Category: ,

I don’t remember everything, but I will tell you everything I remember. Okay?

So this happened. Don’t know when, don’t know the date or the time. All I remember is that when I woke up, it was dark and cold, and it was raining outside, pouring buckets. It must be somewhere between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. And going by the aggression of the rain, it must be the rainy season, maybe July. Either ways, time’s not important. The events that followed are. So listen.

As I got up from the bed, the cold hit me in the face and clamped my chest. I pranced across the room and closed the windows. I switched on the geyser, came back to my table, ran my hands on the surface, and after what seemed like eternity, got hold of my pack of cigarettes and lighter. I lit one and took a heavy drag. God knows it felt great.

I smoked two cigarettes and went to the bathroom. Took a quick shower, got dressed, and went out. It was still dark and it was still raining. But I went out, anyway. Here’s the thing: I don’t know where I was going. I was about to find out.


The streetlights were gone and it seemed like darkness had stabbed the world in the gut. The rain had stopped by now and I walked on, my slippers making that annoying splitch-splatch sound. I took the flyover and started walking along the way. Now this is the part I don’t remember well. Don’t know how I reached the flyover. It was around five kilometres from my place. I don’t remember walking that far on foot. But I was there, on the flyover – the same flyover I took every day to work.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself standing at a junction. And the next instant I was in Big Brewsky on Sarjapur road. I have such warm memories of that pub. The sweet times I spent there with my girlfriend! I had a sudden urge to call her and talk to her; wanted to tell her that I was in our favourite spot, on the second floor at the bar counter. I reached into my pocket to take out my mobile phone, but I didn’t have it on me. Talk of forgetting things, huh? I had forgotten to pocket it when I left home.

Some of you must be wondering if I have the habit of sleepwalking. You are wrong. I don’t have such problems. I know what I’m talking about. Although I agree that my memory fails me sometimes, I would never ever forget the things that happened that night. I mean, come on. You can forget what you had for breakfast last week, you can forget the names of your school friends, you can forget the plot of the novel you enjoyed so much last year. But can you really forget the night you murdered someone? No, right? I can’t, either.

I was feeling a bit tipsy now as I stood in the middle of the road near Eco Space Business Park. Did I have a drink at the pub, I’m not sure. Then again, how could the pub be open at such odd hours? And how did I manage to get in? Well, these are the memory lapses I was talking about. It is incredibly annoying.


Ever heard of Raghu Dixit? No, not the singer slash composer Raghu Dixit. The serial killer Raghu Dixit who walked the streets of Bangalore in the night and killed people, mostly with a sledgehammer. It was quite a big deal last year. All the news channels fancied him to up their TRPs. The police never caught him, nobody knows his name. The only survivor told the police that he looked like singer slash composer Raghu Dixit. That’s how the media came to call him Raghu Dixit. The news died down when the news channels took more interest in a crow that sat on the Chief Minister’s car for five hours. These news channels are worse than serial killers, mind you.

Oh, did I give you the impression that I was the serial killer? Stop being so paranoid. Although I killed a guy that night, I’m no serial killer. I had ample reasons to kill him, unlike that Raghu guy who killed people randomly, without any motive. But the reason I told you about him is that I think I saw him that night.

I wasn’t entirely sure it was he, but I’d like to believe it was he. After all, you don’t get to share a cigarette with a famous serial killer every day, right?

So there he was, standing near the bus stop in front of Eco Space Business Park. He was dressed casually in black trousers and powder-blue shirt. Now don’t be over smart and ask me, ‘Hey, you said it was dark. How come you saw everything so clearly?’ It was not dark anymore. The streetlights had come back on. Anyway, there he was, smoking like it was the most important thing in the world. I started walking towards him. He noticed me, his face inscrutable. As I got near him, I noticed a black bag by his side. I wondered if he had his trademark sledgehammer in it. 

‘I’m feeling very cold. May I have a cigarette?’ I asked him, rubbing my arms.

He offered one without a word. I lit it, took two puffs, and then looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the road. Maybe he was thinking about something. Maybe he was thinking of killing me. I finished my cigarette in silence, scrounged up some courage, and asked him: ‘What do you do? What are you doing here?’

He flicked the butt of the cigarette away; and without looking at me, he picked up his bag. I stepped aside. Slowly, he turned towards me, and said, ‘Nothing.’

‘You look like Raghu Dixit,’ I blurted out.

‘I know,’ he said, unzipping his bag.

I was sure I was going to die then. I couldn’t run away, for fear had held me incapacitated. I was staring at him in horror. He saw my face, smiled crookedly, reached into his bag, took out his phone, and zipped the bag again. I heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Thanks for the cigarette,’ I said.


Do you know who the most patient people in the world are? Thinking of monks or people who practice meditation, are you? No. You are wrong. Let me tell you. The most patient people in the world are stoners. You know, those who smoke weed. If you don’t believe me, look at them when they are rolling a joint. That’s beauty itself. The amount of patience it requires, my god! You will see them carefully separating the bad stuff, then powdering it, rolling it afterwards. All this requires tremendous amount of patience.

So there I was, enjoying the sight of a man rolling a joint. He was dressed in black jeans, red Deadpool t-shirt, and a pair of white canvas shoes. A few others were waiting for him to finish rolling. I am sure they were equally efficient men when it came to rolling joints, but it was simply Deadpool’s turn now.

Finally, he was done with his artwork. He lit one, closed his eyes, took a long drag, and passed it on to others. Everyone took a drag and then the last one passed it on to me. I took a drag, too, and passed it to the girl standing next to me. She took one puff and passed it on to the girl next to her. We took turns and smoked in silence. It was peaceful.

‘What do you have in there?’ the girl next to me asked, pointing to my bag.

She was dressed in brown salwar. She had tied her black silky smooth hair in a pony. She was wearing a nose ring, had winged her eyeliner, she was smoking weed, she looked mysteriously alluring. I was in love with her.

‘Huh?’ I said.

‘I asked what you have in your bag,’ she said, taking a puff.

It was only then that I realized I had a bag with me. I was equally curious as she was about the contents of the bag. But asking a stranger what he has in his bag is strange, don’t you think? But she was beautiful. So I think she had a right to ask me whatever she wanted.

I put the bag down and unzipped it. She bent down with me as I opened it.

‘What are you a carrying a sledgehammer for?’ she asked with no surprise in her tone. It was just a casual remark.

I shrugged in response.

‘Cool,’ she said.

I zipped up the bag and we got up. I looked around the hall once. It was a large food court. All the shops were closed, the main door was closed, the tables and chairs were nowhere to be seen. It was a food court in a business park. The business park I worked in. Then I looked at the people smoking. I recognized them all. I didn’t know them in person, but I had seen them all. And the girl! I recognized her, too. I saw her every day during lunch break. But what were they doing here? And what was I doing here? How did I get the bag? It was the same bag that Raghu Dixit had. How did I manage to get it from him? He was, after all, Raghu Dixit, wasn’t he? I shared a smoke with a serial killer! How did I get here –

‘Are you new?’ the girl asked me, breaking the flow of my thoughts.

I didn’t respond.

‘Okay, got it,’ she said.

‘What’s happening here?’ I asked her.

‘You don’t know, huh?’

I shook my head.

‘They have trapped us here.’

‘Who?’ I asked. ‘And why?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t know.’

I frowned and stared at her.

‘I really don’t know,’ she said, laughing.

That laugh! I fell in love with her for the second time in two minutes.

I smiled and asked her, ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a dancer selling my soul to an IT company for money. Basically a whore. Everyone’s a whore here. What about you? What do you do?’

It took a few seconds for her answer to sink in my head. ‘Nothing,’ I said, not wanting to give away too much about myself. ‘I do nothing.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she said, laughing again.

Shut up and take my heart already, I wanted to tell her.

‘I’m Rhythm,’ she said. ‘What do I call you?’

‘Shambhu,’ I said.

She burst out laughing. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. Your parents should be sent to prison for screwing with your name. Anyway, come on. Let me introduce you to everyone.’

She led me to the rest of the boys and girls and introduced me to everyone.

‘He’s Shambhu and he does nothing,’ is how she introduced me.

Everyone introduced themselves and for some reason I thought I was in the right company. There were about fifty people and everyone was an artist of some kind. They were musicians and dancers and painters and writers and poets and singers and sculptures. They were all working in the same business park, for some IT company or the other.

‘What are you all doing here?’ I asked the same question I had asked Rhythm. ‘Why are the doors locked?’

‘They have trapped us here,’ said a guy in blue pajamas. ‘We are trapped.’ 

‘Who?’ I asked again. ‘And why?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t know.’

I was about to ask him something when someone in the group started screaming. Everyone turned to the guy who was screaming. He ran towards the door, still screaming: ‘Let me out of here! Let me out of here!’

No one tried to console him, for they all knew that it was futile.

I don’t know for how long I was there, and it doesn’t matter. No one spoke for a long time. They smoked and they smoked and they stayed silent. Then a strange thing happened. They all started whispering among themselves. I thought maybe they were hatching a plan to get out. And when I realized what they were whispering about, my blood ran cold.

‘One of us here is not human,’ Rhythm said when I asked her what it was all about.

It reminded me of a movie I had seen a long time before: five people stuck in a lift, and in the end, one of them turns out be the devil. Even the movie was called Devil, if my memory serves me right.

‘What nonsense,’ I said.

‘I believe it,’ she said.

Maybe it was the marijuana speaking, I thought. It was then I felt the pull for the first time. I felt a pull on my back. I turned round and saw nothing. And when I turned back, everyone was staring at me in disgust. They were all standing together and staring at me.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘You are not a human,’ Rhythm said.

‘What are you talking about? Are you crazy?’

They started whispering among themselves again. A minute later they seemed to have made a decision.

Rhythm spoke: ‘You are not a human. Don’t know what you are. Maybe a monster, maybe not. But we believe that if we kill you, we will be freed.’

They started walking towards me slowly. They looked like zombies themselves and they were telling me that I wasn’t a human?

‘Hey, wait. There must be some mistake. Don’t be crazy. Stop right there.’

I started walking back. Here’s the fun part. I wasn’t walking back. I was being made to. It was involuntary. I was feeling that terrible pull on my back again. Someone was doing that to me. 

I didn’t want to run away from there. I wanted to find out what was happening. But I wasn’t in control of my body. Someone was controlling my actions. Someone wanted me dead. I turned round and ran towards the door. Again, it wasn’t I who did that. But somehow I had managed to pick up my bag while I was being made to run.


It was raining heavily again when I got back to my room. I was drenched to the bone. There was no light, my room door was open. Did I leave it like that when I stepped out? I didn’t know. Neither did I know how I reached home, how I escaped from my possible killers in the food court.

I stepped into my room and realized that I wasn’t alone. There was someone on the bed, sleeping. My heart thumped in my chest. I wiped my face with my shirt sleeve and took a step closer. The man on the bed didn’t budge. I took another step forward. Then another and then another. As I walked towards him I started feeling weak in my body. I didn’t have much time, I was sure. I had to do something now. So I did. I unzipped the bag and took out the sledgehammer. I took another step forward and took a glance at the man who was sleeping on my bed.

It was he, the monster, the non-human that the stoners in the food court were talking about. No wonder they thought it was I. I could understand why they misunderstood me. The man sleeping on my bed was my doppelganger. He was the non-human, the monster. Not me. What’s that they said? ‘If we kill you, we will be freed.’ Yes, they were right. Everything that was happening was because of this ‘thing’ that was sleeping on my bed. I had to kill him. End it all.

I raised the sledgehammer and felt weak in my body. I had a strange feeling then. Was I dreaming? Was I sleeping? Was all that had happened till now a dream? I mulled over it for a few seconds. No, it wasn't it. It wasn't a dream at all. Everything that had happened till now was too real to be a dream. I raised the sledgehammer higher. I felt weaker than before. I was losing it, losing my energy. I tried to muster up every ounce of energy left in me and raised the sledgehammer up, up, up. And then another thought struck me: I wasn't dreaming, sure. But was I in a dream? In someone else's dream? My doppelganger's dream? Was I his illusion, his shadow? I didn't know what was happening anymore. The only way to find out was to bring down the sledgehammer on him. I gripped the handle of the sledgehammer. My knees felt weak, my hands felt week, I felt I was about to sag down, die. He was doing this to me. He was sucking out all the energy out of my body. I had to finish him and find out. I stretched my hands up again and brought down the sledgehammer on his head. Hard.


Ever seen a stupid horror film where they show a soul or a spirit or whatever escaping the body – like some smoke seeping out of the body? That’s exactly how I felt when I brought down the sledgehammer on his head. I don’t remember anything after that. I became non-existent after that. I don't know what it was all about? Couldn't find out. But if I thought I had killed him that night, I was wrong.

It’s been weeks or months or maybe years since that night. And now, I’m here again, standing over him, my doppelganger. I have a knife now instead of a sledgehammer. I have to kill him again. Maybe this time I will find out. I'm ready. I’m feeling weak in my knees again. I don’t remember what exactly happened tonight. But I’m here again, with a knife in my hand, with my lookalike on my bed. All I know is that I have to drive this knife into his heart.

I take a step closer. I feel weaker. I grip the knife in my hand. I feel something leaving my body yet again. Everything is repeating. Everything has started to blur. I lift my hand up and bring the knife down to his heart.

*********************The End**********************

Copyright © Karthik 2016



Category: , , ,

I am going to tell you a story. So pay attention. What I am about to tell you is unsettling. It is ugly, it is weird, it is also true. Humour me for a while and let me tell you what happened that night, and how it happened. If you don’t pay attention, you will miss the details. Should you ever go to that place, out of curiosity or out of sheer arrogance, the details might come in handy. Not that it will save your life, but at least you will not have a frozen question mark on your face when you die. You will at least die with answers. So are you ready? Are you paying attention? Good.

About forty kilometres away from Bangalore City is a place called Devanahalli. When you take a right from the bus station and go a little further up the tattered road, you will reach a tiny, ugly place called Karya Halli – or as people say, Karyahalli stop. This is where a team fifteen (ten boys and five girls) got off on the night of 4th April, 2015 – the night of Lunar Eclipse.

With big bags slung over their shoulders, they gathered around and discussed the trail. Between a shitty little restaurant and an old, abandoned Joy ice cream shop is a road that stretches for a kilometre and then ends. Their trekking would start from there. They hip-hip-hurrayed, switched on their torches, and started hiking towards their deaths. It was nine o’clock.

A few stray dogs barked at them. The boys and girls ignored them and moved on. The full moon was shining in the sky with iridescent brilliance. A few stars tried to make their presence felt, and succeeded. It wasn't a dark night, but darkness in the surrounding was evident. Know what I mean?

Their strategy was commendable: one experienced trekker led the trail and two more experienced ones hung behind to keep everyone secure. They took their first pit stop after forty minutes of hiking. ‘See that mountain up there?’ said the boy who was leading the trail. The others looked up. ‘That’s Nandi Hills. And see that mountain on the left? That’s Horagina Betta. That’s where we are going.’

Some said, ‘Cool,’ some said, ‘Whoa,’ some said, ‘Awesome,’ some drank water in silence, some huffed and puffed.

‘Let’s go,’ the trek lead said, and they started again.

They went through the bushes, they climbed on the rocks, they got lost for a few seconds, they analysed and started again, they sometimes walked on the edges, they kept going. They sang songs and cracked jokes as they hiked. But sometimes – and this happened rarely – when they kept quiet, silence screamed like a new whore being fucked by a hulk of a man. The wind, too, howled and whined. And the yellowish moon, when seen through the top branches of the trees, looked baleful. One of the guys noticed this and said to his friend, ‘Doesn't it look like a perfect night for a Vampire attack?’ The other guy laughed through his nostrils, for his mouth was filled with glucose powder.

They reached the smooth inclined road that led to Nandi Hills, and sat by the side of the road. They gathered their breaths, popped some mints and chocolates into their mouths, drank water, threw their bags on their backs, and resumed.

They got off the road and took a route parallel to it that led into the mountain. Thick bushes appeared again, the moon disappeared behind the clouds, silken darkness crawled around them silently.

They stopped half a kilometre short of the peak and sat on the rocks. ‘We are almost there,’ said the trek lead. ‘Yayyy!’ the rest of them cheered.

There were a few seconds of unapproved silence among them. It was then that they heard a faint female voice singing a devotional song. It seemed to be coming from the foot of the mountain.

‘Must be the radio in that temple down there,’ a girl offered her opinion.

‘Yes, right,’ another girl said. ‘But it’s kind of creepy, no?’

‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ a guy in black shirt said.

He was right.

‘What do you mean?’ the girls asked in chorus.

‘Lot of creepy things up there,’ black shirt said and grinned.

Again, he was right.

‘It’s not funny, man,’ one of the girls said. ‘Really not funny.’

The last part of the mountain was steep and they had to walk carefully one behind the other. Dried leaves scraped against their arms and necks. They swatted them away and kept climbing. It was eleven-thirty when they reached the top.

The silence at the top of a mountain could either be ominous or romantic. It all depends upon the kind of person you are. So let me ask you. What are you? A romantic or someone who revels in the uncanny? Think about it.

Up in the sky the moon had come out of its hiding again. ‘Whoa,’ a boy said, looking up. ‘It’s so beautiful.’ A romantic.

A bat flew against the grey of the sky, crossing the moon a second later. ‘God, that was quite a sight,’ said another boy. Someone born with the love of the night.

They all dragged their heavy feet across the soft patch of dried grass, reached a flat surface between two big rocks, and tossed their bags on the ground and sat down. A few lazy ones lay on their backs and convinced themselves that they had scaled something just short of Mount Everest and decided to give themselves a long rest. Others went in search of dried wood to make campfire.

They built the campfire and had their supper. It was close to one o’clock when they gathered around the campfire to drown the night in laughter and fun and songs and stories.

Although the day was searing hot, the night was chilly, and it was getting chillier by the minute. The campfire and their jackets kept them warm, though. ‘It was a beautiful night,’ most of them would have told their friends when they got back to the city. But they wouldn't say that. Because they wouldn't get back. This was it. This was their destination.

At around three o’clock, when they were tired of singing songs and enacting film titles, they decided to do something else. ‘Let’s tell ghost stories,’ a boy proposed his idea. Everyone agreed and thus began a storytelling session.

It breaks my heart to tell you that all the stories were dull and boring. None of them were interesting, none of them were in accord with the kind of night it was. But a few minutes later, a boy in white t-shirt addressed everyone, the expression on his face inscrutable, the tone of his voice flat: ‘How many of us are in the team? What’s the headcount?’

‘Fifteen,’ said a guy with a big belly and almost no ass.

‘Yes, right. Ten boys and five girls,’ the trek lead said.

White t-shirt stared at the campfire without saying anything.

‘Is someone missing?’ big belly said. ‘Must have gone to pee, relax.’

‘That’s not it,’ white t-shirt said. ‘Take a headcount again. Now there are sixteen.’

A heavy drop of silence hung in the air as everyone stared at him. And then they all started laughing. Moments later, white t-shirt also joined them.

‘Good one, buddy. Good one,’ big belly said. ‘Sure, let’s take a headcount. I’ll start. One.’


‘Two,’ ‘three,’ ‘four …’

More laughter.

‘Thirteen,’ ‘fourteen,’ ‘fifteen,’ ‘sixteen.’

‘What? Who is that?’ big belly asked.

‘Me,’ a boy in brown shorts said and came forward. ‘I simply counted after fifteen.’

‘How did we get sixteen?’

‘Don’t play such sick games, please,’ a girl cried.

They took a headcount again and it came to sixteen this time, too. Everyone stood up and looked at each other. They were all familiar faces, nothing or no one looked out of place.

‘Let’s do it again, guys,’ brown shorts said. ‘Slowly.’

They started calling out the numbers again. They took their time this time. They paused to look at the person who called out the number.

‘One,’ ‘two,’ ‘three…’

‘Thirteen,’ ‘fourteen,’ ‘fifteen,’ and they stopped. They had identified everyone. They looked relieved.

And then they heard a whisper from the centre: ‘Sixteen.’

And then they froze.

And then they saw.

And then they screamed.


He was always there. Right from the beginning. Not that he tried to hide, but he knew how not to draw attention to himself. His appearance played a role in it as well: short and lanky, insanely dark, no hair on his head and no eyebrows, and in the place of the curve of the bone on the face that you call nose, he had two holes in the centre. He didn't have lips, but a thin, straight slit below his ‘nose’. Oh, and his eyes! They were electric blue - and when I say blue, I mean the whole of it, no white of the eye or nothing, just blue all over. Those eyes saw everything, every little thing, every little insect, every speckle of dust. They saw everything clearly during the day, they saw everything clearly in the darkest nights. He had to close his eyes if he wanted to stay invisible, for his blue eyes garnered attention. Once a kid spotted those blue marbles from the town below and told his father. The father spotted them, too. They were constantly shifting, disappearing. Curious, the man climbed up the mountain one night to check it out. Stupid, stupid man he was. He never went back home.

The blue-eyed denizen of the mountain didn't kill anyone without reason. Most of the time he doesn't hurt anyone. Last year, six men and two women had come for a night trek. He didn't even touch them. He let them be. He sat on a tree with his eyes closed as the men and the women had fun at the campfire. He’s not a monster. He kills when he has to, when he is hungry, when he has to feed on some human souls to keep him going. Besides, the mountain is his. It’s his home. He’s been living there for hell knows how many centuries. Sometimes people intrude his home and get him all riled up. He has no choice then.

And tonight, when the moon was full and in near-perfect alignment with the earth and the sun, he had to feed on thirteen souls. It was his ritual. Although the eclipse was over and it was not visible in this part of the world, it was still an important night to him. If the young trekkers hadn't come, he would've gone into the town and picked his thirteen souls. But he had seen them getting off the bus and decided to wait for them to come to him.

You may ask me, why didn't he attack them the moment they arrived? It’s simple. It was all about time. Human souls taste delicious between two and four in the morning.


When it was time, he made his presence felt. His eyes were closed, and he could feel his prey looking at him. He took his time and lifted his head. Then he opened his eyes. That’s when they screamed. That’s when he grabbed the nearest boy and slid his hands into the boy’s chest. His hands went in like a hot knife through butter. And when life was just about to fly away from the boy, he leaned closer and put his mouth near the boy’s mouth and sucked in the last few breaths.

All this happened in two seconds. The dead boy’s fourteen friends didn't know how to react, so they didn't. They stood there, incapacitated, and wished they hadn't come. At that moment their whole life must have flashed before their eyes. The boy who died first didn't even have that luxury. He was the unluckiest of them all.

Blue Eyes clicked his tongue and got up. Big belly had his torch in his hands. He lifted his hand slowly and shone the light on the mountain dweller. The screams came again. A few ran hither and thither. Two boys remained rooted to the ground, not because they were brave, but because they were still in shock. They wet their pants and stood, shaking. Blue Eyes went to work. He grabbed big belly by the neck, brought him closer to his face, and ran a finger against the curve of his neck. The cut was clean. There was nothing but a thin red line at first. But a second later, blood started spurting out as big belly coughed. Blue Eyes sucked the boy’s soul and went for the boys who had peed in their pants. They didn't put up a fight.

Blue Eyes leapt up and sat at the top of a nearby tree and looked around, his blue eyes spotting his victims. He jumped down and ran after his prey, each of his stride fifteen feet long. He caught them one by one, sliced their hearts, sliced their necks, ripped their stomachs. But he was careful not to break their skulls or snap their necks. He didn't want them to die instantly. He needed them to be alive for a second or two to suck their breaths, their souls.

He needed only thirteen souls and he got them fair and square. But there were fifteen of them. He would've spared two of them, but the last two tried to attack him. They knew they didn't have a chance, maybe that’s why they tried. Humans get a herculean power when they think they have lost everything. They become incredibly powerful when they have nothing to lose. So yes. Maybe it was a reflex to try and fight him.

The last two remaining boys were white t-shirt and the trek lead. White t-shirt advanced with a sharp stone in his hands. Blue Eyes swatted the stone off the boy’s hands, lifted him up, and threw him off the mountain. White t-shirt went flying in the night sky, his scream muffled by the howl of the wind.

The trek lead had in his hands a burning wood from the campfire. Blue Eyes didn't waste time. He bounced up and towards the boy. The next second he was standing in front of the boy, his blue eyes looking into the boy’s. The boy’s face was drenched in sweat and tears and horror.

Blue Eyes knocked the burning piece of wood from the boy’s hands, pushed him down, and sat astride him. Then he went to work. He separated the arms from the boy’s body, held them in his hands for a second or two, and then tossed them aside as if they were some useless pieces of junk. Blood squirted from below the boy’s shoulder blades, sporadically in the beginning, and then gushed out like water from an open tap. The boy opened his mouth wide, but the scream wouldn't come. Blue Eyes inserted his fingers into the boy’s mouth and pulled his tongue out. The boy’s legs started wiggling. Blue Eyes was done playing with the troublemaker. He held the boy by the neck, the tips of his thumbs pressing hard against the side of his Adam’s apple. A second later there was a mild tupp, and then silence. Blue Eyes picked up the body and threw it off the mountain.

Blue Eyes looked up and around. The campfire was still fighting against the moonlight. He leapt towards it and doused the fire by snapping his fingers. He then turned round and ran to his favourite spot: the biggest boulder on the mountain. He jumped up and sat on it and took a glance at the world below him. Seconds later he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

He’s always inhabited that mountain. And he’ll continue to do so. For how long, I don’t know. But it shouldn't be your concern. It’s his.

So there you go. I've told you everything. Remember everything. Remember the details. Can you remember them? Can you? I hope you do. For your own good.

Now. Some of you may be wondering how I know about all this in detail. Where was I when all this happened? Who’s been telling you the story? Who am I?

Well, what do you think?

********************The End********************
Copyright © Karthik 2015

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The Negotiator
Malgudi Days
As The Crow Flies
Swami and Friends
The Devil's Alternative
The Picture of Dorian Gray
The Godfather
The Seven Minutes
The Prize
Atlas Shrugged
The Fountainhead
If Tomorrow Comes
Digital Fortress
The Chancellor Manuscript
The Bourne Supremacy
The Bourne Identity
The Fist of God
The Fourth Protocol
The Odessa File
The Day of the Jackal

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