It was a still night in the remote village of Devgarh. The crickets had quieted. The air smelled of wet earth and burning incense from evening prayers. In the small house at the edge of the woods, 78-year-old Shyamlal’s body lay cold on a wooden cot, covered in a white shroud. His family mourned, exhausted after a day of rituals. The priest had declared the final rites would be done at dawn.
But something stirred after midnight.
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The Midnight Stirring Comments