Chapter 5: Arrival at Coorg
As they hurried back to the car, Vyom’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a shadowy figure perched silently atop the roof. The engine roared to life beneath his touch, and with Priya at his side, they sped away from the enigmatic village, hearts racing and minds reeling.
As Vyom sat on the driver’s seat, mind racing, piecing together the strangeness of their encounter. Questions circled like restless birds—how had he spoken to the villagers so easily, when he knew not a word of their language? Priya, too, seemed lost in thought, her brow furrowed as she replayed the events.
It came to Vyom in a quiet moment of realization: every aspect of the village felt displaced, far removed from the world they knew. The food stall where they’d eaten—it hadn’t matched the flavors or styles of southern India at all, but rather, it tasted unmistakably of the north. He thought about the crisp script on the signboards, the swirling cadence of the villagers’ speech, the cut and cloth of their clothing—all of it echoed distant memories from his childhood in northern India.
He turned to Priya and voiced his thoughts, his words hesitant, “Did you notice… everything about that village felt like it belonged somewhere else? The language, the food, the style—none of it matched what we know from here.”
Priya nodded slowly, eyes wide with realization. As they sat in silence, the truth pressed in the village, so vivid in their memory, seemed stitched from pieces of another place and time, a patchwork of northern India nestled impossibly in the hills they’d been passing through.
The car’s engine purred, a gentle reminder of reality, yet Vyom couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that they had wandered—if only for a moment—into a corner of the world that wasn’t supposed to exist.
The remainder of their journey unfolded without further incident, as if the very air had settled after the storm of mystery that had swept through their earlier hours. Vyom and Priya missed the sunrise—its promise of hope hidden behind the mountains they had left behind—but relief washed over them as the resort’s familiar gates appeared at the end of the winding path.
Inside, warmth embraced them: welcoming smiles at the reception, the gentle chime of laughter from the courtyard, and the golden haze of afternoon sun filtering through the lobby windows. A sense of normalcy began to creep back into their bones, coaxed by the comfort of crisp linen sheets and the distant hum of a nearby waterfall.
Yet, despite the lively buzz of weekend travelers and the inviting aroma of spiced curries from the resort’s kitchen, Vyom and Priya found themselves oddly silent. Words faltered on their tongues, each conversation circling the periphery of what they had witnessed.
The days in Coorg slipped by like pages in a well-loved book. Vyom and Priya explored every waterfall, every windswept viewpoint, even managed to catch a sunrise that painted the hills in molten gold. When the day of their return finally arrived, a gentle melancholy lingered in the air.
Vyom, ever meticulous, had the car checked by a local mechanic before they set out. But as they packed their memories and belongings into the trunk, his mind wandered back to the mysterious village—the echoes of the lady’s words still haunting him. He was determined: when the village appeared on their route again, he would seek out the enigmatic woman. There were questions only she could answer. Who was the presence on the roof that night? Who—or what—had intervened when the car’s brakes failed? Sleep took him gently, carrying him toward the morning—and the promise, or perhaps the riddle, of the journey home.
Ink of Dread 
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