At first, no one paid attention to the strange madness and sudden disappearances happening inside the housing compound.
The first person to lose her sanity was Mrs. Anjali’s youngest daughter—and her case was the most unsettling of all.
Her name was Riya.
It all began on the day Riya’s mother sent her to the village well near the banyan tree to fetch water.
On her way back along the narrow dusty path, the heavy metal pot rested firmly on her head. She walked carefully, trying to maintain her balance as water slowly dripped down her shoulders.
She hadn’t gone far when she saw Aunty Kamala approaching from the opposite direction, her large black dog trotting beside her.
“Good evening, Aunty,” Riya said softly, bending slightly in respect.
As she did, some water from the pot accidentally splashed onto Aunty Kamala’s sari.
“Ah!” Riya cried out in panic and quickly lowered the pot from her head.
“I’m so sorry, Aunty. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” she pleaded, rushing forward to wipe the water off Kamala’s clothes, tears welling up in her eyes.
But she was abruptly stopped.
Aunty Kamala’s eyes had turned red with rage.
She fixed Riya with a long, cold stare, then bent slightly and whispered something into her dog’s ear—in a language no one had ever heard or understood.
In the next instant, the dog lunged.
Riya screamed in agony as hot tears streamed down her face.
Watching her dog attack the girl, Aunty Kamala smiled—a slow, cruel smile—then turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.
That evening, Riya returned home crying, carrying an empty water pot. She couldn’t bring herself to explain what had happened to her mother.
On the third day, very early in the morning, Riya woke up behaving strangely. She began talking to herself, tore her clothes apart, scattered their belongings, smashed plates, and chased the neighbourhood children with a stick.
That was when everyone realized—Riya had gone mad.
Her mother couldn’t bear the shock. She cried uncontrollably.
After all, what mother could endure seeing her only daughter in such a condition?
Who could?
One week later, Riya disappeared without a trace.
She was only one of many people who had gone missing after being bitten by Aunty Kamala’s dog.
Yet, despite everything, no one in the compound suspected a thing.
No one noticed the pattern.
No one sensed that something was terribly wrong.
Absolutely no one.
Until a new family moved into the neighbourhood.
The family consisted of a quiet man named Raghav, his wife Meera, and their only son, Arjun.
Raghav was a hunter from a nearby forest village, and Meera worked as a tailor from home.
For the first three weeks, they lived peacefully with their son—until the fourth week.
That afternoon, Arjun was playing football outside their house when he accidentally kicked the ball too hard.
The ball flew straight and landed on the head of Aunty Kamala’s son—Karan.
Instantly, the black dog began barking wildly.
And before anyone could react, it charged toward Arjun—the only son of Raghav.
The dog leapt toward Arjun with frightening speed.
Raghav reacted instinctively.
He dropped the sack of firewood he was carrying and jumped between his son and the beast, swinging a thick wooden staff with all his strength. The dog yelped and staggered back, its teeth narrowly missing Arjun’s arm.
People rushed out of their houses at the sound of the commotion.
Aunty Kamala appeared moments later, her face calm—too calm for someone whose dog had just attacked a child.
“Control your animal!” Meera screamed, pulling Arjun tightly into her arms.
Aunty Kamala said nothing.
She only stared at Raghav.
For a brief second, their eyes met—and something shifted.
Raghav’s grip tightened around his staff.
That night, Raghav couldn’t sleep.
As a hunter, he had learned to sense danger long before it revealed itself. And something about Kamala’s dog was deeply wrong. Its eyes had not looked like an animal’s eyes. They looked… aware.
On the third night after the attack, Raghav followed Kamala.
He waited until the compound fell silent, then quietly trailed her into the old forest behind the village.
There, beneath a massive peepal tree, Kamala began to chant.
The black dog sat beside her, unmoving.
Raghav watched in horror as Kamala drew strange symbols in the dirt and whispered names—names of people who had gone missing.
Vivian.
Riya.
Others.
Then, one by one, shadowy figures appeared around the tree—empty-eyed, hollow, no longer human.
Raghav understood then.
The dog was not cursed.
It was a collector.
Each bite marked a soul. Three days later, the mind broke. A week later, the body was taken.
Before Kamala could finish her chant, Raghav stepped forward.
“This ends tonight,” he said firmly.
Kamala turned, her eyes glowing unnaturally in the darkness.
“You should have stayed ignorant,” she hissed.
The dog lunged again—but this time, it never reached him.
Raghav plunged his staff—carved long ago with protective markings by forest elders—straight into the ground between them.
The earth trembled.
A piercing scream echoed through the forest as the dog collapsed, dissolving into black smoke.
Kamala screamed too.
Without her dog, without the ritual, she shriveled—aging rapidly, her skin cracking like dry clay—until she fell lifeless beside the tree.
The shadows vanished.
The forest went silent.
By morning, the villagers found Kamala’s empty house abandoned. Her son was gone. The dog was never seen again.
No one ever spoke openly about what had happened.
But something changed.
No one else went mad.
No one else disappeared.
And whenever children played football in the compound, elders watched carefully—remembering the week when madness walked among them, carried on four black legs.
Some stories, they said, were better left unspoken.
But the forest remembers.
The End.