Tangled Lives

CHAPTER 5

The fog hung low over the city as the evening deepened, casting long shadows over the quiet streets. My mind, however, was far from the cold dampness of the outside world. Instead, I was back in that room, the room where Druvan Dutta had met his end, where death had come in the most horrifying manner imaginable. The scene played over and over in my mind—a vision seared into my memory. But now, with this new understanding, the horror deepened.

I sat at my small desk, the flickering lamplight barely keeping the darkness of the room at bay. Spread before me were notes—frantic scrawls, symbols, and the numbered markings that I had been painstakingly analyzing for what felt like days. The number 108. The vermillion. It all pointed to something far more sinister than I had anticipated. Not a simple act of violence, but something ancient and unspeakably evil.

My hand trembled as I flipped through an old, yellowed notebook I had retrieved from my time at the orphanage. It was a book of whispered secrets, written in a code the caretakers thought too ancient for us to understand. But I had been a curious child, one who spent more time with books than with the other children. Narbali—the word echoed in my mind like a tolling bell.

The ritual of human sacrifice.

I had heard stories of it as a child, though they were often told in hushed tones, as though uttering the word itself would summon something dreadful from the shadows. The Narbali was a practice long forbidden, rooted in ancient belief systems. It was said to be a way of invoking the gods, or worse, dark entities that thrived on blood and death. It was a barbaric act, one meant to channel unimaginable power, and the more I delved into the patterns of the wounds, the clearer it became that Druvan's death was no random crime. This was something far worse—a deliberate act, a sacrifice.

But what chilled me to my core was not just the thought of the ritual. It was the realization that this particular type of Narbali required the blood of one's own kin.

A child of your own blood.

I could scarcely breathe as the truth settled into my mind like a cold stone. Druvan Dutta had not simply been murdered. His death had been a vile offering, an invocation to something dark, something ancient. The vermillion markings had not been haphazard. They were deliberate, precise—a signature of the ritual. Whoever had committed this act had done so knowing full well the significance of the ritual, and that thought filled me with dread.

I rose from my desk and walked to the window, staring out into the fog-laden streets. The familiar comfort of the city's quiet hum seemed distant, as though I were separated from it by some invisible barrier. My mind kept returning to the boy's face—his wide, lifeless eyes, his body marked with the signs of the Narbali. How had I not seen it earlier? How had I missed the connection?

The orphanage. That was where it had all begun for me. I had been a girl of no more than eight years old, huddled in the library while the other children played outside. I had always felt different, drawn to the shadows rather than the light, as though I knew—deep inside—that there was something waiting for me in the darkness. I had come across an old book, its pages crumbling at the edges, written in a script that was almost impossible to decipher. Almost. Over time, I had taught myself to read it. It was in that book that I first learned of Narbali. It had spoken of rituals, of blood and sacrifice, of invoking ancient forces.

The caretakers had warned me to leave such things alone, to focus on more practical matters, but I hadn't listened. Now, all these years later, I found myself standing at the precipice of something terrifying, something I had only read about in whispers.

I turned from the window, my thoughts racing. If Druvan's death was an offering, then who had performed the ritual? More importantly, why? The killer had to be someone close to him, someone who shared his blood. A parent? A sibling? The thought sickened me. But there was another layer to this—a layer I had not yet uncovered.

The number 108. I had studied it for hours, days even, trying to make sense of its significance. In Hinduism, 108 was considered sacred, a number that symbolized completeness. It was used in prayer, in the rosary-like beads called mala, which consisted of 108 beads used for meditation. But here, in the context of this grisly murder, it was twisted, perverted. The killer had used it as part of the ritual, no doubt believing that it would bring them some form of power or protection.

I sat back down at my desk, the pages of my notebook rustling as I flipped through them again. There had to be something I was missing, something crucial. The pattern of the wounds had been precise—108 cuts, each one deliberate. The vermillion powder had been smeared in intricate designs across Druvan's chest, forming a pattern that I now recognized as an ancient symbol meant to open a gateway between worlds.

I shivered involuntarily.

Druvan had been no ordinary victim. He had been chosen, prepared for this ritual long before the knife had ever touched his skin. But why him? What made him the perfect candidate for such a sacrifice? There was still much I did not understand, but I was beginning to see the outline of the truth, a shape that terrified me.

Suddenly, a thought struck me—an idea so horrifying that I almost dismissed it out of hand. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The killer, the one who had performed the ritual, wasn't just trying to invoke dark powers. They were trying to complete something. The number 108 represented completion, after all. Druvan was the final piece in a puzzle that had been in motion for far longer than I had realized.

The air in the room seemed to grow colder as I considered this possibility. If the killer had already performed other sacrifices—if Druvan was the last—the implications were too horrible to contemplate.

I stood once again, pacing the room in agitation. The orphanage, the stories of Narbali, the rituals—it was all connected. I had thought those old tales were nothing more than myth, stories meant to frighten children into behaving. But now, with Druvan's death, I realized that those myths had a very real, very deadly basis.

There was only one thing left to do. I had to find the person responsible, before they could complete whatever dark ritual they had begun. I grabbed my coat and threw it over my shoulders, my mind racing. There was no time to waste. The answers were out there, somewhere in the shadows of this city, and I would not rest until I found them.

As I opened the door to leave, a gust of cold wind swept through the room, extinguishing the lamp on my desk. I paused for a moment, letting the darkness settle around me. Then, with a deep breath, I stepped out into the fog, ready to face whatever awaited me in the night.

                                                                                              *

Dear Readers, Please hang on till the end of the story as there are TWISTS that you cannot imagine! 

Until then, goodbye!