Something Wrong - The Phek

"It's so difficult to drive in such heavy fog, isn't it, Raman?" asked Mr. Ashwin, glancing at the windshield.

"Yeah," Raman replied with a half-smile, "but only for newcomers. I'm an old man for this road—and this region."

"Your name doesn't sound like you're from the Northeast," Mr. Ashwin observed.

"That's a long story," said Raman. "How I came here all the way from Gonda, Delhi…"

"Well, it's a long ride—more than half an hour," Mr. Ashwin said, settling into the seat. "So go ahead. I'd love to hear how your story started in Gonda and ended up here."

Raman took a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on the road.

"I was only five when it happened. My parents, my grandfather, and I had come to Assam for a winter trip. We were excited. I don't remember all their names now… but I'll never forget what happened next."

"We ended up in a small town named Kemchek. From the outside, it looked beautiful—peaceful, scenic, like a perfect tourist spot. But inside… something felt off."

"There were no guides, no locals willing to help us explore. Just one old hotel in the entire town. Strange, but we didn't question it—we were just excited."

"As we reached the hotel, I remember feeling like someone was watching us. We turned around, but no one was there."

"That was the first moment I felt something was wrong."

"My dad laughed it off. 'It's just the hills playing tricks,' he said. But my grandfather… he never wanted to come in the first place. Only agreed because I begged him. He loved me too much to say no."

"We were just outside the hotel gates, looking up at the building… when suddenly, stones rained down on us."

"What?" Mr. Ashwin gasped, leaning forward.

Raman nodded grimly.

"They were big stones—sharp enough to cut skin. The attack lasted about ten seconds. We rushed inside the hotel. I looked back and saw a group of maybe 20 or 30 people, all wearing black cloaks, with only their evil smiles visible."

"My mom's nose was bleeding. My grandfather was hit in the chest—he had severe pain. Dad and I escaped with minor injuries."

"That's when the hotel manager walked up to us, calm as ever."

'Yes sir, how can I help you?' he asked like nothing had happened."

"'What was that? Who attacked us?' my father shouted."

"'Oh, that?' the man replied. 'Just a small incident. Psychos. Forget them. You're tourists, right? Shall I book a room?'"

"That sounds... surreal," whispered Mrs. Ashwin.

"It gets worse," said Raman. "We took two rooms—Dad and Mom in one, Grandpa and I in the other. I remember going to the bathroom… and then…"

He paused, his hands tightening around the steering wheel.

"I was still in the toilet when I heard screaming—horrible, blood-curdling screams. I heard my grandfather call my name once, with so much pain in his voice... 'Ra...maan…'"

"Then everything went quiet."

"I stayed inside, frozen. After a couple of minutes, I slowly opened the door…"

Raman's voice trembled now.

"What I saw... it still haunts me."

"My grandfather was lying on the floor, soaked in blood. His intestines were pulled out, his eyeballs missing. It was like something from hell."

"Then… a boy, maybe a teenager, stepped into view. His mouth was smeared with blood, and he looked straight at me and laughed."

'Hahaha… if you want to live… then RUN. Run. Run. Run!'

"I didn't wait. I ran—from the room, from the hotel, from the entire town."

"I caught a train and never looked back."

Mr. and Mrs. Ashwin sat in stunned silence.

"I worked odd jobs for years—started as a porter. Eventually, I got this car on rent. The owner died mysteriously, and I took it over. I've been here ever since."

"I'm so sorry, Raman," Mr. Ashwin finally said. "But… why did they do it? Why would anyone do such a thing?"

"I don't know," Raman said quietly. "Maybe the town was cursed. Maybe they hated tourists. Or maybe… maybe they weren't even human."

He looked in the rearview mirror.

"But one thing I know for sure… there was something wrong there.