know the difference," I said, my voice firmer than I expected.
The officer studied me for a long moment before scribbling something down. Then, as if suddenly remembering the old woman, he turned his gaze to her.
She sat motionless, her lips pursed, eyes fixed on the ground. But the moment he spoke, her head snapped up.
"Who gave you the bones?"
Silence.
"Where did you get them?"
Still, nothing.
"Did you kill someone?"
At this, the woman let out a sharp, wheezing laugh. It was dry and rattling, like wind through dead leaves.
The officer’s jaw tightened. "Do you understand what we’re asking?"
She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto mine.
"You shouldn’t have taken it," she whispered.
It took me a second to realize she was talking to me.
My skin prickled. "Taken what?"
Her cracked lips curled into something between a grin and a grimace.
"You know," she said, tilting her head. "The book."
A beat of silence passed, stretching uncomfortably. The officer exchanged another glance with his colleague, but I barely noticed. My pulse pounded in my ears.
I clenched my fists. "What does the book have to do with this?"
Her smile widened. Her teeth were yellowed, uneven, some missing.
"You’ll see."
Then, as if someone had flipped a switch in her mind, she slumped back against the wall, her head lolling forward, silent once more.
A chill crept up my spine.
The officer sighed, rubbing his temple. "Great. Another lunatic." He turned back to me. "You can go, but don't leave Leh. We might need your statement again."
I nodded stiffly and stood. My hands felt clammy. As I turned to leave, I stole one last glance at the woman.
She was already staring at me. Unblinking.
And though the station was filled with the noise of shuffling papers, murmured conversations, and the occasional ringing phone—her lips moved silently.
Forming words only I could see.
As I stepped out of the station, the air outside felt heavier—thick with the weight of murmurs and wary stares. The crowd had gathered like scavengers circling a fresh kill, their whispers slicing through the humid night. Whoever that woman was, she had left a mark deep enough to fester.
I raised a hand to hail an autorickshaw when a voice cut in from just behind my shoulder.
“Let’s share this one. We’re headed the same way.”
I turned, narrowing my eyes. “And what way would that be?”
“Back to the guest house, I presume.” He gave me a knowing glance. “After the day you’ve had, I doubt you’re in the mood for more sightseeing.”
That’s when it clicked. I had seen him before—back at the station, lingering while I gave my statement.
. He wasn’t a uniformed officer.
“you said it” I exclaimed with a hint of disinterest.
We sat inside the autorickshaw and as our mutual journey began so did a series of awkward glances and silence. We both had a bunch of questions to ask each other but didn’t know where to start.
After 10 minutes I took the initiative of starting the conversation.
“that lady was involved in some really messed up shit for sure”
The officer kept looking straight and said “ tell me about it”
“it seemed like the police were chasing her for a while, she surely didn’t seem capable enough of something as wild as human trafficking, unless she had help”
“ its far worse than anything you would imagine Mr.Dutt “
“worse than trafficking , sure, I saw those bones too”
“you’re just like them my friend, you too probably think this is your usual human trafficking case, maybe some gang or racket”
“ Like who”
“ I’m sure you’re aware of the case of Esha Mehta”
That was the name of the girl who was killed during her stay at Anant Vraj. The MLA’s daughter. This man somehow seemed to have developed a degree of conviction towards that case.
“ How is that connected to what happened today?”
“ It is connected in ways that are designed in such a way that you would never believe them”
I forced a smirk. “ I am somewhat of an investigator myself, lay it on me”
The officer gave an unimpressed look at my recycled bravado and said
“ What do you know about demons and demonic possession?”
Now that was a question I never imagined I would have to answer. I had been involved in experiences that were somehow construed as what the layman calls paranormal but as a forensic investigator I had always believed in reason and evidence. Shadows on walls where no one had stood. Voices recorded where silence should have been.
But I had always found reason. Always found evidence.
This, however, felt like an invitation to step off the edge.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what waited below.
What begins with a misplaced book and a strange warning ends with a pair of bones and a whisper no one else hears.
This chapter was meant to blur the line between observer and participant—to show how the world doesn’t need permission to drag you into its darkness. It simply waits for you to look the other way.
Divyansh is trying to stay logical, grounded in method. But here, method fails.The story is no longer something he’s watching.It’s watching him.
Every person he meets knows something he doesn’t.Every moment leads him closer to truths that should have stayed buried.
And now, for the first time in years, he doesn’t want to explain what he saw.
Because deep down, he’s beginning to believe it wasn’t just a woman carrying bones—
It was a warning.
One the mountain has given before.