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Chapter 1: The Arrival
The small village of Kailashpur had never witnessed anything extraordinary. Nestled between two sleepy hills and surrounded by thick woods, the villagers lived their lives rooted in ancient customs, prayers, and unshaken beliefs. But that all changed one foggy evening.
It was 5:47 PM, the sun hung low in the sky, casting an orange hue over the dusty streets. The village square was bustling with chatter as children ran past shops and elders gathered near the tea stall. That’s when the man arrived.
He didn’t walk in like a stranger asking for help or food. No, he stood silently at the edge of the village, barely moving, as if waiting to be noticed. He wore a black long coat that brushed against his ankles and a dusty brown hat that hid most of his face. But what could not be hidden — was his left eye.
One of his eyes was pitch-black like a raven’s feather, while the other was pure white, without a pupil or iris, glowing faintly in the dusk. Anyone who locked eyes with him—even for a second—felt a jolt through their chest, a shiver up their spine.
A boy named Aryan, barely 12 years old, was the first to see him. Aryan was known for his bravery—he had once killed a cobra with a stick. But today, he froze in his tracks.
"Who... who is that?" he whispered to his friend Ravi.
Ravi followed his gaze. “I don’t know… but he’s not from here.”
The man slowly lifted his head and stared straight at them. His white eye shimmered faintly in the growing darkness. The boys turned and ran without another word.
The Villager’s Whispers
By nightfall, the entire village had heard about the mysterious man. Some said he was a ghost, others believed he was a wandering sadhu with divine powers. But no one could explain the feeling they got when they looked at him—like time itself paused for a moment.
Ramesh Joshi, the village head, invited the man to his home to offer shelter. Strangely, the man didn’t speak. He only nodded and followed. His footsteps made no sound, and though it was chilly outside, his breath never showed.
Inside, Ramesh’s wife prepared warm food, but the man did not eat. Instead, he sat in the corner of the room, unmoving, staring at the fire with his black and white eyes.
“You must be tired from travel,” Ramesh said kindly. “Where are you from?”
Silence.
“What is your name?”
Silence again.
Ramesh tried to hide his discomfort. “Well… you can rest here for tonight. Tomorrow, we will help you find your way.”
The man finally blinked. Just once. But that single blink made Ramesh’s heart skip a beat.
Later that night, Ramesh’s wife, Lata, complained of a heavy feeling in her chest, and their cat, who usually curled near the fire, refused to enter the room. The next morning, she found that all the mirrors in their house had cracks running across them, including the small one in the kitchen drawer.
A String of Events
In the days that followed, strange things began to happen across Kailashpur.
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Cows stopped giving milk.
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Dogs howled every night, staring in the direction of the guesthouse.
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A toddler, playing alone in the yard, pointed to the empty well and said, “Uncle is down there. He’s calling me.”
Villagers grew paranoid.
“We should ask him to leave,” one suggested during a late-night village meeting.
“No,” said another. “What if he curses us?”
But not everyone was afraid.
Priya, a young woman of 25, worked at the local school and had a curious mind. She believed in science more than spirits. She decided to visit the man.
Carrying a book and a smile, she knocked on the guesthouse door. It creaked open by itself.
She stepped in. “Hello… I thought you might be bored. I brought something to read.”
The man was sitting on a wooden chair, hands clasped together, white eye glowing dimly. He turned his head slowly, and for the first time—he spoke.
“You… see it too.”
Priya’s breath caught in her throat.
“See what?” she whispered.
“The fog… behind the light… the scream in the silence…”
His voice was gravel and thunder—soft yet heavy. Priya’s knees weakened. She dropped the book.
The man stood up, towering above her.
“It’s coming. And only the blind will survive.”
The Newspaper Clipping
That night, Priya couldn’t sleep. She researched for hours. She remembered something her grandfather had told her years ago about a man with a white eye who could see things from beyond the veil of life.
Old newspaper archives held a clue.
"1957 - Bhopal: Entire town evacuated after mass hallucinations and mirror shattering incidents. Survivors described a man with one glowing white eye. The man vanished without a trace."
Priya’s hands trembled. The description matched exactly.
She rushed to the school library at dawn and searched the historical section.
One book contained a black-and-white photograph — blurry, aged, but chilling.
A tall man in a long coat, his face half hidden by shadows. One eye glowing white.
The Disappearance
The following evening, Aryan went missing.
His parents cried, the villagers searched. They found footprints leading into the woods, and then… nothing. No sign of struggle, no trace of the boy. Just his red marble, lying in the dirt.
Priya confronted the man.
“What did you do to the boy?”
The man didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled out a tiny notebook from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
On the first page, in ink so red it looked like blood, was written:
“The forest calls what belongs to it. I only watch. I do not act.”
On the second page, an illustration of the village — and a white fog creeping toward it from the trees.
To Be Continued…
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