Chapter 6: Echoes of the Divine
The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains of their resort room. Vyom awoke first, the quiet hum of anticipation still lingering from the night before. He nudged Priya gently, her eyes fluttering open, and together they slipped into the easy routine of travelers: brushing away sleep, gathering their belongings, sharing smiles and silent understandings over a leisurely breakfast.
By early afternoon, the car was packed, the sense of adventure rekindled. Vyom checked his watch, mentally calculating miles and hours before dusk. He opened the passenger door for Priya, who slid in, her camera bag nestled protectively in her lap. With one last look at the sun-dappled resort behind them, they set off—two figures framed against the winding road, the promise of the unknown unfolding before them once more.
As they drove away from Coorg. An uneasy silence filled the car, broken only by the crackle of Vyom’s playlist as he turned up the volume, flooding the small space with a burst of lively music. His voice rose in song, a little off-key but determined, and Priya, after a moment’s hesitation, let herself be swept along, singing with him. Laughter mingled with melody, and for a brief, golden stretch of highway, the weight of their strange experience lifted.
Yet beneath their playful duet, both felt the quiet prickle of anticipation. Each turn, each dip in the road, they waited for the village to reappear—those mysterious streets, the garland-bearing monkey, the festival’s glow. But as the miles slipped by and the hills gave way to softer plains, the village remained absent, as if it had been a dream conjured by exhaustion and fear.
Vyom’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He glanced at Priya, whose gaze traced the passing scenery before drifting down to her phone. “Did I doze off?” she finally asked, brow furrowed, “I can’t remember us passing through that village on the way back.”
Vyom shook his head, eyes fixed on the road. “It never came,” he murmured, the words hanging heavy between them.
Priya’s shock was palpable; she searched Vyom’s face for answers but found only the same bewilderment reflected in his eyes. To distract herself, she began scrolling through Instagram, the familiar feed a small comfort in the face of the inexplicable.
After a while, Vyom broke the silence, his voice low. “Maybe we took a different route. That’s why we missed it.”
Priya nodded absently. “Maybe,” she replied, but uncertainty lingered, weaving itself into the folds of their memories—an enigma left behind on a road that no longer led where they expected.
Vyom’s curiosity lingered, restless as the highway unspooled beneath their wheels. He glanced at Priya, who was scrolling through her phone, the soft glow painting her face in the dimness of the car.
“Priya,” he said quietly, “try searching for the Eighth Temple of Hanuman. Maybe the internet knows something we don’t. Even if it’s been forgotten here, someone must have written about it online.”
She nodded, fingers dancing over the screen as they made a brief stop at a roadside McDonald’s. The hum of people and the familiar scent of fries drifted around them, a faint comfort after their strange journey. But as Priya tapped through web pages and maps, her brow furrowed further. There was nothing. No mention of the village, no ancient stories of a hidden temple.
Vyom pulled out his own phone, searching with growing intensity, yet every result left them empty-handed. The digital world was silent about the place they’d just left behind—its temple, its garland-bearing monkey, its festival of lights. The mystery deepened, haunting the spaces between their words as they finished their meal and returned to the road, answers slipping farther away with each passing mile.
Ink of Dread 
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