A Bloody Night

The village of Dharam was quiet after sunset. No one dared to step outside once the sun dipped below the horizon. They all knew the legend: once every ten years, the Rakto Raat—the Bloody Night—would come.

Arif had heard the stories his entire life. The elders spoke of shadows creeping through the streets, of blood pooling at doorsteps. But he never believed it. They were just tales to keep children inside, or so he thought.

That night, the air felt heavy as if the village itself was holding its breath. Arif, determined to prove the legend false, grabbed his lantern and stepped outside. The streets were deserted, eerily silent. As he walked, a strange smell hit him—iron, thick and metallic. The smell of blood.

He ignored it and kept walking, though his heart began to race. Suddenly, he heard something—a faint scratching sound, like nails on wood. He turned to see a figure at the far end of the street, crouched and motionless. It was too dark to make out its face.

“Who’s there?” Arif called out, his voice trembling.

The figure stood slowly, its movements unnatural, as if its bones were bending the wrong way. Arif’s breath caught in his throat as the lantern flickered. In the dim light, he saw it—pale skin, eyes black like the void, and blood dripping from its hands.

It began to move towards him, faster than anything human. Arif dropped the lantern and ran. The village, once silent, now echoed with his frantic footsteps. He could hear the creature behind him, its raspy breath close.

As he reached his door, he felt cold fingers graze his neck. He stumbled inside and slammed the door shut. But the scratching continued, louder, more desperate.

The Bloody Night had come for him.

And it wasn’t over.