He quickened his pace. He was not afraid of dark. But there was something about this small patch of road.
On one side there was the burning ghat lying in the sandy bank of river damodar.
On the othere there were no residences, only the crumbling ruins of the old buildings where the local zamindar resided for generations. Only a few buidlings were intact.
Then of-course there were the ponds they have dug up century or so ago, now almost dry, a fantastic ground for thickest bushes and weeds.
He went to see his daughter and she forced him to stay for dinner. It was barely eight in the evening but the night was dark, really dark!
Outside the dancing sphere of light created by his lantern all he could see was stars and fireflies.
He was half way across the zamindarbari (residence of the zamindars) when he heard a loud thud. A few feet behind him.
“Who is there?” he croaked and turned.
In the faint light of his lantern he saw it walking away from him.
The torso of a man.