Every brick in the Rajbari was sweating.
Not sweat—but coagulated, poisonous blood. Centuries-old, congealed, blackened blood, no longer red, deep purple-black, glistening like oil. Each drop that hit the floor left behind tiny tooth imprints—as if unborn children had learned to bite.
Anik was no longer there.
What remained was a web of consciousness—millions of nerves spreading through the Rajbari's walls, ceiling, floors, chains, even the mango leaves outside. He felt simultaneously:
Rahat's eyes trapped in the cracks of the walls
Pieces of human tongues dangling from the ceiling
His own mother's bones rotting in the soil beneath
Everything at once, each sensation a mix of agony and twisted satisfaction.
The courtyard cracked open.
No, not an earthquake—birth.
From below rose a throne.
A throne of bones.
Thousands of children's spines fused together, vertebrae forming armrests, eye sockets glowing like coal fires. Behind the throne, a vast spiderweb—but not threads, black veins through which darkness flowed instead of blood.
At the center of the web sat her.
The primordial mother.
No face—just a torn cavity, from which endless children's cries poured. Veins emerged from her body, reaching every corner of the Rajbari. At the end of each vein, a mouth—thousands of mouths—whispered in unison:
"More… more… more…"
The mother opened her eyes once.
Not eyes—two black suns that swallowed light.
At that moment, the mango tree in front of the Rajbari shivered.
Heads fell from its branches.
Dropping like ripe mangoes.
Each head's eyes open, foam spilling from mouths—but they did not scream—they laughed. The laughter of hunger.
The villagers approached.
Enchanted.
Eyes white.
Mouths agape.
Dragging their feet.
In the first row, an old woman—her hands smeared with flour. She did not know her hands no longer belonged to her. Not flour—but blood.
Behind her, a boy with a school bag. Books spilling from it—not reading, flying, pages burning with black flames.
The moment they stepped inside, the Rajbari swallowed them.
Chunks of meat fell from the ceiling.
Each piece had a face.
The faces chewed.
Bones crunched.
Flesh tore.
No screams.
Only a deep, satisfied roar.
The Rajbari had become a living grinder.
Humans entered—the curse came out.
Anik's body was now a monster.
Wings of bone sprouted from his back.
Not wings—but skeletal branches, each tip with an eye.
He advanced.
His nails long like serpents, each tip with a tiny mouth.
He wrapped a neck in his grasp.
Sucked the life force.
The body within him expanded as the soul entered.
The walls cracked.
New walls sprouted.
Walls of blood.
The mother laughed aloud.
"Today the village.
Tomorrow the city.
The day after…
The whole world will be our inner palace.
Every screen, every phone, every eye—our face will be there."
Suddenly, a sound from afar.
A bell.
The village's old temple bell.
Metallic, solemn, vibrating.
The sound pierced the Rajbari's flesh.
Like acid.
Some faces in the walls shriveled.
Some eyes closed.
Inside Anik's chest, for a moment…
A single drop of humanity returned.
The touch of his mother's hand.
Rahat's last scream.
For a brief instant, he saw—beneath his feet, the shadow of his childhood crying.
But only for a moment.
A thousand mouths screamed in unison:
"Feed the hunger! Feed the hunger! Feed the hunger!"
Anik tore open his chest.
From within, he brought forth the royal crown.
Made of human skulls.
In the eye sockets, the fire of spirits still burned.
The moment he placed the crown, the entire Rajbari blazed in hellish black light.
Shadows and walls had no boundaries.
The shadows spilled outside.
Every door in the village opened on its own.
From within, moans.
Children's cries.
Adults' wails.
Together, a melody.
The melody of hunger.
The Rajbari's shadow now covered the village.
And from within the shadows, new faces emerged.
Each face said the same thing:
"Come…
We are waiting…
Your hunger…
Our hunger…"
No place is safe anymore.
Death has not ended.
Death has only begun.
The beginning of endless torment.