The Nameless One

...UNNAMED AND UNFORGIVEN...

The days grew colder in Devgarh, even though it was midsummer.

Tara no longer whispered names at night. She no longer drew. She just sat near the window, staring into the neem tree’s shadow as it loomed like a watchtower. Her skin paled. Her voice grew quiet.

She had named every spirit. Every forgotten soul.

Except one.

The one that had no name. No face. No grave.

Only a presence.

And now, it was closer than ever.

...WHO WAS NEVER REMEMBERED...

The priest had fallen ill — feverish, shivering, whispering in his sleep.

Meera went to see him, desperate. His house was dark, filled with half-burned incense and scribbled mantras on parchment nailed to the walls.

He opened one eye and croaked, “You awakened the Nameless One. You should have never done the ritual.”

“But we freed them!” Meera argued. “Tara is safe now!”

He shook his head slowly. “No... You opened the way for something older than them all.”

He pointed to a dusty old book with brittle pages.

On the last page was a drawing of a creature — not human, not spirit — tall, thin, made of smoke and branches. Where its face should be, there was only a hole.

Below it:

“The First Sacrifice. Never buried. Never mourned. Never named. It waits.”

...HOLLOW-FACED...

Tara began speaking to someone again.

Not playfully. Not with laughter.

With reverence. With fear.

“Do you know what it’s like,” she whispered to her mother, “to be born from silence? To have no name? No memory?”

Meera’s heart sank. “Who told you that?”

Tara looked out the window. “He did. The one in the tree.”

Raghav wanted to leave Devgarh. Pack everything, flee to the city, run from all of it. But Tara wouldn’t step outside the village. She’d scream if they tried.

“He needs me here,” she said.

“He wants me to name him.”

...THE SONG OF DIRT AND SILENCE...

That night, the villagers heard humming. A deep, rumbling song from the earth itself.

One by one, animals began disappearing.

Goats. Dogs. Birds.

Then, a child.

Found near the tree. Eyes open. No wounds. No heartbeat. A mark on her neck — the shape of a spiral.

The priest, now barely breathing, whispered his final words to Meera:

“You must not name it. To name is to give it form. And once it has a form, it will never die.”

Then, he died. His body withered into dry dust within hours.

...THE SPIRAL APPEARS...

The spiral mark began appearing everywhere — on tree trunks, doorsteps, even inside their home, carved into glass and wood.

And then Tara said it out loud.

“I think I know what to call him.”

“No!” Meera shouted. “You can’t! Don’t give him a name!”

But Tara only smiled.

“He’s already chosen one.”

She reached under her pillow and pulled out a folded paper.

A child’s drawing.

The same smoke-and-branch creature, but this time it had a face.

And beneath it, scrawled in red crayon:

“Dhoon.”

Meera’s hands shook. “What does that mean?”

Tara looked up.

“It means Echo.”

...THE FIRST FOOTSTEPS...

The night Tara said the name, the neem tree split in half with a crack like thunder.

The roots spread, tearing through stone and soil, making a path from the forest to their doorstep.

At midnight, someone knocked.

Three soft taps.

Not frantic. Not threatening.

Just… steady.

When Meera opened the door, no one was there.

But mud led into the living room.

Tara stood barefoot in the hallway.

“He’s here,” she whispered.

“He’s inside now.”

...A VOICE WITHOUT A BODY...

“Dhoon” was not like the others.

He didn’t appear in mirrors.

He didn’t whisper in dreams.

He lived in sounds — echoes, creaks, wind against glass.

When Meera dropped a spoon, she heard it repeat twice.

When Raghav shut the door, it slammed again on its own.

And when Tara laughed… it echoed all night long, even after she had gone to sleep.

... FEEDING THE FORGOTTEN...

The village began to decay.

Wells dried. Fires wouldn’t stay lit. Phones picked up static that sounded like chanting.

Raghav set up audio recorders around the house.

Every night, the recordings played the same thing:

A voice, deep and hollow, saying only:

“Name me. Feed me. I will fill your silence.”

And then… Tara disappeared.

...DHOON’S REALM...

They found her outside, standing at the base of the neem tree, now black and leafless.

She turned to Meera, smiling gently. “He doesn’t want to hurt us. He just wants to be real.”

“Real?” Meera whispered.

“To be remembered.”

Tara walked into the roots.

The tree swallowed her.

Raghav screamed. Meera ran after her, but the roots coiled shut.

And the wind said, clear as a bell:

“Now I have a name.”

...THE SILENCE SPREADS...

Tara was gone.

But not truly.

Every corner of the house now echoed unnaturally. Every footstep, every whisper repeated back, warped and in Dhoon’s voice.

The tree grew taller than ever.

And every full moon, a new child in Devgarh began sleepwalking toward it.

Some returned.

Some didn’t.

And all of them, when asked, would say the same thing:

“He talks to me. He’s so lonely.”

...FINAL LINES:...

No one lives in Shyamlal’s house anymore.

But if you stand near the tree…

You’ll hear footsteps behind you.

Not loud.

Just an echo.

Of something…

that was never supposed to exist.

But now never goes silent.

His name is Dhoon.

And silence… is his kingdom.

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