Blood sacrifice

Speculations about the severed hand were endless. The crowd gathered around it, whispering in hushed voices, their faces pale with unease. No one dared to touch it. It lay there in the dirt, twisted and lifeless, like a dark omen.

A man finally broke the silence. “We need to inform the police,” he said, his voice shaky. “This is serious.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. But Ram’s father frowned, his forehead creasing with worry. “The police station is far from here,” he said. “It’ll take them hours to get here. Until then, we have to take care of this ourselves.”

“Take care of it? How?” an old man asked, clutching his walking stick.

“We should keep it somewhere safe,” Ram’s father replied. “If we leave it here, the dogs will find it.”

A shiver ran through the crowd at the thought of dogs dragging the hand through the village streets. Reluctantly, a few men stepped forward. They wrapped the hand in a piece of cloth, careful not to touch it directly, and carried it to the small government office near the edge of the village. The air seemed heavier as they walked, as though the weight of the hand was pressing down on them all.

When the men returned, everyone dispersed to their homes, but the unease lingered. The villagers could not shake the dread that had settled over them.

The search party, which had gone looking for Avi earlier that day, returned just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Their faces were grim. Avi wasn’t with them.

His mother was standing in her doorway, her hands pressed together in silent prayer. When she saw the empty faces of the men, her knees buckled. “Where is my son?” she cried, her voice breaking. “Where is Avi?” She stumbled forward, grabbing one of the men by the arm. “Tell me where he is!”

The man shook his head, looking away. “We couldn’t find him,” he muttered.

Her cries turned into a wail of anguish, and then she collapsed. The villagers rushed to carry her inside, fanning her face and sprinkling water to wake her. But nothing could soothe her grief. The entire village felt her pain her cries seemed to echo in the hearts of everyone who heard them.

As the night deepened, the village grew quieter. Too quiet. The usual sounds of crickets and owls were gone. The wind picked up, rattling the doors and windows, and the air felt unnaturally cold. Shadows seemed to stretch farther than they should, and every creak of a door or whisper of the wind made people’s hearts race.

Ram lay awake in his bed, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. His mind raced with thoughts of the severed hand, of Avi, and of the hill—the Kali Pahadi. The villagers spoke of it in hushed tones, as though saying its name too loudly might summon something dark.

The first light of dawn brought little relief. It was the blaring horn of a police jeep that finally stirred the village. The villagers gathered once more as the chief explained the events to the officer. Avi’s father stood beside him, his face pale with exhaustion.

The officer listened carefully and filed a missing complaint for Avi. He then asked to speak with the children who had last seen the boy.

Ram and a few others were brought forward. The officer’s sharp eyes scanned them. “Show me the hand,” he said.

The hand was retrieved from the government office. Even in daylight, it looked grotesque. The darkened flesh and stiff, curled fingers made everyone take a step back. The officer crouched down to examine it closely. “This isn’t Avi’s hand,” he said after a moment.

The villagers exchanged confused looks.

“This is the hand of a grown man,” the officer explained. “A middle-aged man. It’s too large to belong to a child.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Another mystery now hung over them: Whose hand was it?

The officer turned to the chief. “Is anyone else missing from the village?”

The chief shook his head. “No, officer. Our village is small. If anyone else were missing, we’d know right away.”

The officer nodded, deep in thought. “Send this hand for forensic examination,” he instructed one of his men. Then he turned to Ram. “What’s your name?”

“Ram, sir,” the boy replied nervously.

“Alright, Ram. Tell me everything that happened yesterday.”

Ram took a deep breath and began recounting the events. His voice shook as he mentioned the Kali Pahadi. The officer’s brow furrowed. “What’s this pahadi? Why is it important?”

The chief hesitated, glancing at the villagers before stepping closer to the officer. “Sir, may we speak in private?”

The officer dismissed the crowd, leaving only himself and the chief in the room.

The chief’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Sir, Kali Pahadi is cursed. It’s about five kilometers south of the village.”

“Cursed?” the officer asked, leaning forward.

The chief nodded grimly. “It’s said that, long ago, black magic rituals were performed there. Human sacrifices were made to a devil . The land is tainted by blood, and strange things happen there. Animals won’t go near it. People hear voices—whispers in the wind.”

The officer raised an eyebrow but kept his face neutral. “Alright. I don’t believe in curses, but we need to search that area. Send someone who knows the way.”

Avi’s father stepped forward. “I’ll take you, sir,” he said, his voice steady but his hands trembling.

The search party set off in the jeep, their faces grim. Ram stood at the edge of the village, watching the dust rise as the vehicle disappeared down the dirt road. He prayed silently, hoping they would bring Avi back.

When he returned home, the house was silent. Too silent. His father had gone to the farm, and his mother was nowhere to be seen. “Maa! Maa! Where are you? I’m hungry!” he called out.

No answer.

“She must’ve gone to get vegetables,” he thought. He poured himself some milk and sat by the door, staring out at the windy day.

The trees swayed in the breeze, their branches creaking like old bones. The village felt emptier than usual. The silence seemed unnatural, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

As he sat there, lost in thought, a faint voice broke through the stillness.

“Ram…”

He froze. The voice was soft, almost like a whisper carried by the wind. He turned his head sharply. “Maa?”

No one was there.

“Ram…” the voice came again, clearer this time.

His chest tightened. He stood up, glancing around the empty house. “Maa, is that you?” he called out, his voice trembling.

No reply.

The silence grew heavier. The air felt colder. He took a shaky step toward the door.

“Who… who is there?” he stammered.

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