Fog-2

 

Writer: Shimanto Sarkar

Since childhood, the concept of "fear" has been entirely absent from my vocabulary. While other kids my age would jump at their own shadows, their terror always felt like a farce to me a strange exaggeration. Looking back, I believe my fearlessness was a gift from the environment I grew up in.

My mother inherited a small piece of land from her father, tucked away deep behind the main ancestral village. It was a wild, forgotten corner of the world, dominated by thick bamboo groves, ancient tamarind trees, and dense undergrowth. Even after we cleared the woods to build our home, the wilderness remained our closest neighbor. I was raised amidst that raw, untamed nature. The rustling of leaves in the dead of night and the heavy silence of the forest became my lullabies. To me, these "eerie" settings don't evoke dread; they feel like home. The supernatural doesn't haunt me it simply feels like a familiar old friend.

The actual story began when I was in the tenth grade. My friend Akash lived in a village right next to our school. Four of us Meghna, Runa, Lanju, and I were invited to his younger sister’s birthday party. We returned from school, got ready quickly, and met up at the school playground before heading towards Akash’s house.

The evening was filled with music, dancing, and the typical chaos of a teenage party. Although the cake-cutting was scheduled for the evening, time slipped through our fingers like sand. By the time the candles were lit and the cake was cut, it was already midnight. Meghna’s mother called, sounding frantic with worry. I explained the delay and promised her that I would personally see Meghna home safely.

Once the party ended, I turned to Akash. Since you and Lanju live in the same neighborhood, why don't you walk with us as far as the school junction?" I suggested. "I’ll drop Meghna off at her house, and then Runa and I will head back together.(Runa and I lived in the same area).

My request for an escort wasn't just out of courtesy; it was out of a lingering sense of dread about the path ahead. To get home, we had to pass the municipal graveyard. Right next to it lay a desolate stretch of railway tracks a site of countless tragic accidents. Beyond that lay the 'Fati Graveyard,' also known as the Killing Fields (Bodhyo Bhumi). It was a place of dark history where, in 1971, the Pakistani occupation forces had massacred and buried countless people in mass graves.

In the heart of this haunted ground stood two small concrete structures the morgue, or 'Dom Ghor' as locals called them. These were the rooms where the bodies of accident victims, suicides, or murder cases were brought for autopsies. One room was for the grim task of dissection, while the other served as a temporary post for the police and doctors. There were no houses nearby, only a suffocating silence. As a child, I had heard tales of carrion-eating foxes that ruled that area. Even now, people whispered that in the dead of night, those foxes could still be seen digging up fresh graves. Tonight, our path home lay directly through that valley of shadows.

We began walking down the road, which was as silent as a graveyard. In our town, there was an unwritten rule: after the evening call to prayer (Maghrib), no one walked this path unless it was a matter of life or death. As we approached the 'Bodhyo Bhumi' (The Killing Fields), Akash and Lanju started spinning elaborate, fabricated ghost stories. Seeing the girls, Meghna and Runa, visibly trembling, they amped up the horror just for fun.

Stop it, please! It's terrifying, Meghna and Runa kept pleading, but the boys were relentless. Finally, fed up with their nonsense, I snapped, Cut the crap! I don't believe in any of this supernatural garbage.

Challenging my bravado, Lanju placed a bet. Initially, it was a 1000 Taka wager if I could go to that distant morgue alone and sit there for five minutes, the money was mine. As they saw I wasn't backing down, the stakes dropped from 1000 to 500, then 100, and finally settled on a measly 15 Taka bottle of 'Sprite.' I didn't care about the price  I wanted to prove a point.

I stepped off the main road and walked toward the derelict structure of the morgue. My only companion was the flickering light of my basic button phone. Since the main autopsy room was always locked, I entered the adjacent room the one meant for doctors and officials. No matter how many times they scrubbed those floors, the nauseating, metallic stench of decayed flesh and blood seemed to have seeped into the very walls.I leaned against the ledge of a broken window, turned on Arijit Singh’s song Ham Tere Bin on my phone, and stared up at the dark sky. The song lasted about four minutes and thirty-six seconds. 

When the silence returned, I walked back to the road where my friends were waiting. They looked pale with anxiety. I puffed out my chest and scoffed, See? Not even a scratch. Ghosts are just a figment of your imagination.

Meghna and Runa looked at me with newfound respect. Shimu, you really have nerves of steel! they exclaimed (Shimu was their nickname for me; my real name is Shimanto). Akash and Lanju remained dead silent, their prank having backfired. After dropping the girls off, I headed home and collapsed onto my bed, proud of my little victory over the darkness.

The world around me was shrouded in a thick, suffocating mist, punctuated only by towering Mahogany trees that seemed to pierce the sky. I was lost, running frantically in search of a way out. Fog was everywhere, blurring the lines between reality and a nightmare. There were no walls, yet I felt trapped, as if caught in an invisible labyrinth. No matter which direction I took, I found myself returning to the same spot, greeted by the same rows of hauntingly silent trees.

Suddenly, a thin, piercing voice cut through the stillness of the forest. It was a girl’s voice, crying out from the distance. I ran toward the sound, and with every step, the words became clearer, sharper, more agonizing. She was screaming with a raw desperation I didn't commit suicide! I was murdered!

The cry echoed through the woods, repeating like a broken record. I searched everywhere, but there was no one in sight. The voice haunted the very air I breathed. Then, with a jolt, I woke up. I was in my bed, drenched in a cold sweat. My chest heaved as I gasped for air. But even in the safety of my room, the whisper lingered in my ears, fading slowly like a dying ember: I didn't commit suicide  I was murdered.

A chill ran down my spine, a kind of fear I had never known before. The boy who boasted of his bravery just hours ago was now a trembling child. I left my bed and hurried to my mother's room. I lay beside her, hugging her tightly as if she were my only shield against the darkness. Sensing my distress, she pulled me closer, perhaps realizing I had seen a nightmare. But the voice remained a restless soul’s plea, echoing in the depths of my mind.

The next day at school, the memories of the birthday party were the talk of the town. But amidst the laughter, Akash shared a piece of news that chilled me to the bone. He mentioned that a body had been brought to the morgue yesterday afternoon a young girl who had reportedly committed suicide by hanging. My heart skipped a beat when I realized that while I was sitting in that adjacent room, celebrating a trivial bet, her cold, dissected body lay just a wall away.

The revelation felt like a physical blow. The nightmare, the forest, and that desperate voice suddenly felt terrifyingly real. I told my friends about my dream, but they just laughed it off, dismissing it as a coincidence triggered by the eerie environment. Yet, the doubt remained rooted in my mind like a dark seed.

The world accepted it as a suicide. But why did that restless spirit choose my dream to scream her truth? Why did she insist she was murdered? Even after all these years, the mystery remains unsolved. Sometimes, I feel a desperate urge to find that date, track down her family, and tell them what I heard. I want to tell them that their daughter didn't give up on life it was taken from her.

But then, reality hits me. In a world that demands cold, hard evidence, who would believe the testimony of a dream? Would they listen, or would they see me as a fool? Or is that soul destined to wail forever within the salt-stained walls of the morgue, seeking a justice that may never come?