I ran a YouTube channel that covered mysteries and strange phenomenon.
So when I heard archaeologists had discovered well-preserved bodies from thousands of years ago found immersed in the marshlands behind the abandoned university complex, I made a video on the topic.
I was there when they pulled out the tenth body.
The moss that grows in the bog had altered the chemistry of the water and caused the bodies to tan rather than decay.
They had all died similarly, according to forensic anthropologist.
They had been hung by the neck and placed face first into the marshes.
I had nightmares about what might have caused the death of these ancient people.
Then they discovered a new body. The scientists and the police revealed it was a recent murder.
The news sent shockwaves through our town
I followed the case closely on social media and on the tv.
The victim was a 23-year-old nursing student who was last seen exiting a private bus and walking home alone.
I filmed an episode on the case featuring interviews with the woman’s university friends. I took the same bus she used to catch in the evening from the educational institution. I got off at the same spot and reenacted the woman’s final journey.
What had happened to her as she walked home? Who did she encounter on this desolate road?
I ended the trip in font of her house, which looked deserted. Apparently her heart broken family had left for another state.
I ended the episode with the following line - “how did a brilliant young woman end up becoming the victim of a horrendous ancient ritual that plunged her into murky waters of the marshes?”
I received so many likes and comments on this video.
One viewer’s comment caught my eye. He stated he had some information on the dark ritual practices that led to the death of the woman.
Intrigued by the comment, I messaged the user who asked me to meet him at a tea stall in the city.
I couldn’t wait to find out what this gentleman had to share.
I charged my camera and took a bus to the destination.
The tea stall was located under a noisy overpass, which sheltered a sea of filthy tents occupied by the destitute populace shunned by the townsfolk.
A bald middle-aged man emerged from the shadow of one of the tall and chunky concrete pillars, and waved at me.
He did not shake my hands. He looked suspiciously at the camera slung over my shoulder and asked, “Is that thing on?”
“No,” I said. “I can turn it on if you want me to record.”
The man shook his head. He yanked the camera out of my grasp and made sure it was switched off. I was told to put it inside my bag.
“I don’t want any visual or audio recordings of this conversation to be made,” he said.
He also refused to give me his real name.
“Call me Babu, if you must,” he said with a smirk.
Then he bought me a piping hot chai and oily samosa from the stall.
He ordered the same, and we moved away from the earshot of others.
“There is a black magic cult that has existed in this region for hundreds of years, conducting heinous rituals,” he said.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“The girl is not the first victim,” he said. “There are thousands of bodies in the marshes.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
“The cultists make offerings to the deep ones and they, in turn, are rewarded with unnatural powers,” he said.
I shook my head and said, “Do you have any evidence?”
“I will show you. Come alone. No cameras,” he said.
I was in complete shock as we said goodbye.
I kept staring at the time, date and location he had scribbled on a piece of paper during my bus ride home.
Babu picked me up from the designated spot on his bike and drove me to the marshes.
It was past midnight when we got there.
We were in a different section of the marshes, far from the archaeological dig and the site where the nursing student’s body was discovered.
We sneaked through the moss laden woods and arrived at the destination. The pungent scent of damp vegetation stung my nostrils. Our surroundings were shrouded in botanical decay.
When we got to the vantage point, my companion searched me for hidden cameras.
“Good. You kept your promise. This is for your eyes only,” Babu said.
“Why are you sharing this secret with me?” I asked.
“Because I don’t want to suffer alone. Sometimes I feel like I am going mad,” he said with a pained expression.
“I am glad you did,” I said.
“You might disagree once you witness the ritual. Won’t be long now,” he said, looking at the watch.
Insects chirped all around us, and the frightening night-calls of nocturnal birds startled me several times.
I was getting restless, waiting for something to happen, when Babu patted me on the shoulder and pointed to the distance.
Three were crossing the fen. They unpacked their rucksacks and lit a fire when they arrived at a grassy plot featuring a leafless tree with scary, gnarled limbs.
As I watched in awe, the men started singing a weird song in a language I did not understand.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“Look,” Babu said.
Tremors that rattled my bones followed a loud roar in the distance.
I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as a giant worm the size of a bus rose in the air. Its pale shape was briefly silhouetted against the night sky before it plunged back into the murky bog.
Before I could let out a shout of surprise, my companion placed me in a choke hold from behind and lifted me up to my feet.
As I fought to break free from his clutches, I gagged and gasped for oxygen.
“Sorry about this,” he said.
I was forcibly marched towards the terrifying tree and the chanting cultists beneath it.
My senses became more acute as my dread increased. The croaking of frogs and insects increased in volume as I stomped through tall reeds that batted my skin like restless skeletal fingers.
They had already readied the noose by the time I arrived at the tree.
The cultists appeared to be in their forties, but their eyes betrayed the weariness that comes with age.
“Another offering. This one is delicious to look at. Shame he will be face down in the bog forever,” one of them said creepily.
I fought back against my imprisonment, only to have the cultists hit me in the belly multiple times.
“Stop, please,” I begged. “Let me go. I will give all the money I have.”
“There is nothing more valuable than the blessings of the deep ones,” one of them, a man whose chiclet teeth shone brightly, said with disdain.
The noose was placed firmly around my neck.
“This ritual has been practised for centuries by these people who are hundreds of years old. It keeps death at bay. I was once brought here as a victim. But fate intervened, and they made me their champion,” Babu said.
My mind reeled.
Babu’s face suddenly took on a sorrowful aspect. “It is my job to lure the prey to the sacrificial altar.”
“Pull him up,” the shortest of the three cultists said.
“Once again. I am sorry,” Babu said.
The rope bit into the soft flesh of my neck and my feet lifted off the ground.
Strange sounds escaped my mouth involuntarily as the vice grip of the noose began choking the life out of me.
Darkness crept in from the corners of my eyes, which had rolled skywards in its sockets.
I heard a cracking sound, and I crashed to the floor feet first. Then I collapsed forwards. My forehead slammed against something hard and I lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I saw that the man who had lured me to the spot was hanging by his neck from the same cursed tree.
The three cultists were sitting on their haunches watching me with odd smiles.
“Fate, it seems, has intervened, boy. The branch couldn’t hold your sinful weight,” one of them said.
“It is a sign. The lord of the depths has gifted us a new champion,” another one declared.
“What are you talking about?” I asked hoarsely.
The three of them glanced at the body swaying in the wind in unison.
“Time for you to bury him face down in the bog so that children of the deep ones can suck his soul down through the mire,” one of them instructed.
“And in a few weeks, bring us fresh meat,” another one added.
The ground rumbled. Something enormous rose and fell in the distance, baying with delight.
I closed my eyes and screamed silently.
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Copyright © 2023 by Nikesh Murali
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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.