Chapter 1
The Dying Man
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Nitin peeped out of his window; a thrust of cold wind swept back his hair. He let out a gasp. The star studded sky loomed, glowing with a dark tone. Nitin could hear the whisperings of the leaves from the opposite of the narrow lane. He smiled to himself as he opened the window much wider. The cool wind was a soothing ointment. Advantages of having a room on the second floor.
Every house had a car parked in the lane. Nitin wasn’t usually afraid of the dark, but he thought it was menacing. Always playing with people’s emotions. But his theory now did nothing to comfort him. The shadows and the swaying branches, and the one-eyed cat that had just appeared from behind a car—made him rethink to go to bed.
But bed wasn’t with him that night. Nitin even couldn’t believe himself that after doing a load of math (“I WILL CALL YOUR PARENTS IF YOU DON’T BRING ME YOUR HOMEWORK TOMORROW!”) his eyelids weren’t heavy. The electricity had went dead—a major problem. But the lone solar cell powered lamp post still flickered at the far end.
A bright green flash off the lane blinded his eyes. His head spun. His knees slipped from the stool and fell with a thud beside the bed. Pinkish flares glared in front of his eyes as he tried to get up. He glanced out of the window, trying to blink out the aftereffects. The sky had turned a shade darker. The stars were turning out.
Or was it just his imagination?
Nitin’s heart thumping like an elephant, he worked out his guts and looked below on the lane. The flash had been momentary. Nothing looked out of place. No additions. Nothing new. Now that he was out of the shock, Nitin wondered what all that blaze was. His best comparisons were that of a petty green lightning, just out of his house.
The next moment, Nitin’s eyes widened. Not everything was alright. Something was there. Something was moving. Something creepy, and horrible…
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It was a shredded limb behind Mrs Godse’s Ritz. Goosebumps scurried down his spine. Two second later, he thought his hair was standing too.
Nitin stood a moment longer, implementing what he had learned a week ago in PD about decision-making. He wiped his mind clean. That was hard. The limb sneaked back in front of his eyes.
A murder. Someone had probably fired this guy with an extra-attention-attracting firing weapon. Taking care that his head didn’t bob out much farther, he looked sideways at other houses. No other window was open. Why wasn’t anyone awake after this racket? Probably, someone had to help.
Nitin flunked away the thought quickly. The murderer was ,of course, not going to spare any of his suspects.
Nitin took another angle (“Try to think every aspect of an situation.” Tulika had been staring stupidly with her mouth wide open at that time.”). What were the chances that it couldn’t have been an accident? The boom was his vehicle smashing on the road, the flare…might be an alarm system.
He had to help. He was the only one there. If time ran out, he would be guilty of murder. No. Technically, he wasn’t the killer. But he might save him. Otherwise, the guilt was surely going to kill him. An old memory nagged back. When he had been just five years old, and the little colourful chickens his father had brought him… Nitin’s guts disappeared and weighted again.
The limb twitched for the first time. Blood dripped over the gravel.
Nitin made his decision. He pocketed his phone, a torch and a water bottle from the nightstand. He was going down there.
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Once Nitin’s aunt had commented that his room wasn’t what it was but an art gallery. There was barely an inch of space left on the left wall. Most of the elders didn’t appreciate his taste. Heroic women with flying hair and a glowing weapon in hand. His favourite one was a Celtic war goddess. A rubber spider hung over the door to keep out intruders—especially nosy girls. Nitin couldn’t believe what he painted were exact opposite in reality. School girls was another topic.
He flipped in his slippers and glided down the stairs. It was weird. Every step looked different from the other. Nitin wondered if his instincts had become sharp. His feet wound him round the way to the hall. The glass windows on either sides of the door allowed a considerable light. The door’s lock was cold when he opened the door.
The grass had not been trimmed for a long time now. The lawn mover lay wired up in a corner. Nitin walked over the stone slabs and unlocked the fence. His heart now thudded with 100 times greater magnitude. The torch flashed on. Nitin weighed his decisions again, but overpowering his timid self, he took the brave leap.
He stepped as carefully as he could, fearing someone would hear his footsteps. He glanced again and again by his side at the line of cars. A heap lay far off. Nitin gulped. Then lowering his sight, he walked head-on. There would be an onslaught on him. He was sure of it.
He didn’t realize his next step would crush the poor man’s foot until he looked up at the tragic moment.
Nitin at an instance staggered back and almost fell. The man’s body was the worst ever thing he had seen. He suppressed a wave of nausea and inspected the carcass. The most difficult problem was—what it was? Human flesh, clothes and something like reptilian scales were stitched together in a bodily shape.
The face amazingly whimpered. His face—a threadbare canvas of scars and blood. The only admirable thing was his eyes. A deep green shade that seemed to know everything.
“You—how—?”
The words just didn’t pour out. His voice was lost.
“Listen boy,” The man’s voice was like a crunching of dried leaves; old and fragile. Nitin’s legs were rooted to the ground. He now had a memory wipe of the last week’s PD class. “I—I am…dying.”
“What-what can I do? I need to call the ambulance—” Nitin sputtered out.
“Listen!” His voice was a shard of ice.
Nitin had a grand urge to drink out the whole of the bottle. His mouth was drying quickly. His lower lip trembled—as his mother had said when had woken up from a haunting dream.
The man continued, “Take the box. Take the box. Don’t tell anyone.” The man was rising his head from the ground. “They won’t know it. Remember, you are the only—”
“Sorry, I don’t understand you! You need a doctor!” Nitin was agitated now. He saw the man’s hand stir to clutch his leg in case he tried to run away.
“Don’t cut me, boy!”
The man’s mouth remained open. He eyes were on the verge of popping out. Many gasps of breath released from his mouth. Asthma problem?
“Can you, can you handle a big task?” His voice was now tenderer than ever.
Nitin estimated what type of big tasks he was being given to by a dying man. Whatever responsibility the teachers gave him in school, he was best at adjourning them, and ultimately suffer.
This man, probably, was not giving project work.
“What do you want,” Nitin paused for a moment. “Sir?” It was no wonder he was feeling odd in calling a corpse “sir”. But what else would he have called him?
“Take the box. Analyze…analyze it. Never forget…you have the sky on your shoulder now…”
Only their conversation’s noise rang through the lane. Even the trees didn’t flutter that much now.
“What do you mea—” This time Nitin stopped himself. Looking at the man’s eyes, it didn’t sound like a good idea to cut him again.
“Don’t tell anyone. I trust you. Complete…complete the task as soon as possible.”
The man’s voice was now like school girls whispering behind someone’s back.
Nitin hoped he would now cease to speak in riddles. He instead looked for the box the man was mentioning repetitively. Surely, cradled in his left arm, was a carved wooden box. The etchings weren’t clear from there, but he was sure they would be interesting. The man loosened his arm, and Nitin picked it up.
All of a sudden, the thought of calling the ambulance evaporated. He was here, hearing a man’s last words. He looked down at the box. It was smeared with blood. Nitin took at least ten seconds to look on the serpent etchings on the lid. He tried to open it, but it didn’t budge.
Nitin wondered what he was doing there with the dying man. How could he possibly trust this man? The again, the bizarre situation restricted him from foolishness.
Nitin looked up. “What’s—what’s your name?”
“Gyanendra.”
His head fell back as he died.
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