I got the sense that the question put forward by this gentleman was not a rhetorical one. I paused for a moment, recalling the countless cases where science and the unexplained seemed to blur. I looked at the officer and said,

  "I've spent years reconstructing the past through bones, identifying the forgotten, and piecing together the last moments of the dead. But sometimes, the evidence doesn’t just speak—it lingers. I’ve seen remains that defy logical explanation, heard voices on EVP recordings when no one was there, and watched instruments spike around bones long buried. Science gives us answers, but it doesn’t account for everything we encounter. Some cases… they stay with you, in ways you can't always explain."

  I exhaled and added,

  "There were times when analyzing skeletal trauma, I sensed something beyond the physical wounds—something left behind. I trained myself in behavior analysis, face reading, even NLP, not just to study the living but to understand the echoes of the past. Once, I walked into an investigation expecting forensic work but ended up using hypnosis to help a witness recover suppressed memories. Another time, an old crime scene carried an energy so strong that every EMF reader spiked unnaturally, forcing me to rely not just on evidence but on intuition."

  I met the officer’s gaze.

  "We study facts, but we also need to acknowledge that some things leave traces that can’t be measured by science alone."

  The officer took a deep breath before speaking. “There have been a series of incidents in the past five years that have been written off as animal attacks, suicides, or accidents—whatever convenient excuse seemed to fit the puzzle."

  He continued, “The first incident took place in December 2019. A family reported that their son went missing while on a camping trip in Jammu. After a fortnight of tracking, we found him hanging from a tree deep in the forest. Half of the investigation had to be carried out unofficially because the department wouldn’t approve my request to sanction a cross-border op outside our jurisdiction—especially when the evidence wasn’t conclusive.”

  I frowned. “And what did you find?”

  “The case was closed as a suicide—some love triangle nonsense—but the forensic evidence and the crime scene told a different story.”

  "Was he forcefully hanged?" I asked.

  “No,” the officer shook his head, “he willingly hanged himself. But he wasn’t alone.”

  That caught my attention. “No defensive wounds? No struggle?”

  "None. The footprints told us that much. There was no indication that anyone had physically restrained him. Usually, when a person attempts to hang themselves in front of others, they try to stop them or, at the very least, show signs of panic—disturbed soil, erratic movements, last-minute hesitations. Here, the scene suggested something else: compliance. The footprints around him weren’t scattered or hesitant. They were deliberate, positioned in a way that suggested they were assisting, not resisting.”

  I leaned forward. “Could they have been holding him at gunpoint?”

  The officer sighed. “That’s what we thought at first. But making someone hang themselves at gunpoint is... unusual. There are far easier ways to kill someone. What was missing here was the motive.”

  "And you found one?"

  “Yes. At least, I did.”

  His voice dropped slightly. “The locals reported that animals in the area became restless around the time this happened—cows refused to graze, dogs howled at nothing, birds avoided the tree. That tree, by the way, dried up completely within days of the boy’s death.”

  I narrowed my eyes. "Sudden tree decay in a localized area could be due to a chemical or biological agent, but I assume you ruled those out?"

  "We did. No toxins, no fungal infection. Just—dead.”

  "And the soil?"

  The officer gave me a grim look. “That’s where things got stranger. The soil directly underneath the hanging site wasn’t settled like the rest of the forest floor. It had been disturbed—recently.”

  I nodded. "Which means something was buried there."

  He exhaled. “Exactly. When we removed the top layer, we found markings—symbols carved into the earth.”

  "Symbols?"

  "Yes. Weird ones. I never found out exactly what they meant, but after some digging, I discovered that one of them was linked to an ancient ritual."

  I felt my stomach tighten. “You mean a demonic ritual.”

  "Yes. Maybe even a sacrifice."

  I rubbed my chin, processing the information. “If the soil was disturbed but compacted enough to remain hidden, that means it was deliberately buried some time before the hanging. Did you perform a stratigraphic analysis?”

  “Yes. The markings were buried under about four centimeters of loose soil—not naturally occurring. That suggests they were made a day or two before the boy died. Someone prepared the site.”

  "How was the false layer applied?"

  The officer leaned in. “Whoever did this was careful. They mixed topsoil from the surrounding area to match the natural environment. At first glance, it looked undisturbed, but when I checked for soil compaction levels, there was a clear discrepancy. Natural soil is compacted over years due to environmental pressure. This layer was too soft, meaning it had been recently turned over.”

  I nodded. "That makes sense. They probably sieved the dirt, removing larger debris like twigs and pebbles to create a uniform layer that wouldn’t catch the eye of a casual observer. Then, they tamped it down lightly, just enough to mimic natural compaction without drawing attention.”

  “Exactly. But they underestimated forensic techniques. We used a thin steel probe to test the resistance in different parts of the site. Natural soil gives consistent resistance. The false layer gave way too easily.”

  "And that’s when you decided to dig?"

  “Yes. We used an archaeological trowel to scrape back the surface gradually, ensuring we didn’t damage any potential evidence underneath. The moment we hit the second layer, we saw them—intricate carvings etched directly into the hardened dirt.”

  I exhaled. “And the footprints? Did you compare stride lengths, weight distributions?”

  "We did. There were multiple sets, all adults. The distribution was odd, though. Usually, at a crime scene, you see hesitancy, uneven spacing, signs of movement driven by panic or urgency. Here, the footprints formed a near-perfect semicircle around the tree, evenly spaced, all facing inward—like they were standing in formation."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  That sent a chill down my spine. “Like a ritual.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But try explaining that in an official report.”

  I considered it. “If they weren’t forcing him but rather guiding him, then coercion wasn’t physical. It was psychological.”

  The officer nodded. “Maybe even supernatural.”

  I frowned. "Or hypnotic."

  "Hypnotic?"

  "It’s possible. NLP techniques, cult indoctrination methods—they can program someone to take their own life willingly if the right psychological triggers are in place. If these people knew what they were doing, they could have implanted the idea into him over time, conditioning him to believe that hanging himself was necessary.”

  The officer went silent for a moment before saying, “That would explain the footprints. No resistance, no struggle—because he truly believed he had to do it.”

  I nodded slowly. “But that doesn’t explain the symbols, the animals’ reactions, or why the tree died so suddenly.”

  The officer’s face darkened. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I glanced back at the case files. “If this was a ritual, then we need to ask the right question—not just ‘who’ did this, but ‘why.”

  This person was clearly invested deeply in whatever theory he was speaking of. He mentioned that he had noticing a pattern in the last 5 years. The kind of pattern that led to Esha Gupta’s case which was already as sinister as anything could be.

  “How is Esha Gupta’s case similar” I asked, but the officer all of a sudden got a look of reluctance in his eyes. It was as if he wanted to tell me something but was not sure if he was supposed to with his free will.

  I let the silence stretch between us, watching the officer’s hesitation settle like dust on an old crime scene. He hadn’t expected me to ask about Esha. He shifted in his seat, fingers tapping against the table in an uneven rhythm, betraying the nerves crawling under his skin.

  “You know,” I said, tilting my head slightly, “I’ve always found silence to be the loudest confession. It’s like watching decomposition in real time—you can’t stop it, you just pretend it’s not happening.”

  His jaw tensed. A flicker of something—annoyance, fear—passed through his eyes.

  “Her case isn’t relevant to what we’re discussing,” he said finally, voice clipped.

  I leaned in just a fraction. “See, I don’t believe that. And neither do you.”

  He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “You don’t understand—”

  I smiled, slow, deliberate. “Oh, but I do. I understand that people like you don’t get this shaken over a closed case unless it was never really closed. I understand that when someone of Esha’s stature dies, the pressure to wrap things up cleanly outweighs the need to ask the right questions.” I folded my hands on the table. “And I understand that you don’t want to tell me what happened because you think I’ll see something you missed.”

  That did it. His fingers curled into fists, his body stiff with barely restrained frustration. He wasn’t just withholding details—he was terrified of them.

  Still, he spoke.

  “She was staying at Anant Vraj with friends,” he started, voice strained, “but she insisted on staying one more night. Alone.”

  There it was again. That word. Insisted.

  “She was found two days later,” he continued, “five kilometers from the property, in a clearing near the woods.”

  “Found how?” I asked, tone flat.

  His lips pressed into a thin line. “She was…” He exhaled through his nose. “Arranged. Her mutilated body was positioned deliberately. Hands folded across her stomach. Eyes open. No signs of struggle.”

  That was wrong. Every instinct told me so. “No signs of struggle? What about defensive wounds?”

  “None.”

  That was the first red flag. No struggle? No scratches, no bruising, no skin under the fingernails? Victims of homicide—especially young women—almost always fought back. Even if the attacker was stronger, even if they were unconscious before the final blow, the body always told the story.

  “And the crime scene itself?” I pressed.

  He hesitated again. “There were… symbols.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Symbols.”

  He nodded. “Carved into the ground. And…” He swallowed hard. “Carved into her.”

  My stomach tightened. “What kind of symbols?”

  “The forensic team couldn’t identify them.”

  I frowned. “Couldn’t? Or weren’t allowed to?”

  His fingers twitched against the table. That little tic again.

  I let the silence stretch before asking, “What did the soil analysis show?”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The soil,” I repeated, voice patient. “You said she was found five kilometers away. Did forensic analysis confirm she was killed there, or was she transported post-mortem?”

  His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

  A slow grin spread across my face. “You don’t know, do you?”

  He stiffened.

  “See, if you had a proper analysis done, you’d have checked the soil layers. Natural soil settles over time, but if someone tampered with it—let’s say, dug up the area and then refilled it—you’d find inconsistencies. A newer layer sits looser, more aerated. The texture is different, the moisture levels off. Any competent forensic team would’ve done a comparison. Unless…” I tilted my head. “Unless someone didn’t want them to.”

  His hands twitched, betraying the tension he was trying to suppress.

  I pressed further. “And the lack of blood?”

  His gaze snapped up to mine.

  Bingo.

  “You said she was positioned,” I continued, voice softer now, almost mocking. “That means there should’ve been livor mortis patterns. If she died there, the pooling of blood would match. But if she was drained elsewhere and then placed there…” I shrugged. “Then you have an entirely different problem. One you can’t explain away with a simple homicide report.”

  He was breathing heavier now.

  I leaned in just a fraction more. “Tell me, officer. What exactly was found at the site?”

  He swallowed hard. “It’s not—”

  “Tell me,” I repeated, voice like a blade.

  His eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at me. Then, finally, barely above a whisper, he said:

  “There was no blood. But the soil underneath her…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It was black. As if it had been… burned from the inside.”

  I went still.

  Burned. From the inside.

  Heat damage—especially localized—didn’t just happen. And if it was significant enough to char the soil but leave the body intact…

  I filed that away.

  “I assume you checked for phosphine traces?” I asked.

  His brow furrowed. “Phosphine?”

  I almost laughed. Of course, they hadn’t.

  “When organic matter—particularly a body—decomposes under certain conditions, it can produce phosphine gas,” I explained. “It’s rare, but spontaneous ignition can occur. However…” I crossed my fingers. “For that to happen, the body would need to be buried, in an airtight environment, for weeks. Not lying exposed in a clearing for two days.”

  I watched as the realization dawned in his eyes.

  “It didn’t burn naturally,” I continued. “Which means something—someone—altered the decomposition process.”

  His throat bobbed.

  I smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “She wasn’t just mutilated,” he continued, voice low. “She was arranged.”

  That got my attention.

  “She was lying in a circle. An actual, symmetrical circle drawn into the soil. Symbols etched into the ground. Others…” His throat bobbed. “Carved into her skin.”

  I let that settle. “And the wounds?”

  “Precise,” he admitted. “Not erratic. Whoever—whatever—did it knew exactly where to cut.” He hesitated, then added, “Some of them looked… older than they should be.”

  Older. Like they had started healing before she even died.

  I felt something tighten in my stomach.

  I kept my voice even. “And the forensic pathologist? What did they say?”

  He looked away. “The wounds didn’t match any known weapon.”

  Of course, they didn’t.

  “And the soil?”

  He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Different from the rest of the area. It had been layered. We dug deeper and found another burial site beneath her.”

  I sat up. “A second grave?”

  He nodded. “One that didn’t match the region’s natural composition.”

  A slow grin spread across my face. “This isn’t just a murder. It’s staged. Deliberate. And someone made damn sure you wouldn’t be able to trace it back to them.”

  His knee started bouncing under the seat. That little nervous tic of his.

  “I shouldn’t be discussing this.” He said in a worrisome tone

  “You’re not discussing it. I am.” At this point it was as if I was demanding an explanation just for the sake of filling the possible void opening in my mind

  He looked away, suddenly restless, like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  I leaned in, voice smooth. “It’ll get worse, you know. Ignoring it. The more you try to pretend it isn’t real, the more it’ll take from you.” I paused. “And when it does, you’ll be alone.”

  He stood abruptly. “I need to go.” I noticed that the auto had stopped at the entrance of the market which was roughly a mile from Anant Vraj, “ This tab’s on me Mr Dutt” said the officer

  “ I never got your name” I said as I got off the autorickshaw.

  The officer signaled the driver to hit the gas and he left.

  I tilted my head, watching him..

  As I took my first step toward Anant Vraj, the night seemed to stretch, the air thick with something unseen, waiting.

  Elsewhere, in a dimly lit apartment, a woman stood before her bathroom mirror, her reflection watching with wide, unblinking eyes. In the dim glow of her bedroom mirror, she admired the curve of her own neck—long, delicate, flawless.. Slowly, her hands rose to her throat—not in fear, not in hesitation, but with eerie, deliberate intent and precision, fingertips pressing into the softness beneath her chin. Fingernails pressed deep, deeper, past flesh and sinew, until they pierced her windpipe. Her body convulsed, yet her grip never loosened. She should have stopped. She should have been able to. But her hands refused, locked in a death grip, forcing deeper—until there was nothing left to breathe through. Flesh split, warm and wet, as her windpipe collapsed with a brittle pop. A strangled gurgle, thick with blood, clawed its way out. a sound thick and animalistic.

  The human brain naturally should have stopped her. But it didn’t.

  Some evil wears a mask. Some wears a badge.And some... wears your own hands.

  This chapter ends with two deaths—one that was seen, one that was felt. Neither makes sense if you only look at them through the eyes of science. But that’s the point.

  There’s a line in every investigation where you stop chasing truth and start dodging it. Where facts are too neat, too quiet—because someone made them that way.

  The officer gave Divyansh more than just a lead. He gave him a pattern. One that’s been hidden, erased, rewritten. A pattern that doesn’t end with a corpse. It ends with a message.

  And while the dead girl’s breath may be gone, something else is now speaking in her place.

  Divyansh may be following the facts.But the facts are following him, too.