I replayed the details of both the cases I discussed with the officer, in both cases there seemed to be absolutely no sign of resistance, every step in the process seemed deliberate and meticulous.
The officer mentioned bizarre alien symbols carved and then hidden on the ground. In both cases there appeared to be multiple people present at the scene enabling the crime.
One thing was certain, both incidents involved the presence of a group of individuals who orchestrated a convenient death of the victim that just seemed willful. But who were these people and how could they control the actions of others in such unreal ways.
It was rare to find someone with that advanced level of hypnotic abilities. Like a kind of parasitic conviction that crept into the mind and rewrote your choices from the inside.
At the same time, if such individuals did not exist, was the officer’s random mention regarding the possession of some demon hinting at something. I had acquainted myself to the concept of Neuro-linguist Programming wherein the investigators seemed to have a higher level of telepathic abilities. They always claimed to have connections with the subliminal undercurrent. The nature of such incidents carries a certain ambiguity and obscura. It was always like you could feel the verity of what you were seeking but could never find anything conclusive to explain what it was and how it actually worked.
This reminded me of a case wherein I was investigating the origins of this one specific cave in the state of Meghalyaya. The extensive network of 1700 caves gave me a shitload of information but that one cave gave me my biggest story.
It was back in 2015 when I was documenting the history behind the caves in Meghalaya and I stumbled upon a treasure of information about the local tribes, the geological ecosystem, the biodiversity and even hidden stories about famines and conflicts between various social groups. It was an investigator’s dream. The final cave where we went was completely unheard of even to the locals who knew the entire network inside out. No glitz or glamor to offer, but my rather mischievous curiosity led me and my fellow partner investigators there. The air in that cave was still—dead still—like it hadn’t been disturbed in decades, maybe centuries.
As a forensic anthropologist, you don’t just look for bones. You look for anomalies. And that’s exactly how I began.
This cave was unlike any of the others—unmapped, unnamed, and unfamiliar even to the locals who knew the terrain like the lines on their palms. There was no grandeur to it, but something about the raw silence compelled me and my fellow investigators to enter. I began my usual work—collecting soil and rock samples, scraping mineral deposits for SEM imaging, and running a portable spectrometer to identify organic remains. My forensic toolkit was precise: isotope analysis for environmental tracing, mass spectrometry for chemical composition, DNA amplification for biological residue. But every method failed. The samples degraded, disappeared, or refused to yield any data as if resisting classification. Rajat, our paranormal consultant, ran EMF and infrasound sweeps, but picked up nothing—his gear behaved like it was in a vacuum. And yet I felt it. A dense, oppressive presence that clung to the walls and pressed against the bones of my skull. It wasn’t just the weight of the cave—it was as if something had retreated here long ago after being wronged, and now held its ground in absolute silence, warning away intruders without uttering a sound. As I knelt to log one final core sample, I felt the atmosphere snap like a rubber band—sharp, voiceless, but deafening in its intent. I looked at Rajat; he hadn't heard anything. But I had. Not a sound, but a message etched into the marrow of my bones: Leave now, or be unmade. I never touched that sample again. By the time we reached the exit, my hands were shaking and the bag carrying the sample was empty—its contents reduced to fine dust, and a single strand of long black hair curled neatly at the bottom, like punctuation.
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We left. I didn’t speak. Rajat didn’t ask.
. Even when we flew them back to the lab, the results were inconclusive—mass irregularities, corrupted chromatograms, and a complete absence of any biological markers.
A week later, Rajat’s son—only ten—died suddenly of an unexplained arterial blockage. No prior health issues. No signs. Just a scream in the night and a still body by morning. The doctors couldn’t explain it. No clot. No trauma. Just a cold, inert heart. Rajat and I didn’t speak for weeks after that. He wouldn’t meet my eye.
Two months later, I had the dream. I was back in the cave, but it was pulsing like something alive. The walls were slick, breathing. And something moved behind me—slow, massive, dragging its sorrow and rage behind it like a funeral shroud. It spoke without voice, without language. But I understood it all the same. You brought him here. The air curdled with blame, thick with something older than grief. Then came the scream—not Rajat’s son, but the cave itself, bellowing like a wound that had been torn open again. Glimpses of Rajat’s son kept flashing on the cave walls and it was like a million fingers were pointed at me as if they were saying:
“You just love to unbox, don’t you. Always sticking your hand out in the fire, "You’ve always walked in places you didn’t belong, Divyansh. Just like you walked into that hospital room and left your mother gasping for air while you stared at your own trembling hands. Just like you stood beside your brother’s wreckage and wondered how the metal bent around his spine while you lived untouched. You investigate the dead because the living never made sense to you. You think your methods protect you—but you forgot one thing. When you look into the dark, the dark remembers you. Here’s your gift. You brought him here, and you knew you shouldn’t have. And for that, I took what mattered to him. Now, every time you dream, you will remember the breath he never took again. The blood that never reached his heart. And someday, when you think it’s over, I’ll come for the only thing left inside you: the part you still believe is innocent.”
I had desperately tried to scream but couldn’t , my eyes just wouldn’t open. It was like the worst case of sleep paralysis anyone encountered.
I woke up with dried blood under my nose and that same single strand of black hair on my pillow.
None of my cases stayed with me in my mind once I sold them to the media houses but this case tore open my deepest traumas that I thought I had swept under the rug for good.
I never wrote about it or sold it, neither did Rajat.
I overcame the shock eventually but the man who lost his only son knew that he learned the lesson the hard way. Rajat quit his paranormal investigation career and joined his father-in-law’s advertising company.
After all, some places bury their dead in silence, while others make the dead follow you home as blame, guilt and remorse so bad you start wishing for your own death.
Divyansh,
I wasn’t going to write this. I had told myself I wouldn’t. That I had left that world behind.
But you and I both know some places don’t let you leave. Not really.
For years, I tried to forget what happened in that cave. I tried to remember my son only as he was before. The way he laughed at his own jokes, the way he curled up beside me when the thunder rolled in. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the cave walls. Breathing. Bleeding. Blaming.
And in the silence between dreams, I still hear it say: You brought him here.
I know you tried your best. I know you blame yourself just enough to function but not enough to break .I broke. I had to. Because something had to shatter to make room for the grief.
I see his face in reflections now. Not always. Just when I’m tired. Or alone. Or quiet.
I’m not angry with you anymore. But I’ll never forgive you.
Not because you caused it. But because you kept going.
You kept walking into the dark.
And some of us never made it back.
—Rajat