On that night, the air was thick and heavy, much like the humid atmosphere that enveloped Rangpur. Ishaan fiddled with his bicycle lamp, its weak light struggling to cut through the fog. His grandmother's village, tucked away on the outskirts of Rangpur, was only a mile away. He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible. But tonight, alone on the narrow path, every shadow seemed to pulse with life.

His grandmother had fallen ill suddenly, and he'd stayed longer than planned to care for her. The doctor assured him she would recover, but Ishaan's heart ached, knowing she was getting older and that her health wasn't what it used to be. He was hurrying back to her house—the only warmth he'd ever known—but tonight felt different. There was an unsettling wrongness in the air.

He remembered the warnings: never pass by the old banyan tree after dark. The elders claimed the spirits of those who drowned in the monsoon floods long ago still lingered there, searching for the living to pull down with them. Ishaan had shrugged off the warning with a laugh earlier, but as he neared the gnarled tree, its roots twisted like bony fingers clawing out of the earth, doubt crept into his mind, gnawing at his confidence.

The air thickened, and a scent like damp earth mingled with something sour and metallic. He wrinkled his nose, the smell reminding him of the small fish markets he'd pass in Dhaka, where the scent of old blood clung to the air. The night was so still that he could hear his own breath, quick and shallow.

Then he heard it—a faint, melodic humming. Ishaan's heart pounded. He paused, squinting into the darkness, but the mist blurred everything. The sound was gentle, like the lullabies his grandmother used to sing when he was a boy. For a moment, he felt a fleeting sense of comfort, but then he remembered where he was and why he was afraid.

He gripped the handlebars tighter, his palms sweaty. Something cold brushed against his shoulder, like a hand with fingers too long and too thin. Ishaan's heart leapt. He swung around, but there was nothing—just the rustle of leaves and the distant echo of that haunting melody. The shadows under the banyan tree seemed to move, swaying like figures in the dark, watching.

His hands trembled as he tried to pedal faster, the bike wobbling on the narrow path. The scent of jasmine filled the air—overpowering and sickly sweet, mingling with the sour stench. It was the same scent his mother used to wear, the one that always reminded him of home. But here, it felt wrong—too intense, like a perfume masking something rotten.

The whispering began. "Ishaan…stay…" His name, spoken softly, like a voice he should know but couldn't quite place. The light from his bicycle flickered, then went out. His chest tightened as he pedaled furiously, the whispering growing louder, voices overlapping and murmuring just behind him.

In the darkness, he saw faces forming in the mist—hollow eyes and open mouths, their lips moving without sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching, but the voices only grew louder, tugging at the edges of his mind. His vision blurred, and he could barely feel his legs pushing the pedals.

Just when he thought the shadows would claim him, he saw a faint light ahead—his grandmother's house, a beacon in the darkness. He stumbled off the bike, falling to the ground, and crawled the last few meters to her doorstep. The door creaked open, and his grandmother's worried face appeared, peering down at him.

"You're safe now, child," she whispered, pulling him close. The warmth of her arms was the only real thing he could feel.

But as he lay in bed that night, the scent of jasmine lingered in the room, and the whispering continued—soft, just enough to make him wonder if he had ever truly escaped.

This is one of the top entries for this month's Khero Khata, Star Books and Literature's writing corner.