Aman had always been skeptical of the old stories. Growing up in a small village in rural India, he'd heard plenty of them—tales of spirits, curses, and sacred trees that were said to house the souls of the restless dead. But Aman, a city boy now, had long outgrown such superstitions. They were relics of an older generation, nothing more than bedtime stories.
That is, until he returned to his village.
His father had passed away suddenly, and as the eldest son, it was his duty to oversee the last rites. The journey home felt strange, unfamiliar, despite the fact he had spent his entire childhood there. The village, once bustling with life, seemed quieter now—eerily so. But what caught his attention most was the banyan tree.
It stood on the outskirts of the village, near the old temple. The tree had always been there, looming and ancient, its twisting roots digging deep into the earth. The elders used to say it was the oldest tree in the region, over a thousand years old, and that no one should ever linger near it after dark.
Aman never paid attention to such warnings, but now, something about the tree unnerved him. The air around it seemed thick, heavy. Its sprawling branches cast deep, unsettling shadows that seemed to shift in ways that didn't quite match the breeze.
As night fell, after the rituals were completed, Aman found himself drawn to the banyan tree. The village was asleep, the only sound being the occasional chirp of crickets. The air was warm and still, and the tree loomed in the distance, dark and foreboding.
He approached it slowly, his footsteps soft on the dirt path. The closer he got, the more the air felt wrong—dense, like it was pushing back against him. And then he heard it.
A whisper.
At first, Aman thought it was the wind rustling through the leaves. But there was no wind. The whisper was soft, unintelligible, but unmistakable. It came from the direction of the tree.
He stopped in his tracks, staring at the gnarled roots twisting out of the ground. The whispers grew louder, though still faint, like dozens of voices murmuring just beneath the surface of his hearing.
Aman's skin crawled. He could feel something now, an oppressive presence surrounding him. He took a step back, but it felt as though the tree's shadow stretched out to him, pulling him closer. His heart began to race, and his mouth went dry.
Then, a low voice, clear and unmistakable, emerged from the chorus of whispers.
"Come closer."
Aman froze. The voice was wrong—deep and rasping, filled with a hunger that made his stomach turn. His legs refused to move, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, with trembling hands, he reached for the small packet of holy ash that the priest had given him earlier that day. It was a village custom, something to protect against evil spirits.
As his fingers brushed the packet, the whispering stopped.
The air was dead still. The oppressive weight vanished, and for a brief, terrifying moment, it felt as if the world had frozen in place.
Aman turned and bolted back to the village, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't stop until he reached the safety of his family's home, slamming the door behind him.
That night, as he lay in bed, trying to shake off the terror, the whispers returned. Faint, distant… but there.
"Come closer."
The banyan tree was calling him.
And he knew, deep down, it wouldn't stop until he answered.