The night was heavy and never-ending. Deepak didn't get any rest. He was unable to.
Ramlal was cold and pale as he lay sleeping, twitching sometimes as though he were in a nightmare that was too intense to wake up from. Dark streaks had formed from the dried crimson markings beneath his eyes. He breathed steadily and shallowly, as if he were being kept alive by something.
or making use of him.
All of the house's lamps remained burning. Deepak carried the sickle with him. His gaze was focused on the scarecrow that was still standing in the field as he sat with his back to the window.
It was still there.
Not a single inch.
Deepak, however, was now wiser. There were other dangers besides movement.
It might mutter. It might infiltrate. It could wait.
The rain eventually stopped at 3 a.m.
The lower portion of the field was engulfed by a thick fog that emerged from the damp ground. Now the scarecrow was only a shadow inside of it.
The house creaked after that.
The floorboards moved.
The type of creak that only occurs when someone enters the building.
Deepak felt his heart pound. He got up slowly, holding a sickle. "Ramlal...?"
No response.
He took a quick look in the bedroom.
Ramlal had left.
On the bed, the blanket was piled high. The cushion remains toasty. However, the door was ajar and swaying a little in the wind.
Deepak called his name and hurried out. "Ramlal, uncle!"
The scarecrow was the only one to respond with a rustle.
He froze when his gaze shifted to the field.
Ramlal was standing next to the scarecrow.
The head was bent.
His hands by his sides.
And a long, bright red thread was knotted around his wrist. It connected them by going from his arm to the scarecrow's hand.
Shouting, Deepak said, "Uncle! Return! You're not—
Then, however, Ramlal raised his head.
He had crimson eyes.
His mouth parted, but his voice did not emerge.
It was profound. Reverberating. old.
"The seal was broken. The door opened. I was once fed by you. I now consume you.
It made the scarecrow tremble.
then took a step forward.
It shifted.
Its arms stretched like vines, longer than before. Its sagging, patched face grinned. A mouth that was not supposed to speak opened.
Deepak didn't hold back.
He spun around and took off running.
He returned to the house, bolted the door, banged it shut, and dragged furniture in front of it.He lighted more oil lamps after grabbing the matches. Anything to maintain the strength of the light.
Then he thought of the box.
The one with the broken seal, the ashes, and the chain.
After tearing into the shelf, he discovered it once more wrapped in fabric.
In his hands, it throbbed—warm, nearly living.
Then there was a knock from the front porch.
Gentle.
Slow.
Intentional.
Make a knocking sound.
The voice of Ramlal said, "Open the door, Deepak." Be calm. Grinning. Let's have a conversation. We are no longer required to run.
Deepak took a step back. "You're not him. No more.
The wind was up outside once more. It was a breath-like movement, not a real breeze. like murmurs.
The lights flickered.
They started to go extinct one by one.
"No, no, no." Deepak rushed to light them again.
Then there was quiet.
The knocking had ceased.
Deepak moved slowly in the direction of the window and slightly raised the curtain.
There was nobody.
There was nobody on the porch.
The field? Still. The scarecrow is nowhere to be seen.
However, the red thread was present.
tied to the handle of the door.
similar to a warning.
or a pledge.
Slowly, he turned and noticed the mark.
on the wall. over the altar.
Fresh ash, three lines. Smoke-carved, not handwritten.
"The host is chosen."
With his chest heaving, Deepak retreated. He gripped the box more tightly.
Now he understood the old man's meaning.
It wasn't finished.
Unless the root of it all was destroyed, it would never end.
Not interred. Not sealed. However, it burned.
The body of the scarecrow.
The field.
And whatsoever Ramlal now contained.
despite the possibility of losing him forever.
To be continued....