After that terrifying night, Karthik's parents told him to take a few days off school. He agreed right away; the ghost he'd seen still made him shiver.
During those days, the house felt heavy. Conversations between him and his parents were short and awkward. Before, they barely talked unless his parents were scolding him, or he was trying to run off. Now, there was just quiet. It felt like a stiff interview: someone asked a question, the other gave a quick answer, and then silence fell, thick and uncomfortable. This strained quiet became their new normal.
His mother spent long hours praying at the temple, her lips moving silently, wishing for the happy family she felt was slipping away. His father threw himself into his temple work, polishing lamps and arranging flowers, trying to busy his mind and forget the awkwardness at home.
For Karthik, doing nothing was torture. Whenever his mind emptied, the scary images from the cemetery would flood back. He saw the twisted figure, its neck bent, its sad eyes glowing. The nightmares were constant, waking him up drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding. When his father rushed in, asking, "What is it? What happened?" Karthik would just shake his head and mumble, "A bad dream." He was too scared to say the truth aloud.
Then, out of a deep, chilling fear, he did something that surprised his parents: he started helping at the temple. It wasn't like before, when it felt like a chore. Now, he hoped the holy place would somehow protect him from the darkness that followed him. His parents looked at him, shocked and confused.
"Why are you suddenly helping out?" his father asked one afternoon, his voice careful.
"I just want to help, Appa," Karthik replied, looking away. His father misunderstood, thinking Karthik was only helping because he was scared of him. This made his father feel even worse, a knot tightening in his stomach.
When Karthik finally went back to school, the awkwardness came with him. As he walked into the classroom, everyone went quiet. His friends froze. Ravi, who usually joked a lot, started to speak but then just shut his mouth, looking guilty. Karthik broke the silence with a quiet, "Hi." A wave of relieved greetings came back, and class started. No one teased him. No one chanted prayers at him. It was a small change, a careful space they left around him, but it was a clear sign: they felt sorry for what they had done.
He came home to find his mother waiting by the door, her face full of worry. She looked him over for any sign of trouble, but she didn't dare ask about his day. The silence, for now, felt safer. Karthik soon went back to doing his temple duties as usual, but this time, he didn't complain.
That night, after a quiet dinner, his father knew he had to talk. He found Karthik sitting on the porch, watching the evening darkness creep in. "How was school today?" he asked, sitting next to him.
"Normal," Karthik mumbled, keeping his voice flat.
His father took a deep breath. "Your teacher told me everything, Karthik. About the teasing... the bullying." He paused, his voice thick with a mix of sadness and regret. "I'm so sorry. I was so focused on our traditions, on what I thought you should be, that I didn't truly see you. I didn't see what you were going through."
Karthik looked down, tears stinging his eyes, a strange, mix of bitter and sweet emotion washing over him. The old hurt mixed with the relief of this long-awaited apology. For the first time in many years, the wall of silence between them broke. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, the heavy feeling slowly lifting as the night grew deeper.
His father's apology gave Karthik a new kind of strength. The fear of the ghost was still there, a cold stone in his stomach, but it didn't freeze him anymore. On Sunday afternoon, as the sun started to set and long shadows stretched across the town, he knew what he had to do. He had to face what was real.
He went to the temple's prayer room, took a saffron-colored holy scarf, and wrapped it around his neck. He tied sacred ropes, blessed by the gods, around both his wrists. They felt thin and weak, a small comfort against a huge, unknown terror, but he needed something. He walked back to the cemetery, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm in his chest.
He looked around the messy graveyard, his eyes searching through the tall weeds and broken stones for anything—a footprint, a broken branch, any sign that what he saw was true. He found nothing. A crow called out from a twisted banyan tree, making him jump. He let out a shaky breath. It was just my imagination, he tried to tell himself.
He turned to leave, a wave of relief washing over him. But just as his foot touched the path leading out, he heard it again. It wasn't loud, but it was clear, carried on the breeze.
"Please... help me..."
A moment of silence, and then a blood-curdling scream tore through the quiet afternoon.
"Ahhhhh...!"
He spun around. Nothing was there. Just the leaning stones and the moving shadows. But he knew. It wasn't his imagination. The terrifying truth hit him: he wasn't crazy, and he wasn't alone.