Hundread

Episode II : The marked one

The morning after Ramanayya’s death, Lingapuram was unusually silent. Even the stray dogs that usually roamed the village square were nowhere to be seen. The banyan tree loomed in the distance, its roots coiling into the earth like the fingers of something buried alive.

The Shankar household was trying to get back to their routine.

Padma had made Shankar's favorite dish, Sarva Pindi, for breakfast.

Shankar, however, barely touched it. His mind lingered on Ramanayya’s frozen scream, the torn 100-rupee note in his fist, the blackened water in the well. He had dismissed Padma’s talk of omens the night before, but the unease gnawed at him. He tried to focus on his work—his vegetable cart needed restocking, and customers would be waiting. But his hands trembled slightly as he picked up a sack of potatoes, and he realized he was holding his breath, as though expecting something dreadful to happen.

Bujji sat across from him, absently stirring his plate with his fingers. He had barely spoken since waking up. The 100-rupee note that he had found under his pillow. It was in his pocket.

He hadn’t told anyone.

Or so he thought.

Bhuvana had seen it.

She had watched her brother from the doorway, her dark eyes unreadable. When he tucked the note into his pocket, she said nothing.

The smell of rot clung to the house. It was faint at first, a lingering trace of something spoiled. But as the morning wore on, it seemed to intensify, curling into the corners of the house, seeping into their clothes. Padma scrubbed the floors, muttering prayers under her breath, but no amount of washing seemed to cleanse the air.

The second death

By noon, the village was thrown into chaos again.

A woman’s scream pierced the air. Chinnamma, the potter’s wife, had found her husband Muthyalu's lifeless body in their courtyard. His body was twisted unnaturally, his mouth agape, as if he had died mid-scream. His fingernails were broken and caked with blood, as though he had tried to claw at something unseen.

Shankar and Padma arrived at the scene with the others. The villagers muttered among themselves, their fear tangible. An eerie hush settled over the gathering, broken only by the distant cawing of crows.

“The banyan tree,” someone whispered. “Ramanayya died near it. Now Muthyalu…”

“But he wasn’t near the tree!” another argued. “He was in his own home.”

Shankar went closer to the body and was the first to notice it ; he 100-rupee note, clenched tight in Muthyalu’s fist.

Shankar flinched. It was the exact same as Ramanayya’s.

Padma clutched at his arm, her nails digging into his skin. “Something is wrong, Shankar,” she whispered.

He didn’t reply. His gaze shifted to Bujji, who stood at the edge of the crowd. The boy’s face was pale, his hands clenched into fists. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the square, rattling the tin roofs, sending dust and dried leaves spiraling into the air. Shankar turned his face away, shielding his eyes. When he looked back, Bujji was gone.

A strange chill crawled down his spine.

Marked

That night, the wind returned.

Not a storm, not a normal gust, but something unnatural—cold, biting, carrying the unmistakable stench of decay.

Padma bolted the doors shut. She muttered prayers under her breath, fingers shaking as she traced protective symbols in turmeric on the threshold. The windows rattled, the shutters creaking as if unseen fingers were pressing against them, trying to get in.

Shankar sat by the fire, staring at the flickering flames, trying to drown out the whispers in his mind. He shook his head, forcing the thoughts way. This wasn’t the time.

Bhuvana lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her ears picked up every sound—the rustling of leaves outside, the distant hoot of an owl, the creak of the wooden beams. And then… the whisper.

It came from the other room.

She sat up, heart pounding.

She tiptoed to the door and peeked through the gap.

Bujji was sitting up in bed, his back rigid. The wind howled outside, but inside the room, the air was dead still.

Then he turned.

Bhuvana clamped a hand over her mouth.

Bujji’s eyes… they were black.

Not like shadows, not like darkness—but black, endless pits that swallowed the dim light of the lamp.

His lips moved.

“He is here.”

A sudden gust of wind blew the lamp out.

Bhuvana staggered back into the darkness, her breath caught in her throat.

The stench of rot filled the house.

And somewhere, deep in the night, a maniacal laughter filled the air.

Rayudu’s smile

Shankar woke to Padma shaking him violently. "Wake up! Something is wrong with Bujji!" her voice trembled.

He leapt to his feet, his head spinning from the sudden movement. The moment he stepped into Bujji’s room, he froze. The boy, drenched in sweat, sat rigid in his bed, his breathing eerily slow, his skin cold to the touch. His lips moved in silent murmurs, as though speaking to something unseen.

Padma sobbed, shaking the boy, but he did not react. "We need help, Shankar!" she pleaded.

There was only one place to go. Rayudu.

The old witch doctor lived on the outskirts of the village, near the dense mango groves. People avoided him, whispering that he trafficked in dark things, that his hut was cursed. But desperation numbed Shankar’s fear.

The walk to Rayudu’s hut felt endless. The trees loomed tall and gnarled, their twisted branches reaching for him like skeletal fingers. The closer he got, the heavier the air became. The smell of damp earth, rotting fruit, and something more.

At last, he reached the door. He hesitated only a moment before knocking. The door creaked open before he touched it.

Rayudu sat inside, cross-legged, staring at the fire. His face was deeply lined, his eyes like pits of ink. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

Shankar swallowed. "Something is wrong with my son."

Rayudu’s smile widened. He gestured to the fire. "Sit."

Shankar hesitated. The flames crackled, casting grotesque shadows on the walls.

Then, Rayudu began to laugh.

A deep, rattling sound that sent a chill deep into Shankar’s bones.

Shankar took a step back. The shadows behind Rayudu seemed to move.

Rayudu’s voice, barely a whisper, curled through the smoke.

"Have you ever wondered why some doors stay locked?"

Shankar’s breath hitched.

"And what happens when the wrong hands find the key?"

The wind outside howled.

Rayudu leaned closer, his breath cold as ice.

"Time heals and time punishes. What do you think is happening in your case Shankar?

To be continued.....

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I am Sri Ram.

I head the Marketing and Alliances function at FinAlyzer.

FinAlyzer is an emerging global leader in the Enterprise Performance Management space and we are working towards one purpose....empowering CFOs drive sustainable growth and financial resilience through Automation of their Financial Operations around Financial Close, Consolidation, MIS and Budgeting and Reporting (Statutory and Management).

In addition to working towards this purpose, I read, I write, I watch movies.

I do all of this happily.

But I am at my happiest when I walk my dog and going by the way she looks at me when we are out strolling, I am sure so is she.

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