"What terrifies us most is not what we see,
but what insists on watching us back."
The night had been long, but the morning was crueler. The ledger lay in the middle of the group, its thick cover dusted with their own nervous fingerprints. No one dared touch it now without everyone else watching. Its presence was no longer just a curiosity—it was a weight, bending their conversations, their trust, their will.
The air inside the broken haveli was stifling. Shafts of light pierced the cracks in the roof, illuminating the weary faces of the survivors. The faint smell of mildew and ash clung to their clothes, as though the village itself refused to let them forget what it was.
Yashpal rubbed his eyes and spoke first.
"We need to know if this thing is being… altered when we sleep, or if it's being shown to us differently. There's a difference."
"Big words," Rohit muttered, pacing by the doorway. His boots crunched bits of shattered brick. "Call it what it is. It's cursed. We should burn it and be done."
Priya looked up sharply. "And if it's tied to the rest of this village? If this book is the reason we can't leave? You think burning it will free us—or trap us for good?"
The argument was a circle, looping endlessly since the first name had shifted on its yellowed pages.
Diya, sitting a little apart from the rest, hugged her knees to her chest. Her voice was soft but carried in the silence. "Instead of fighting, why don't we test it? If it's changing, let's catch it in the act."
Kabir turned toward her, relief flashing in his eyes at the rare moment of clarity. "Exactly what I was thinking. Cameras, watches, shifts. We control it."
For the first time, there was a plan.
They divided the night into watches. Each pair would guard the ledger for two hours. One with the book, one with the camera. At the end of each shift, Yashpal insisted, they would compare the pages to a series of photos he was cataloguing.
The first watch was Abhay and Priya. They sat opposite each other, silent, the ledger between them. The only sound was the faint dripping of water somewhere in the courtyard. Priya stole glances at Abhay. He was unreadable, his expression flat as though he were watching a blank wall instead of an object brimming with menace. She thought of speaking—asking him why he never seemed shaken, why he never showed anger or fear like the others—but the words refused to come.
When the clock ticked down and Saanvi shook them awake for the handover, Abhay stood without protest, as though he'd simply been waiting.
The second shift was Saanvi and Rohit. They argued the entire time.
"If this book adds names, maybe it's… feeding on us," Saanvi whispered.
"You read too much fiction." Rohit's laugh was sharp, but his voice trembled beneath. "It's some psycho's diary. Someone still alive. That's the real danger—we're not alone."
Their bickering was cut short when the camera clicked on its own. Saanvi nearly dropped it. She checked the lens, the buttons—nothing was wrong. But the shutter had fired, capturing the ledger without her pressing it. The developed photo, when shaken out of the instant camera, showed not just the ledger, but a blurred hand resting on it. Neither of theirs.
Rohit swore under his breath and nearly bolted, but Saanvi gripped his wrist, forcing him to stay. "Don't look away," she hissed.
The name at the bottom of the last page was fainter now, as though smudged by fingers unseen.
By the time Kabir and Diya took over, the air in the haveli felt colder, every corner thick with shadows that clung too long. Kabir sat upright, hand on the knife he had salvaged earlier, while Diya rested the camera against her thigh, keeping her eyes wide despite exhaustion.
"You did well back there," Kabir said after a long silence.
Diya blinked. "What?"
"Suggesting the experiment. It's the first thing that made sense."
She smiled faintly, but there was little warmth in it. "I only said it because I can't stand watching everyone fight. If we fall apart now, this village wins."
Kabir nodded, respect softening his expression. He wanted to say more, but a sudden creak silenced him. The old wooden door to the courtyard had shifted inward—though no one had touched it.
Both of them turned back to the ledger instantly.
It was open one page further than before. Neither had seen it move. And scrawled across the bottom margin in uneven letters was a fresh line:
"The watchers will follow."
Diya's breath hitched. The ink looked wet, still glistening under their light.
By dawn, all eight of them had seen enough. The ledger was not only recording—it was responding.
Yashpal set the photographs side by side, his rational mind trembling against the evidence in his hands. "It's… impossible. We didn't miss anything. These words weren't here. The angles, the dates, they're consistent."
Meghna backed away, covering her mouth. "Then someone, or something, is writing while we sleep. Right under our noses."
Rohit's patience snapped. He shoved the ledger toward the dying embers of their fire. "We end it now."
Kabir stopped him, steel in his voice. "And if this is the only clue we have? You burn it, we blind ourselves."
Arguments erupted again.
Amid the noise, Diya pressed her palm to her temple, feeling the echo of the words written in the book. The watchers will follow. Who were the watchers? The villagers long gone? The ones in the photographs? Or something worse, something waiting for them to acknowledge it fully?
Her gaze flicked to Abhay, who had not joined the shouting. He stared at the ledger like it was an old acquaintance he was tired of pretending not to recognize. When his eyes briefly met hers, Diya looked away quickly, unsettled by the strange calm in his silence.
They agreed reluctantly to one last test: splitting into smaller groups to search the village for any place that matched the handwriting in the ledger, any mark that could tie the book to a physical hand.
Saanvi and Meghna would take the northern lane. Rohit and Yashpal, the temple ruins. Kabir and Priya, the broken market square.
That left Diya with Abhay.
She hadn't asked for it, but no one else had volunteered.
They stepped into the southern quarter together, the air thick with silence. Abhay carried the ledger in his satchel, though he hadn't been asked to. Diya kept stealing glances at him, wanting to speak but unable to frame her thoughts.
Finally, she whispered, "Why don't you ever look scared?"
Abhay's answer was delayed, as though he had to summon it from a far-off place. "Because I've already lived through worse than this."
The words hung in the dead street like smoke, and Diya felt, for the first time, that the mystery of Bhairavpur might not be confined to the village at all—but walking beside her.
"Some books are not written to be read.
They are written to be obeyed."