The flute of the Cremation

Evening was falling as nightfall crawled over the calm town. The discussion was filled as it was with the chirping of crickets and the removed stir of clears out. Arun strolled along a winding soil way, heading to an ancient friend's house where he had been welcomed after numerous a long time. His companion, Suren, was somebody he hadn't seen in nearly a decade, ever since they had separated ways after school. Suren's hereditary domestic stood at the remote conclusion of the town, right close to an old, half-forgotten crematorium wrapped in whispers and fear.

As Arun strolled, his eyes floated toward the crematorium. It was old—very old—and local people frequently claimed to listen to unusual sounds from there at night. A few said they had listened a woodwind playing, others had seen bizarre lights drifting through the trees. Arun, a man solidified by city life, expelled them as country myths, born from superstition and haziness.

Upon coming to Suren's house, Arun was warmly invited. The house was expansive but timeworn, filled with ancient furniture, dusty photos, and the fragrance of sandalwood. Between discussion, chuckling, and a generous feast, night unobtrusively fell over the town like an overwhelming cover. Abruptly, Suren said, “Stay the night. I need to appear you something.”

Arun inquired, “What is it?”

Suren grinned faintly, “You'll see. But you'll require courage.”

At 10:

30 PM, hush ruled around them. As it were the intermittent bark of a puppy or the hoot of an owl broke the stillness. Holding a glinting burn, the two companions ventured out into the night. Arun wavered, a unusual feeling blending interior him, but interest pushed him forward.

After a brief walk, they come to the edge of the crematorium. Arun ceased unexpectedly. “You brought me here?”

Suren answered, “Just to appear you something. Do not be scared.”

They entered the crematory. Shadows lingered all around within the foggy obscurity. Remainders of burnt fires lay scattered, and an antiquated banyan tree stood bound with press chains, as in case to trap something inside. Abruptly, a flute's tune floated through the air—sweet, frequenting, but profoundly chilling. Arun recoiled. “Who's playing that woodwind? At this hour?”

Suren stood solidified, his face pale. “That's the sound I needed you to hear,” he whispered. “This woodwind plays each night, at precisely this time—for the past twenty years.”

Arun inquired in a trembling voice, “Who plays it?”Suren said, “Do you keep in mind Binoy Sir, our ancient teacher?”

Arun gradually gestured.

“His as it were child, Profound, vanished one evening. Three days later, his half-burned body was found right here. Some time recently anybody might get it what had happened, the incineration was completed. Since at that point, this woodwind has played each night. Profound was an unimaginable flutist.”

The woodwind played again—closer this time. Cold sweat broke over Arun's skin.

“Do you know who's doing this?” he inquired.

Suren shook his head, “Many have claimed to see a shadowy figure—its confront continuously hidden—leaning against the tree, playing the woodwind. On the off chance that anybody approaches, the sound stops.”

Abruptly, the burn went out.

Both of them shouted. Obscurity gulped them entire. Arun cried out, “Suren! Are you there?”

No answer.

The woodwind played again—this time, right in his ear. Arun turned around in a freeze and saw a shadowy figure within the obscurity. Its confront was imperceptible, but it held a long woodwind. And after that, the sound ceased. The following morning, villagers found Arun oblivious close to the crematorium. After much exertion, he woke up. But there was no sign of Suren. He was never seen once again. To this day, Arun recalls the cold tune of that woodwind, and the faceless figure within the dull. Some of the time, in his dreams, he still listens it—soft, removed, and calling him back.