The Enigma of Chitterpari

Chapter 12 - "What an Excellent day for an Exorcism"

"What did you say?" Daniyal asked, leaning forward. Hamza sighed, rubbing his temples before repeating, "The nightmares... they've been getting worse .. and then this morning, my father and I... saw something strange. A bull, or maybe a cow, dismembered—impaled on wooden stakes."
Abdullah and Ali exchanged uneasy glances. Abbas shifted in his seat, clearly unnerved, while Daniyal rolled his eyes.
"Could've been some weirdo pulling a prank," Daniyal said with a shrug. "People do messed up stuff all the time."
Ali shook his head, his voice more serious than usual. "That's not a prank, Daniyal. That's... way too far for a prank."
"Right?" Abbas chimed in, nodding. "And the nightmares... maybe they're connected?"
Hamza leaned back, his face tense. "It's not just nightmares. I think they're real. Like... really happening."
Abdullah frowned, tilting his head. "What makes you say that?
Hamza hesitated before slowly pulling up his shirt, revealing a small, perfectly circular wound in the middle of his chest. His friends froze, eyes wide as they leaned in closer to inspect it.
"What the hell?" Ali muttered under his breath, moving closer to get a better look.
Abdullah's hand hovered above the wound for a second before he placed his fingers gently on it. "Does it hurt?" he asked, eyes scanning Hamza's face for any signs of discomfort.
Hamza shook his head. "No. Not at all."
"Hmmm.." Abdullah, still sceptical, pressed down a little harder. He watched closely for a reaction, but Hamza didn't even flinch.
"Are you sure you don't feel anything?" Abdullah asked again, this time with a hint of urgency in his voice.
"Nothing," Hamza replied calmly.
"That's... weird," Abdullah muttered, pulling his hand away and staring at his palm as if expecting something to happen. "Like, really weird."
Daniyal folded his arms, still not entirely convinced. "Okay, but that doesn't mean it's all connected. Maybe you got hurt and you just didn't notice. Weird things happen. Maybe you're just stressed, Nightmares, stress, a weird wound?"
"Coincidence, maybe?"
"Coincidence?" Ali snapped, clearly losing his patience. "You think stress does that to someone?" Abbas, spoke up. "Look, Daniyal, this is more than just nightmares or stress. Something's off. The timing, the wound... we can't just brush it off like it's nothing."
Daniyal raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. But still, we don't have enough to say it's some supernatural thing."
Hamza lowered his shirt, his eyes serious and dark. "It's not just the wound, Daniyal. It's the dreams, the feeling that something's watching, that something's coming. And now, this morning... that thing with the bull? It wasn't a prank, i am sure about it"

A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance as the group huddled together under a tree. The overcast sky loomed above them, casting a dim, muted light across their faces. Ali, squinting slightly,
"When did these nightmares start, Hamza?" he asked, his voice calm but probing.
Hamza shifted, his eyes darkening as he recalled the events. "Two nights after we went to that haunted house. You remember? The one I told you guys about? I swore I saw it—this shadowy figure but later, it vanished, and you all didn't believe me."
Ali nodded slowly, his gaze focused on Hamza.
"Yeah," Hamza continued, his tone now lower. "After dinner, when you all left, I saw it again. But this time... it was behind a tree, just standing there."
Daniyal stiffened, his face going pale. "What?" he blurted out, a shiver running down his spine. "I told you guys! That house—it's haunted! But you—your stupid asses didn't believe me!"
Abdullah let out a small chuckle, earning a glare from Daniyal. "Come on, we were all there, and none of us saw a thing." He grinned, his eyes lighting up mischievously. "And you can't forget that little prank..."
Daniyal's face twisted in irritation, his voice rising. "Knock it off! That wasn't funny then, and it sure as hell isn't now!"
Abbas, spoke up, his voice soft but filled with concern. "Maybe... a demon or a jinn has attached itself to Hamza. I mean it's possible, right? These things... they do exist, ya'know?"
Ali nodded, his brows furrowing. "Yeah... I mean, it could be. The timing of it all, the nightmares, the wound—it's all pointing towards something not normal."
Hamza swallowed hard, his gaze drifting to the ground. "So, what do I do now? I can't just ignore this."
Daniyal, suddenly animated, raised a hand. "The preacher! We should go to him. He knows about this kind of stuff—demons, spirits, jinns, bhoots and all that. He could help us."
The others exchanged glances before nodding in agreement, the weight of the situation sinking in further. Ali glanced at Daniyal, narrowing his eyes. "Are you sure he'll help?"
Daniyal stood up, gesturing towards the path ahead. "Of course! I know the way he's the one who can deal with stuff like this!"
Daniyal led the way, his footsteps purposeful yet cautious, the others following in silence. The rain, which had earlier come down in sheets, had now slowed to a gentle drizzle, misting the air with a cool dampness. As they walked, the world around them seemed to blur, the wet earth absorbing their footfalls, while the overcast sky hung low, oppressive, and heavy. Every now and then, a droplet would cling to their faces or land softly on their shoulders, but no one spoke. The only sound was the soft patter of the rain and the occasional rustle of leaves in the light breeze. Before long, they arrived at the preacher's house. It stood like a relic of the past, small and weathered, worn by years of neglect. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving patches of bare, grey wood exposed to the elements. Thin vines snaked across the porch, pushing through cracks in the rotting boards, their tiny green tendrils reclaiming the space as if nature was slowly devouring what man had once built. Ali's eyes darted to the sagging roof, its shingles dark and cracked, weighed down by the years. Even the windows, though clean, bore the scars of time, with veins of cracks running through the glass like ancient spider webs. Beyond the house, a decaying wooden fence encircled the property, its posts leaning awkwardly in various directions, splintered and bleached by sun and rain. It was a house that spoke of a life once vibrant but now forgotten, its better days nothing more than distant memories. A dim, flickering light above the door cut through the gloom, casting a warm, almost out-of-place glow against the cold dampness of the day. The small bulb swayed ever so slightly in the wind, casting long shadows across the porch. Despite everything—despite the sagging roof, the peeling paint, the creeping foliage—there was still something alive here. That single light, though faint, was a beacon, as if the house, in all its weariness, still had a heart that beat inside.