Voices in the Mist

In a small village near Shantipur, the nights were heavy with mist, and the paddy fields stretched endlessly under the moonlight. The elders often warned: “Never answer if you hear your name after dark. It may be the Nishi calling.” Most dismissed it as superstition, but young Anirban, a college student visiting his ancestral home, laughed at the warnings.

One humid night, as the crickets sang and the river murmured in the distance, Anirban sat on the veranda reading. Suddenly, he heard his mother’s voice calling softly from the fields: “Anirban, come here.” He frowned—his mother was asleep inside. The voice came again, urgent, tender, exactly like hers. Against his better judgment, he stepped down from the veranda and followed the sound.

The mist thickened as he walked, swallowing the path. The voice shifted—it was now his father’s, then his best friend’s, each calling his name with perfect familiarity. His heart pounded, but curiosity pulled him deeper into the fields. At the edge of the banyan grove, he saw a figure standing still. Its face was hidden, but its shadow stretched unnaturally long across the ground. The voices merged into a chorus, whispering his name over and over, until the figure slowly lifted its head.

Where a face should have been, there was only darkness, a void that seemed to breathe. The whispers grew louder, wrapping around him like invisible hands. Anirban tried to run, but the ground beneath him felt like quicksand. The last thing he heard was his sister’s voice, sweet and familiar, saying: “Come closer.”

By dawn, the villagers found his sandals abandoned near the banyan grove. No footprints led away. Some say the Nishi claimed him, his soul now part of the chorus that calls others into the night. And so the warning endures: if you hear your name after dark, never answer, for it may be the Nishir Daak.