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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-10-24 08:07:18+00:00.
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You know how I keep telling you all not to come here? Well, we had a visitor today, and I think his story will serve as a good illustration of why it is both to your and my benefit for outsiders to stay the hell away.
Okay, it’s not that people don’t come and go without incident. But please, for the gods’ sake, read the room. If the gigantic board at the borders didn’t clue you in, this place is not exactly a metropolitan suburb. Things are afoot here. Be respectful, keep your head down, avoid the places that feel wrong, do what you need to do, and then get out.
But people think they know better. They think it’s all an elaborate joke, or that they can handle whatever comes. Well, something does come for them, eventually.
But I’ll get to that part later. First things first, the journal. As promised, I did try to go through it last night. Most of the journal is written by hand, and from what I read, the entries seem to be painstakingly reproduced copies of various documents that the writer has diligently transposed onto the pages in his own hand. I say ‘writer’ because the handwriting in this part is decidedly not my grandfather’s. I even went down to the study this morning to check out a few of his notes to compare, and the style doesn’t match up. In fact, almost every entry is in different handwriting. The journal has been through a variety of hands over the years, judging by the evolving vocabulary. Some of the earliest entries, in fact, are in chaste Sanskrit! I can read the script, in case you’re wondering, but I don’t understand the language. I’ll have to ask my youngest uncle for help in that regard. Some of the entries have marginal notes, mostly shorthand scrawls reflecting the writer’s opinions or inputs. I tried to read a few, but my concussed brain was already struggling to parse the larger, legible letters. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. If I find any interesting accounts, I’ll share them with you.
What is more interesting, however, are the final twenty or so pages. Instead of normal lettering, these pages are a swirling well of ink. The contents keep shifting every moment, forming half-seen letters or geometric designs before fading into random noise again. The paper gives off a sickly sweet smell. Probably the same one Ram Lal was referring to, before he…
Only the first of these pages has any discernible information. Every so often, two well-defined symbols appear out of the muck, lingering for a second or two before fading away. One is a massive banyan tree. The other… a triskelion in a circle, inscriptions covering the ruin. I was up for a couple of hours last night, trying everything. I touched the pendant to the pages. I tried to look through it like a monocle. I put it under my tongue, whacked it on the cover, and rubbed it all over the pages.
Nothing.
The low light made it difficult to make out, but I managed to check the inscriptions on the rim against the illustration on the page. They are identical (kudos to my grandfather’s drawing skills, I suppose). I have the right item. I just have no idea how to use it.
You had too much faith in me, Dad.
Either way, these are the only pages that are obfuscated in this manner. My grandfather must have wanted to hide the contents from prying eyes, in this and the other. That meant these pages contained crucial information. Information needed to fight back against whatever had killed him. I don’t know what I’m doing this for anymore. Is it for the family? For the village? For myself? In any case, I have to figure out how to unlock these entries.
And I knew just who to ask about it.
The next morning, when I descended the stairs, Kirti was waiting for me. Oh, yeah. Writing ‘uncle’ was getting cumbersome, so I decided to give all three of my uncles some nicknames. Kirti is my eldest uncle, Sam is my middle uncle, and Naru, who you will meet soon enough, is my youngest uncle. These names are based on their real names, which I will not be revealing.
I won’t bore you with the details of our conversation. I apologized to him for my behaviour the previous day, but honestly, he didn’t seem too mad. Almost as if he had been expecting it. Maybe all the Thakurs behaved like spoiled brats when they were young. Either way, we chalked out a deal over breakfast: every evening, I would sit down with him and he would tell me a story about the village and its denizens. That’s fine by me. I’ve always loved stories since I was a kid. I used to keep my father up every night until he read me no less than five different bedtime stories. In any case, I am thankful to him for going the extra mile for me. As with the journal, if he tells me any good ones, I’ll be sure to pass them on to you.
The walking stick still feels so unfamiliar in my hands. I wouldn’t use it if there were any other choices, but Sam was right: I was in no condition to walk unassisted. Whenever my hand touched the contours of its aged, gnarled wood, I was reminded of my grandfather. Each and every clack of its metal tip against the floor reminded me of his presence, both physical and spiritual. Hanging over me, enveloping my life.
An unpaid debt. A legacy to fill.
Wearing his ring, using his cane, living in his house, it all felt the same. Like I was killing him a second time. Erasing the final vestiges of his presence here. I knew the others probably didn’t see it that way, but I did it. My head kept whispering the same thing over and over.
Usurper.
After my performance yesterday, it was not hard to agree with that sentiment. It seemed that, every time I did something, it got someone hurt or killed. Including me. The encounter with the begging monk was the fourth time I had been pushed to death’s door since coming here, and each time, I had only survived because someone had rescued me. Alone, I surely would have died. My own wits, strength, and resolve were far too inadequate for this place.
And I was running out of free assists.
Speaking of assists, my shoulder is fine now. The ice melted overnight, but the flesh was whole again. The only indicator that there was ever an injury there was the red, raw skin. That, and the ruined clothes. I had the servants burn the torn and stained shirt in the backyard. Ram Lal had been right. It was unsalvageable.
I had planned to laze about for a while until my appointment with the police, but as luck would have it, my meeting was drastically brought forward. I had scarcely finished breakfast when, with a great clicking of boots, a khadi-clad officer stormed into the outer sitting room. Even without looking at his shoulder boards, I could tell that he was the inspector by his cap and baton. He was a sharp young man, about the same age as me. He had the fitness and energy I had come to recognize as some combination of the wide-eyed idealism of a new entrant in the service and the excitement of a new posting. His uniform being perfectly ironed and up to code only confirmed my diagnosis.
He quickly crossed over and gave me a salute. “Inspector Samaresh Bose, sir.”
I grabbed my stick, moving to stand up. “You don’t need to salute me, Inspector. I’m not your superior.”
“Please, sit,” he urged, settling down on the chair in front of mine. “It has been the custom in this village for the police to salute the Thakur, sir.”
“Really?”
“From the station records, it appears that there is a directive in force from the time of Governor-General Warren Hastings that stipulates that all officials of the administration shall salute and give ‘all possible dignity and respect’ to the zamindars of the village.”
“It’s been a long time since the 18th century, Inspector Bose.”
“Even so, it was never withdrawn. Besides, law or no law, you are a pillar of the community. It cannot hurt to keep you in good spirits.”
I sighed. “As you will. How long have you been here, Inspector?”
“I was posted here about six months before the death of the previous landlord, sir. But my father was originally from Chhayagarh. He left for Kolkata to find work many years ago.”
“First posting?”
He puffed his chest out. “Yes, sir. Most of the constables and SIs are older than me and locals. But they have not given me any trouble.”
“Well, if you ever face any issues, do let me know. I heard of your efforts yesterday. You saved my life. Thank you.”
“I will do it as many times as necessary, Thakur.”
“That being said…” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I was expecting you in the afternoon, Inspector.”
“I am aware, and I apologize for disrupting your routine. But this is urgent.” He leaned forward. “There has been an incident that requires your intervention.”
“I’m not sure how I can assist an investigation.”
“It’s an incident of… the other kind, sir.”
I perked up at that. He must have noticed, because he continued.
“I’ve not been here very long, but the others have briefed me on the peculiarities of the beat.”
“And you’re fine with these peculiarities?”
“It was a rough first few weeks. But duty is duty. Either way, I’ve been informed that in the case of these sorts of disputes, you are the one we should contact. I had worked with your grandfather a few times, before his untimely demise.”
“All right. I suppose this is a part of the job.” I rose. “Give me the details.”
“It ...
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