The Buried Truth

A Quiet Village in the Foothills

It was a still night in the remote village of Devgarh. The crickets had quieted. The air smelled of wet earth and burning incense from evening prayers. In the small house at the edge of the woods, 78-year-old Shyamlal’s body lay cold on a wooden cot, covered in a white shroud. His family mourned, exhausted after a day of rituals. The priest had declared the final rites would be done at dawn.

But something stirred after midnight.

Rinku, the youngest grandson, barely 10, had woken up thirsty. Tiptoeing past the mourning room, he paused. The flame of the clay lamp next to his grandfather’s body flickered violently, though no breeze passed.

Then he heard it.

A groan.

Soft… broken… like someone struggling to breathe through old lungs.

He stood frozen.

Another groan.

And then… the sheet twitched.

Rinku's copper water pot fell from his trembling hands with a loud clang. The noise woke his father, Hari, who rushed in, followed by Rinku’s uncle and mother. They found Rinku crouched by the door, wide-eyed.

"The body... it moved," he whispered.

“Beta, it’s your imagination,” said Hari, holding him close. “The mind plays tricks in grief.”

But as they turned to reassure themselves, the entire sheet slowly lifted… and the corpse of Shyamlal sat up.

Shyamlal’s eyes were open — milky white, unblinking. His lips trembled. The family screamed, stumbling back.

"Get the priest!" someone shouted.

But Shyamlal didn’t speak.

He stood.

His bones cracked like dry sticks as he moved. Slowly, shakily, he turned his head toward the window. Then, without looking at anyone, he began to walk out. Barefoot. Silent.

No one dared stop him.

They followed from a distance as he left the house and entered the forest path behind it — the same one where, 42 years ago, he had buried something.

Something forbidden.

Years ago, when Shyamlal was a young man, a tantrik had come to the village. That man had promised wealth and long life in exchange for a ritual — one that required burying something living in the ground, under a cursed neem tree.

Shyamlal had done it.

Some say it was a goat. Others whisper it was a child who had no family.

No one ever proved it.

But from that day on, Shyamlal prospered.

And every year on the same date, he’d visit the woods alone.

Now, his reanimated body had returned there.

The villagers watched in horror as Shyamlal reached the cursed neem tree. He began to claw at the dirt with his bare hands. His fingers bled, but he didn’t stop.

After minutes of digging, he pulled something out.

A small, rusted locket. It was filled with ashes, bone fragments, and something dark still squirming within.

The moment he touched it, he collapsed.

But this time, he did not just lie still.

He screamed — a deep, guttural cry of a soul being torn apart.

From the trees, shadows flickered.

The air grew cold.

And a small hand — skeletal, with broken bangles — emerged from the same hole.

That night, the villagers say, they saw two figures walking back into the woods — Shyamlal, no longer moving like a corpse, and beside him, a little girl with glowing eyes and soil-covered feet.

Neither were ever seen again.

Shyamlal’s body vanished.

The tree died the next morning.

And since then, each year on that exact date, strange things happen in Devgarh. Lamps go out. Children dream of a man whispering, “Forgive me.” And sometimes, a little girl’s laugh echoes from the forest… though no one dares go in.

Because once the dead rise, it’s never just once.

And never without reason.

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