Chapter 4: The Story’s Shadow and the Clues That Haunt

Three days passed, but that story stuck in my head like a stubborn tune. Every night, I fought sleep, afraid I’d dream of ancient men and their impossible guest.

Ma noticed the bags under my eyes and dumped an extra spoon of sugar in my chai. I just stared at the ceiling, replaying that face in my mind.

One morning, my phone buzzed—Meera had updated her writing blog. She’d posted the Manushya-Roop story, calling it ‘Unfinished’. I clicked before my chai could cool.

Did she finally reveal the flaw? My fingers trembled as I scrolled.

Here’s what she wrote:

When another tribe found the clever man, he was already broken—dirty, wounded, wild-eyed.

His hair matted, his eyes wild, his body covered in old bruises. He gasped for breath. The tribe’s children stared, half curious, half terrified, as the elders whispered, “Is he possessed?”

Back then, there was no word for madness. They tied him up, drew a circle of ash around him, and chanted mantras—hoping to chase away the evil.

The oldest woman circled him with ash, her prayers lost in the wind. Some pressed palms together, some wept, some looked away, afraid to meet his eyes.

"It’s already here. It’s among us!" he screamed again and again.

His voice was cracked, echoing off the cave walls. Women wept, men stared at the floor.

No one dared go near. The children clung to their mothers’ saris, elders argued in hushed voices.

"I’ll tell you its secret."

He thrashed in his bonds, desperate. The tribe leader—a tall man with a carved staff—finally stepped forward. Even he looked nervous.

"Who is it? What secret do you have to tell?"

The clever man stared up, sweat and tears streaking his face.

He babbled, “Please, listen—”

"Someone came to our tribe. No, not someone. It looks like us, but…"

He choked. The tribe crowded closer, fear and curiosity battling in every face.

The leader leaned in, eyes sharp. The cave went silent—no insects, no wind.

"Look at me. Think carefully—how would you describe it?"

The clever man’s heart hammered. He stared at the leader—

Something flickered in the leader’s eyes, old and dark. The clever man’s mouth moved, but no sound came.

In those days, death was just part of life. They wrapped him in a rough cloth, muttered a prayer, and left him for the vultures. Another story, another warning.

Maybe the leader was the humanoid. Maybe not. With the clever man’s death, the truth was lost.

Some whispered the leader changed after that. Some said the curse went into the earth, waiting to wake again.

A million years ago, animals ruled the land. One day, a cheetah, hungry for prey, crept into the same cave.

The forest pulsed with life—peacocks, langurs, deer. The cheetah, lithe and silent, slunk through the undergrowth, drawn by the scent of old blood and something stranger.

Inside, the air was thick, the darkness alive. The wind howled outside, a hornbill called in the distance.

The cheetah prowled, sniffed the walls. It smelled dust, stone, and a strange emptiness—no human scent at all. Even the rats had gone.

On the cave wall: bones, stone tools, carcasses. The cheetah sneezed, unsettled. Its ears flicked at the call of a distant langur, but all it smelled was old blood and a void where humans should be.

It circled, growling low. Danger was everywhere, but it couldn’t see the source.

It crouched, ready to feast—then the shadows peeled away, and a human face stretched from the darkness.

"Looking for me?"

The voice echoed, soft but deadly. The cheetah bolted, tail low, vanishing into the green. The cave was silent once more.