Flickers of light from the distant campfire swayed underneath the cold, clear, full moon sky. The gentle wind carried with it the musky smell of the night air, while the soothing sound of the nearby stream mixed with the faint sounds of insects chirping came as solace amidst the frigid silence.

  Underneath the scenic night dome, Bholanath was fighting his own personal battle, a long uphill war against his stomach and constipation. Sweat ran down his temple as he promised himself to never overeat oily or spicy food again.

  “Arrrrrrgh!” Bholanath growled as the last resistance to his quest for a clean bowel left his body, dropping with a thud atop its other fallen comrades. Some of whom looked like they were saluting him in their final moment.

  Having won his little private battle and with visible relief on his face, Bholanath reached for his lota to wash himself, thinking about his wife, Rani, and his sweet eight-year-old daughter, Mithoo.

  He had been away from them and his village for the past few months, trading his merchandises across north India and fortunately, he had made a handsome profit. Now, he was returning to his village, bearing gifts for his family and a small fortune to secure their future. By early next morning, he would be back home and by their side.

  Bholanath got up and tightened his dhoti, looking at the sprawling camp in front of him. He felt fortunate that he could join a caravan of other experienced traders, as travelling alone in these parts was highly dangerous.

  The leader of the caravan was an experienced merchant called Ramlal, who Bholanath had the good fortune of acquainting with during his travels. Ramlal had served for a few years as a sepoy of some repute in the East India Company, which made travelling in his caravan safer than the rest. And to top it all, he had the build of a wrestler, possessing the thickest neck attached to a human torso Bholanath had ever seen. He felt pity for any dacoits trying their luck on the caravan.

  Their travel back home had been pleasant as Bholanath got along with his fellow merchants, particularly Bhuvan, a wiry, squeamish small fellow who had joined them just five days back. Bhuvan, who was always helpful and considerate, had won over everyone, including Ramlal, who was usually wary of new people.

  That night, they had camped at a clearing not far from the Grand Trunk Road. Hedges of tall grasses separating them from a small stream running down from the nearby Bhangini hills, which from time immemorial, had stood alone as gatekeeper against the vast spread of sand and desert.

  ‘Well, at least now, I can sleep soundly.’ Bholanath thought as he washed his hands in the stream and walked back to the camp.

  He was nearly at the edge of the camp when suddenly, he stopped, petrified. Bhuvan was strangling Ramlal with a red rumaal. The victim’s eyes, bulging from the pressure on his thick neck as his fingers dug deep into mud, the last ounce of life escaping his body.

  Bholanath gazed around the camp where the dead bodies of the rest of his companions were strewn on the ground while five other masked men strangled the rest who were still alive.

  “There should be one more fool by the stream!” Bhuvan barked.

  “Thugs!” Bholanath mouthed terrified, turning back towards the stream, walking hurriedly as he hid among the grasses.

  ‘I need to get out of here,’ Bholanath thought, when suddenly a blunt object hit him hard on the head, making him fall down, stunned. He tried to resist in vain as someone grabbed his feet and dragged him back to the centre of the camp.

  ‘No! no!’ Bholanath cried, panicking as the last drop of awareness left his body.

  *

  “I told you we need him alive! Pour some more water on him!” someone barked as Bholanath felt the icy tentacles of cold, wet water on his face while he slowly opened his eyes.

  Bhuvan was crouched in front of him with a sinister smile, his crooked betel-stained teeth shining in the red light of the campfire.

  “Are you awake?” Bhuvan asked in his usual caring voice, smacking Bholanath hard on the face. The stinging pain, forcing him to remember the ghastly situation he was in.

  “Answer me when I ask you a question!” Bhuvan barked.

  “Yes, yes,” Bholanath muttered sheepishly.

  “That’s more like it. You are a very lucky fellow, Bholanath. I have kept you alive as I need someone to carry all the valuable items that have recently come into our possession,” said Bhuvan with a kind smile. “I have somewhat come to like you, but if you create any trouble, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Nod if you understand.”

  “Yes,” moaned Bholanath, nodding timidly.

  “That’s good,” muttered Bhuvan, standing up. “We wouldn’t want little Mithoo to lose her father, would we? I might even let you leave if all goes well in the end.”

  Bholanath dreadfully looked around the camp where five thugs, each with a dagger hanging from their waist, were loading the loot from the caravan into sacks.

  “Sardar! There are some horses riding this way!” cried one of the masked thugs, who was stationed at the edge of the camp as a lookout.

  “How many?” asked Bhuvan.

  “Around ten.”

  “How far?”

  “Three or four kilometres.”

  “Damn! They will be here within half an hour. Might be the King's sepoys or worse, the Company’s. We cannot take the risk. Lallan, have you finished loading the loot?” barked Bhuvan to a bulky thug, who was packing gold and other items into eight large sacks.

  “Yes, sardar, we are nearly done!” cried Lallan, tying the noose around the mouth of the last sack.

  “Each of you, pick up a sack. You too, Bholanath!” ordered Bhuvan. “It is better to avoid the road from here on, since we don’t know who those riders are. We will follow the stream behind the grass hedges and cross the Bhangini hills. Bholanath, here, has told me an interesting story about an abandoned fort just beyond the hill range where no one goes. We will spend the night there and leave in the morning when it is safe.”

  “No!” cried Bholanath, terrified. "As I told you before, the Bhangini fort is haunted!”

  “Stop your snivelling, you weasel! There is no such thing as a haunted place. It is all peasant and simple-minded superstition. If you don’t want to go, I can just kill you right here!” barked Bhuvan, brandishing a dagger in front of Bholanath.

  “But Sardar, what if it is true?” said Lallan, fear clearly visible on his face.

  “You too, Lallan! Stop with this nonsense!” Bhuvan threatened the rest of the thugs, who meekly nodded in unison. “Now pick up the sacks and follow me!”

  Bholanath and the seven thugs quietly picked up one sack each, slinging them on their shoulders as they crossed the field and followed the small rivulet upstream, reaching the foot of the Bhangini hill range. But as they climbed up the hill, Lallan suddenly dragged Bholanath off the line.

  “Bholanath, tell me more about this fort?” Lallan muttered quietly, out of Bhuvan’s earshot.

  “Well…..er…” muttered Bholanath, nervously looking at Bhuvan, who was leading the line of thugs.

  “It is okay, you can tell me!” said Lallan with an expression, which Bholanath could only assume was the large thug’s way of faking some empathy.

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  “Err…”

  “Or do you want me to throw you from here? I can easily carry your load too, you know.”

  Bholanath anxiously looked at the large thug next to him and then at Bhuvan, who was walking some distance away from them, trying to decide which mortal intimidation was more of an immediate threat to his well-being.

  “It is said that the Bhangini fort was built by either an ancient emperor who ruled these parts or by an unknown kingdom, which thrived here in ancient times. Nobody knows who the emperor was or even if the kingdom really existed. The fort remained abandoned since the time before my grandfather and his grandfather. No one knows, for how long it has been a ruin or how it came to be abandoned. There are many stories, but all of them agree that the Bhangini fort is haunted. Haunted by an evil which plagues this land from time to time, spreading misfortune and suffering. No one who has laid their eyes upon the place has ever come back.”

  “So, you know someone who went there?” asked Bhuvan, turning back, startling both Bholanath and Lallan.

  “Well.…er… no. But I have heard stories.”

  “So, you don’t know anyone who disappeared after going there? As I said before, all of it is made up. Most likely by a gang of dacoits who made it into their hideout. We, dacoits have been known to spread rumours about places like that,” said Bhuvan with a disdainful smirk as both Bholanath and Lallan looked down to avoid his eyes. “I want no more nonsensical discussion about the fort, you hear!”

  “Yes, Sardar,” said Lallan, terrified as they trekked up the hill.

  After climbing for hours, the eight of them finally reached the top, from where they could clearly see the valley tucked between the hills.

  Years of dormancy had consumed the basin with wild trees and bushes creeping across its every inch. But perverse to its surroundings and at the centre of the valley, was the fort.

  The Bhangini fort stood alone amidst the forest, the main castle sitting atop an elevated platform, surrounded by three adjacent high rise curtain rampart walls and a moat which ran along the outer wall of the fort. The moonlight reflected on the fort wall, giving it an ethereal utopian impression.

  Bholanath strangely felt a pang of yearning and despite being afraid of the place his whole life, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the sheer beauty of the castle, even in its dilapidated state.

  All eight travellers trekked down to the valley through the forest, quickening their pace until they finally reached the moat.

  “Curious…” Bholanath muttered, looking at the moat in which the water was as clear as the night sky.

  “It looks like the moat and the outer walls have kept the forest at bay,” said Bhuvan, pointing to a rickety wooden bridge across the moat which led to a huge iron gate on the outermost wall.

  The thugs, along with Bholanath, lugged their sacks across the wooden bridge until they reached the iron gate, which had a complex and beautiful design, the likes of which Bholanath had never seen before.

  “Lallan, put down your sack and open the gate!” barked Bhuvan as the large thug dropped his sack and pushed the gate.

  The enormous iron gate slowly swung open, creaking and groaning, until it finally gave way, revealing rows of small houses and crumbling shops that flanked a wide road which ran straight through the city.

  Bhuvan led the group inside the wall and onto the main road surrounded by the crumbling structures, which Bholanath could swear were staring at them… if that was even possible.

  “Men! We have found our new hideout!” cried Bhuvan as all the thugs laughed and the sound of their cackling echoed through the fort.

  Then suddenly, they heard it……a laughter mixed with their own. A laughter like theirs but different, as if it was mocking them, cold and inhuman.

  “Who is it?” Bhuvan yelled as all seven thugs dropped their sacks and drew their daggers, looking in the direction from where the sound had come.

  “No!” cried Bholanath, panicking.

  “This is not the time to -–” Bhuvan started angrily, as Bholanath suddenly dropped his sack. He had seen something horrifying…….Lallan had been sliced in half and his bloody torso was being dragged in front of them by something invisible.

  Bholanath did not think twice as he turned around and bolted out of the gate, crossing the wooden bridge as the hair on the back of his neck stood up from the sounds inside the fort –- the shrieks of the thugs being torn to pieces. He did not look back but kept running through the forest and up the hill until he could run no more, collapsing on the forest floor, panting as cold sweat ran down his back.

  Suddenly, a muscular arm yanked him up and pushed him against a tree trunk as he screamed in pain, his face smacking against the woody bark.

  “Quiet, you rascal!” cried his captor from behind, as men in red coats appeared around Bholanath, each aiming their musket in his direction.

  “Captain Phillips, do you need help, sir?” asked one of the sepoys, looking at the struggling Bholanath with utmost contempt.

  “No need for that, lads. I don’t need help to deal with his sort,” said the man. “Now tell me, where are your thug friends?”

  “No, saheb. I am not a thug!” cried Bholanath in pain, slowly realizing who had apprehended him……...Company’s sepoys.

  “Don’t lie!” the captain barked. “We have been tracking your group through the night. Unfortunately for you, we came across the massacre you left behind at the camp and fortunately for us, we managed to track you here. Now tell me, where are the rest of the thugs?”

  “Believe me, saheb, I am not a thug. I am a merchant. I was part of the caravan you found massacred by the road. I, too, am a victim of the thugs,” Bholanath pleaded as the man behind him hesitated, loosening his grip as he threw Bholanath on the ground.

  “Tell me who you are?” asked the man, standing over Bholanath as he came into view. Captain Phillips was a large Englishman with an equally large moustache, dressed in a Company authorized red coat uniform with a huge flintlock pistol hanging by his waist.

  “My name is Bholanath, saheb. I am an unfortunate merchant of the caravan you found. I, along with my companions, were returning home when the thugs ambushed us,” said Bholanath, narrating the ordeal he went through that night. It was only when Bholanath told them what he had seen in the fort that the captain raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

  “Stop with the nonsense, you rascal! How could you possibly believe that we would fall for your tall tale? Now, if you want to live, show us where the rest of your gang are, otherwise I will execute you right here!” barked Captain Phillips, threatening Bholanath, who stared fearfully at the ten sepoys surrounding him.

  “Saheb, please you must-–”

  “Out with it now!” Captain Phillips roared, making Bholanath jump.

  “They are in the fort, saheb,” Bholanath muttered sheepishly.

  “The fort we saw from up the hill?” asked one of the sepoys.

  “Yes, saheb, but please don’t go there. I am not lying about what I saw,” Bholanath pleaded, folding his hands.

  “We will see. Lads, prepare yourself. We are hunting thugs tonight!” cried Captain Phillips, dragging Bholanath up by his collar. “Lead the way!”

  “But–”

  “No, buts!” bellowed Captain Philips as the sepoys dragged an unwilling Bholanath back to the fort, which stood as quiet as the first instant he had seen it that night.

  “Saheb, please!” Bholanath pleaded again.

  “Quiet!” barked the captain, dragging Bholanath across the wooden bridge and up to the giant iron gate as his legs gave out in fear, flopping to the ground.

  “Pathetic!” muttered Captain Phillips, “You, Prasad! Look after this man. Make sure he doesn’t escape. The rest of you come with me.”

  “Yes, Captain,” said one of the Indian sepoys, cocking his musket at Bholanath.

  Bholanath looked on, as one by one the sepoys led by Captain Phillips disappeared into the darkness behind the gate.

  “Brother, I am not lying! Please tell them not to go in there!” Bholanath begged the sepoy guarding him.

  “Quiet you!” cried Prasad, kicking Bholanath.

  Then they heard it, the same cold mocking laugh Bholanath had heard before.

  “No! Please, no!” Bholanath shrieked hysterically as they heard the loud sounds of musket fire. Then it stopped, plunging them back into eerie silence. As moments later, the sounds began again…….shrieks and screams from the sepoys as Prasad looked at Bholanath in confusion and panic.

  “You are coming with me!” said Prasad, hastily pushing his prisoner inside the gate.

  “No, brother!” Bholanath pleaded as Prasad pushed him in front, using Bholanath’s body as a human shield.

  The two walked inside slowly, expecting blood and carnage, but there was nothing except for the silent crumbling ruins.

  “This is not right! This is not right!” muttered a scared Prasad, pointing his musket everywhere.

  “Brother, we should get out of here,” said Bholanath, frightened out of his wits.

  “Quiet you-–”

  “Brother!” pleaded Bholanath, turning back to find no one.

  The sepoy, Prasad, had disappeared. Bholanath quickly turned around to see the bloody corpse of Prasad being dragged by an invisible entity.

  Bholanath’s instinct took over as he ran back through the gate and across the wooden bridge as something hit him square on the back. He turned around and froze with terror at the sight of the thing that had struck him…..a bloodied, severed human arm inside the sleeves of a sepoy’s uniform. Then he heard the cackling……….the same cold laugh, he had heard throughout the night. He looked up at the ramparts where a pair of red eyes were staring at him with hunger.

  Bholanath quickly turned back and ran towards the forest and away from the fort as the first rays of sunlight hit the ramparts. Bholanath closed his eyes and ran with all his might, a single thought on his mind……get back home to his wife and daughter. The thought of Mithoo infused his body with renewed vigour as he ran through the forest, the thorns and splinters pricking his body and tearing his clothes. He ran, refusing to slow down until he reached the peak, leaving the fort far behind.

  Bholanath finally turned back to see the sprawling valley down below with the accursed fort in its centre. He did not know if it was exhaustion or delirium, but he thought he saw a figure atop the roof of the main castle, but he didn’t care anymore. He just wanted to get back home to his wife and daughter.

  Bholanath gave one last look at the fort, trekking down to the other side of the hill as the red sun of dawn shone through the hills, spreading its rays across the valley.

  A hooded figure stood atop the roof of the main castle, silently watching Bholanath as the sun’s rays bathed the fort in its reddish delight.

  “At least one of them managed to escape safely,” muttered the hooded figure silently. “Return home safely, young fellow. Ama-gi.”

  The figure looked down at the sprawling fort beneath and up again at the sun, as two words echoed through the air.

  “Centum Eventus.”

  Lota is a small Indian bronze pot used for various purposes.

  Dhoti is a garment worn by male Indians.

  Grand Trunk Road is a famous road in North India, part of the Silk Route network of roads during the medieval period.

  Rumaal is a long Indian scarf.

  Sardar is a boss or a leader in Hindi.

  Saheb is “Sir” in Hindi.