Borigaon was the kind of village that wore silence like a second skin. At sunrise, the fields came alive with the rustle of tea leaves and the songs of birds, but once the sun dipped behind the hills, the world grew still. The air thickened with mist, and the narrow bamboo houses stood like watchful silhouettes.
Children were warned never to whistle after dark, never to answer if they heard their names called from the fields, and never to wander near the forest once the fog rolled in. They were old rules, whispered from generation to generation. Few remembered why, but no one dared break them.
No one, except the boy who had no choice.
Arun had been cursed with sight since he was five. While other children chased dragonflies or played marbles in the dusty lanes, he saw things that were not meant to be seen.
Once, he had pointed at the well outside their home, tugging at his mother's hand. "Ma, there's a man standing there. He's wet… his clothes are dripping."
His mother glanced at the empty well and frowned. "Arun, enough of this. Don't make up such stories."
But Arun had not imagined it. The man had smiled at him—lips blue, teeth cracked, water dripping endlessly from his hair.
By the time he turned twelve, Arun knew better than to speak. His parents grew frustrated whenever he mentioned the shadows that followed him, the pale faces watching from rooftops, or the whispers that hissed his name when he tried to sleep. His father told him to focus on schoolwork. His mother whispered about "too much imagination."
But Arun could feel the truth. The dead were always near.
At night, he would lie in bed and listen to the bamboo groan in the wind, his heart hammering as he watched the corners of the room. Sometimes a woman with tangled black hair crouched on the rafters, her eyes gleaming white. Sometimes a hand reached from beneath his bed, long fingers curling like snakes.
He prayed they would leave him alone. They never did.
Eventually, his parents took him to Guwahati. The long journey in the rattling car filled Arun with a faint hope—maybe someone could explain what was wrong with him. The doctors checked his eyes, his mind, his blood. They shone lights in his pupils, strapped cold machines to his head, and scribbled notes in thick files.
At the end of it all, they smiled in ways that made Arun feel smaller than ever.
"Your son is perfectly healthy," the doctor said, his voice rehearsed. "It is only stress. He should study less, play more."
His parents looked relieved. Arun felt the opposite.
That night, the three of them drove home through the storm.
The sky tore open with thunder, rain hammering against the windshield. The forest pressed close to the road, trees bending under the weight of the wind. Arun sat in the backseat, staring into the blur of shadows.
And then he saw it.
At first, he thought it was just another tree bent by the wind. But as the car drew closer, the shape straightened. A figure stood at the roadside, taller than any man, its limbs too long, its posture too crooked. Its arms dangled unnaturally low, fingers grazing the wet earth.
Its face turned toward the car, bones creaking like bamboo snapping.
And then it smiled.
The grin was impossibly wide, tearing across its cheeks, splitting its face in two. Its eyes glowed faintly, as if lit from within.
Arun's breath caught. His chest locked up. He wanted to scream, to shout for his father to stop the car, but terror clamped his throat shut.
The figure's mouth opened.
And it laughed.
It was not human laughter. It was wet, bubbling, gurgling like a drowning man forcing joy through water-filled lungs. The sound wrapped around Arun's ears, crawled down his spine, and sat heavy in his stomach.
The car swerved.
His father shouted, wrenching the wheel. His mother's scream cut through the storm. Tires shrieked against the slick road, and then the world spun. Metal crunched, glass shattered, and Arun was thrown sideways. For the briefest instant before blackness swallowed him, he saw the creature again—standing in the middle of the road, its grin wider, its laughter louder, watching as their car flipped.
---
When he woke, the ceiling above him was blindingly white. The air stank of antiseptic. His head throbbed, every breath scraping against his ribs. For one blissful moment, he thought it had all been a nightmare.
Then he noticed the silence.
No father pacing beside the bed. No mother sitting with folded hands, worry etched into her face.
Only the hum of machines.
A nurse entered, startled to see him awake. She rushed to his side, murmuring soft words in Assamese. He caught fragments—accident… nothing could be done… your parents… gone.
Arun's chest collapsed. His throat burned with a scream that tore through the sterile air. He cried until his body shook, until his tears scalded his skin. The world had crumbled in a single night.
But grief was not alone.
Another memory rose through the storm inside him. That grin. That laughter.
This was no accident. This was no cruel twist of fate. It was that thing. That creature.
The hospital lights flickered once, twice. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something hunched on the ceiling—limbs folded, a grin stretched impossibly wide. Watching. Waiting.
Arun's tears dried on his face. His small fists clenched so tight his nails dug crescents into his palms. A cold fire replaced his grief, burning steady and sharp.
"I will find you," he whispered into the silence, his voice trembling but fierce. "I will find all of you. I will end your laughter."
The corridor outside echoed with the squeak of a trolley wheel. But beneath it, faint, broken, unmistakable, came the sound of laughter.
And in that moment, Arun understood.
His life was no longer his own. His journey had just begun.