Deepak gazed at his uncle, questioning whether he had heard correctly. "What do you mean—what you did?"
Ramlal did not talk at first. His gaze was focused on the scarecrow in the distance, its silhouette just discernible in the moonlight. He appeared far away, caught in an old memory he had buried deep.
"It was twenty years ago," Ramlal said, his voice low. "When drought struck our village. There is no rain, crops are failing, and people are starving. I was desperate, Deepak. "We all were."
Deepak listened quietly, grasping the oil light closer as the flame danced and created lengthy shadows on the walls. "There was a man," Ramlal explained, "a baba from another village. He was supposed to be familiar with the dark side of things.
He provided me a technique to secure my land and make it fertile. But it came at a price."
"What kind of price?" Deepak asked carefully.
Ramlal glanced at him with sunken eyes. "A agreement. A single drop of blood. One buried secret. And a promise: never remove the scarecrow. Never disturb the field. "Never tell anyone."
Deepak gave a slow shake of his head. "You made an agreement of blood to protect your crops?"
Ramlal nodded. And it worked. The rain came back. My harvest blossomed. While the rest of the hamlet struggled, my field thrived."
"And the scarecrow?"
"It wasn't just a symbol," Ramlal murmured."The baba provided me the frame. I was told to place it in the heart of the country. Said it would be obligated to defend. But I never asked him what he used to make it.
Deepak gulped hard. "What do you mean?"
"I think..." I believe the frame was built from something cursed. Perhaps some bones. Human. Whatever it was, it worked. But it required silence. Obedience."
"And you broke the promise," Deepak explained carefully.
Ramlal nodded again in embarrassment. "After your mother died last year, I hid her ring behind the scarecrow. As a final goodbye. I dug it up last week. "I thought I'd pass it down to you one day."
Deepak returned his attention to the ring, which he still held in his hand.The scarecrow had returned it. Not as a present. As a warning.
"So now it's awake," Deepak replied, barely above a whisper. "Because you broke the pact."
Ramlal stood. "It isn't just awake. "It's angry."
Just suddenly, a sharp crack resonated through the field.
They hurried to the door.
In the moonlight, they could see it clearly: the scarecrow had vanished.
A cold breeze blew through the yard. The oil lamp flickered violently and suddenly went out.
Darkness.
The sound came from the side of the house. Scraping. It's like something pulling wood or metal.
Ramlal took the sickle from the wall. "Get behind me."
They proceeded carefully across the tiny corridor to the back of the home. Every board creaked under their feet.The scraping became louder.
Then—silence.
They hesitated at the back door. Ramlal counted to three.
He threw it open.
There is no one there.
However, on the soil just beyond the doorway, fresh straw lay scattered—wet, black, and oozing scarlet.Deepak took a step forward and then halted.
"There's something buried here," he explained, pointing to a mound beside the well.
They approached carefully. The mound appeared fresh, as if something had just clawed its way out—or in.
Ramlal knelt and brushed the filth away. His fingers struck something firm.
He searched deeper and found a little wooden box. The same ones his grandmother used for her charms. But this one was ancient and rotten. Red thread was used to tie it shut.
He paused, then untied it.
It contained a little cloth doll, a rusted nail, broken glass, and a bundle of black feathers.
It had a straw hat and a small embroidered smile.
Abruptly, the wind grew fiercer. The trees let forth a moan. Something spoke back from the shadows:
"Promises are binding, and you made one."
The ground beneath the box gave way a little.
Deepak withdrew his uncle. "It must be burned. This must be removed, whatever it is.
Ramlal paused. "It might be fully liberated by burning it."
"So, what should we do?"
Ramlal gazed at the doll, the thread, and the straw smeared in blood. "We finish what was started," he said in a whisper. Once more, we seal it. But we'll require assistance.
The front of the house rocked with a loud crash.
They dashed back inside.
The phrases were inscribed in black ash on the wall of the living room:
"I never went away."