Chapter 1: The Winter Hunt

When I was a child, I would return to my hometown in UP for the winter holidays, where the chill made even the stray dogs curl up under old Ambassador cars.

Those days, the air carried a lazy chill, the kind that made you wrap a shawl tight and crave chai by the stove. Misty mornings smelled of burnt wood and fresh pakoras from nearby homes. The lanes would echo with the thwack of cricket balls against broken walls, and the clanging of steel tiffin boxes as kids swapped bites of aloo paratha.

My younger uncle—Chachu—would take me up the hill to hunt wild rabbits.

He'd wrap a muffler around his neck, wink at me with a conspirator’s grin, and slip a rusty catapult into his kurta pocket. Dadi fussed over us, tucking an extra paratha into the tiffin and warning, "Don’t go near the old jungle, samjhe?" We’d trudge off with our breath fogging the cold air, tiffin swinging between us.

We chased after the rabbit’s footprints as we ran.

Each time those tiny paw marks appeared on the soft earth, Chachu would nudge me, whispering, “Arrey, Sonu, careful! These rabbits are smarter than you think.” Sometimes a mynah would burst from the bushes, making me jump and then laugh, pretending I wasn’t scared.

Suddenly, a thick fog rolled in.

We stopped, listening to our own breathing, the world muffled by mist. Somewhere, a distant temple bell rang, its sound swallowed by the fog. Within minutes, trees became shadows and the call of a distant koel sounded haunting. The familiar path looked completely strange, the chill settling deeper in our bones.

I called out anxiously, “Chachu, it looks like we’ve ended up in the old jungle.”

My breath caught, the way it does when Amma yells your full name from the kitchen—trouble was close. My heart thudded as I followed Chachu—every snap of a twig made me jump, but I pretended to be brave, clinging to his arm, my fingers stiff with cold.

My uncle’s face instantly turned pale. “Arrey, let’s get out of here quickly. Even the rabbit’s footprints just now didn’t look right.”

He scanned the ground nervously, his fingers trembling, gripping my shoulder like he was holding on for dear life. The rabbits were forgotten; fear clouded his usually mischievous eyes.

In my haste, I tripped and hurt my leg.

A sharp stone scraped my knee, tearing my woollen pants. Pain shot up, and I bit my lip, blinking hard—no way I’d let Chachu see me cry like a small kid.

Just as I was about to cry out in pain, my uncle quickly covered my mouth with his hand.

His hand was rough and cold, smelling faintly of mustard oil from his hair. He shook his head urgently, eyes wide, warning me to stay silent.

Through the mist, I could vaguely see a figure—a person-like shape, wrapped in a furry shawl and a woolen cap—walking towards us from deep within the old jungle.

My heart leapt into my mouth. The figure’s gait was odd, swaying slightly, and the way it moved made the hairs on my neck stand. The woolen cap was pulled low, almost covering its eyes.

My uncle immediately lay flat, slung me onto his back, and crawled out of the jungle on all fours.

His back jostled against mine; my face was buried in his thick sweater. The smell of wet earth and mustard oil clung to us as Chachu dragged me through the grass. Every twig that snapped made me flinch, and Chachu’s breath was ragged as he muttered, “Ram, Ram, Raksha karna.”

Once we were out, my uncle picked me up and started running.

He didn’t pause even when his slippers came off. He just clutched me tighter, huffing as he dashed through the grass and stumbled onto the main road.

I asked, “Chachu, why are you running?”

My uncle’s voice trembled, “Bhoot Baba. Bhoot Baba.”

He could barely get the words out. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold, and he kept glancing back over his shoulder as if afraid the fog itself might chase us.