The evening air had grown colder, sharper, as if the world itself was warning Birju of what was to come. He could still feel the eerie weight of the graveyard pressing on his chest—the smell of damp earth, the iron tang of blood, and the ghostly absence of the girl. His legs moved on autopilot as he tried to make sense of the impossible, the smoke-like figure, the lifeless body, and the sudden accusations that were about to crush him.
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A villager approached first—a wiry man with dirt-streaked clothes and eyes wide with suspicion. “Professor! What… what are you doing here?”
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“I… I didn’t—” Birju stammered, his hands rising defensively. “I just walked through… I didn’t touch anything. I swear!”
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But his voice was lost among the whispers of the gathering crowd. The rest of the villagers were slowly emerging from behind trees and gravestones, drawn by the murmurs and the distant sound of shouting. They pointed at him, their faces twisted with fear and certainty.
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“He’s the one!” someone shouted. “We saw him over the body!”
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The tension in the air thickened. Birju’s heart hammered painfully against his ribcage. He raised his hands higher, trying to calm them. “Please! Listen! I found him like this! She—” He paused, the words “the girl” catching in his throat. Even if he said it, no one would understand.
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Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps came from the distance—police sirens screaming, their red and blue lights cutting across the cemetery like lightning. Birju froze. He had hoped to explain, hoped that reason might prevail, but the moment had passed.
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Within minutes, two constables were beside him, grabbing his arms with firm, unyielding hands. “Hands behind your back,” one of them barked. “You’re under arrest.”
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Birju tried to explain, his voice rising with desperation. “I am telling the truth! I didn’t kill anyone! There’s a girl—she appeared and… she vanished!”
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The officer looked at him with a mixture of pity and irritation. “Save it for the court.”
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They hauled him toward the police jeep waiting at the edge of the graveyard. He could hear the crowd murmuring, whispers spreading like wildfire: Murderer. Professor. Ghosts. Crazy old man.
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In the back of the jeep, Birju sat motionless, staring out at the cemetery as it disappeared behind him. The rain had started to drizzle lightly, washing over the graves, as if trying to cleanse the world of the horror he had witnessed. But the horror was not in the graveyard—it was now inside him, unshakable and suffocating.
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By the time they reached the police station, the news had spread. Reporters had arrived, their cameras flashing, their questions sharp and relentless. “Professor Birju! Were you the one who killed him?”
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“Tell us, professor, what really happened?” another shouted.
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Birju’s hands shook as he tried to answer, but the words came out jumbled. He could feel the stares of the villagers on him, their eyes accusing, the memory of the girl haunting every corner of his mind.
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Inside the interrogation room, the officers were relentless. Papers were shoved before him—statements he had not signed, evidence he had never touched, photographs that distorted the reality of the scene. Every attempt to explain only dug him deeper into a pit of suspicion.
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“Where is this girl now?” one officer asked, his tone skeptical.
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“She… she disappeared,” Birju said. “Like smoke. I reached out, and she—she wasn’t there. I don’t know how else to explain it. Please… you have to believe me!”
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The room was silent for a moment, filled only with the hum of fluorescent lights and the scratch of pens. Then came a sharp laugh from the corner.
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“You expect us to believe that?” the inspector sneered. “A vanishing girl, a dead man, and you—standing over him? It doesn’t matter what you saw. The law doesn’t bend to ghosts.”
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Birju felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. All his years of scientific reasoning, all his knowledge, meant nothing here. The truth had no power against perception. In this moment, he was not a respected professor. He was just an old man caught in a web he could not explain.
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Hours passed, and the interrogations continued. Witnesses were brought in—villagers who claimed they saw him near the body, officers who recounted his “erratic behavior,” neighbors who testified to his supposed strange habits. Each word, each nod, tightened the noose around his life.
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By nightfall, Birju was exhausted, drenched in both sweat and rain, his spirit bruised as much as his body. The room felt like a cage, closing in, trapping him in a nightmare that had no escape.
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When the inspector finally dismissed the witnesses, he leaned across the table. “Professor Birju,” he said quietly, “sometimes the world doesn’t need the truth. It only needs someone to blame. And tonight, you’re it.”
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Birju closed his eyes, his mind racing. He could feel the shadows creeping closer, memories of the girl flickering like candlelight in a storm. Who was she? Why had she chosen him to witness the impossible?
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As the night deepened, the officers led him out, this time to a holding cell. He sank onto the hard bench, staring at the cracked walls. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to prove the impossible—but he was trapped.
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And in that darkness, a strange calm settled over him. The girl. The corpse. The whispers of the graveyard. None of it was random. Something had called him here. Something beyond life and death.
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He didn’t yet understand it, but Birju knew one thing: the path ahead would not be of logic, formulas, or experiments. It would be of shadows, secrets, and a world that defied the living.
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And somewhere, deep in the stillness, he swore to himself: he would uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
and then Add to home screen.