The village of Vailya sat at the edge of a dense, untamed forest, where the trees stretched high into the sky and whispered secrets of ancient times. Few people lived in Vailya—just enough to make it a place of quiet, hard work. Among them was Yug, the village woodcutter, a young man with calloused hands and eyes that could see more in darkness than others could in light. His mother, Sarla, lived with him in a small, weather-worn house at the village's edge. The two of them scraped by, living off what the forest gave them.
Each day, Yug set out before dawn, carrying his axe with a solemn purpose. The forest was his home, the towering trees his companions. He spent his days cutting, chopping, and splitting logs for the village, trading them for the food and supplies they needed to survive. But it was the rare trees, the ones like Chandan, that fetched the highest price—trees whose wood was as fragrant as it was precious. And today, Yug had found one.
The Chandan tree stood in a clearing deep within the forest, its bark pale and its leaves shimmering in the dappled light. It was massive, larger than any tree Yug had ever cut before, and its scent carried on the wind like a whispered invitation.
He set to work immediately, his axe biting into the tree's trunk with practiced precision. Hours passed, the rhythmic swing of his axe the only sound in the forest. Time seemed to stretch, and the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the land.
As the sun dipped lower, Yug glanced at the horizon, a pang of guilt rising in his chest. Sarla's voice echoed in his mind: "Don't stay out too late, Yug. Come back before the evening. The forest is not kind after dark."
But he ignored it. The tree was massive, and every chop brought him closer to his goal. The promise of a rare Chandan tree was too tempting to abandon, and the weight of his mother's warning felt distant now.
The air grew colder as the sky darkened, and the sound of the axe hitting the wood began to slow, as if the tree itself were resisting. Yug gritted his teeth and pushed forward, his sweat mixing with the dirt on his skin. The last swing of his axe brought the tree to a groan, and with a thunderous crack, the trunk split, beginning its slow fall toward the earth.
That's when he saw it.
A red thread, wrapped tightly around the base of the tree, caught his attention. It was old, frayed at the edges, but unmistakable in its presence. His heart skipped a beat, the warning of his mother suddenly rushing back to him.
"What is this?" he muttered, looking at the thread. Something in his gut told him to stop, but he was already too far gone. His hand gripped his axe, his breath shallow as he watched the tree fall with unnatural slowness.
Suddenly, the ground trembled, and a dark shadow rose from the tree like a living entity, its form twisted and fleeting. It darted toward him, so fast, so sudden, that Yug barely had time to react.
The shadow surged into his mouth, dark and thick like smoke, filling his throat, choking him. He gasped, his body seizing as an overwhelming presence filled his mind.
A scream tore from his throat, but it was swallowed by the shadow. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he saw his father's face, twisted in agony, before it disappeared in the smoke. His body felt cold, the air around him thick with the presence of something ancient, something malevolent.
Without thinking, Yug bolted. His legs moved faster than his mind could comprehend, his axe still clutched in his hand. He ran through the trees, his heart pounding, the weight of his terror making the night air feel heavier.
The jungle that had once been his home, his sanctuary, now felt like a prison, each shadow hiding something darker, something waiting. The echo of his mother's warning returned with every step, urging him to return to safety. He didn't stop running until the trees began to thin, and he saw the soft glow of the village lights in the distance.
He stumbled into the village, breathless, the weight of the axe dragging at his arm. His heart hammered in his chest as he ran to his small home, bursting through the door.
"Sarla!" he called out, his voice ragged.
His mother appeared from the small kitchen, concern flooding her features at the sight of him. "Yug! What is it? You're covered in sweat, and you look—"
But Yug couldn't hear her. He was too consumed by what he had felt in the forest—the shadow that had entered his body, the terrible presence that seemed to press against his skin. The world around him felt off balance, as if the very air had shifted.
The night outside felt colder than ever, and as Yug stood there, his chest still heaving, he could feel it—the whispers. Soft at first, but growing louder, coming from deep within the shadows.
And they weren't his own thoughts.