“The Tree That Watches After Dark”

SECTION 1 — When Bhairavpur Held Its Breath

At first glance, no one would ever believe that Bhairavpur hid such a deep terror inside its chest.
In the morning, the village looked reborn—bathed in sunlight that made the golden tips of the paddy fields shimmer.
Women laughed as they washed clothes at the pond.
The smell of boiling milk drifted from the tea stalls.
Cowbells rang as animals walked lazily down the dusty road.
Children rode their bicycles to school, shouting and teasing each other.

If someone stepped into Bhairavpur for the first time, they would think this village knew nothing about fear or sorrow.

But the villagers knew that Bhairavpur’s peace lived only under daylight.

The moment the sun began to sink into the west, the village’s rhythm changed.
People working outside stopped talking abruptly and hurried home.
Women who stood chatting by the pond suddenly gathered their sarees and rushed inside.
The children ended their football matches without any argument and pushed their bicycles urgently towards their houses.

The laughter that had warmed the village all day evaporated as if someone had sucked the sound straight out of the air.

Everyone knew—
Evening meant danger.

The headman, Thakur Prasad, usually sat on the tea stall bench at this hour. When the light began to fade, he would tap his walking stick sharply on the ground and shout,
“Come on, come on, it’s getting dark. Go inside!”

Shibu, the young shopkeeper’s son, often tried to joke, but the moment he saw a flicker of fear in Thakur’s stern eyes, the smile died on his lips.

At the cremation ground, old Hari Dom arranged firewood with shaking hands. He spoke as if pleading with someone invisible,
“Let nothing happen tonight… please…”

Gopal, passing by, frowned.
“Kaka, who are you talking to?”

Hari didn’t look up.
“I can smell it in the air,” he whispered. “The tree is hungry tonight.”

A chill ran down Gopal’s spine. He walked away without another word.

At the pond, Padma Rani filled her water pot.
Her face carried the weight of grief that had long turned into silence.
Her eight-year-old daughter Mira had disappeared near the banyan tree three years ago.
No one had found a trace.

Monorama Devi, the village fortune-teller, walked up to her.
“Padma,” she said quietly, “the wind feels strange today.”

Padma’s fingers trembled.
“Will Mira… call me again tonight?”
Her voice cracked.

Monorama held her hand.
“Child, your daughter doesn’t call you anymore.
What calls from that side…
is not human.”

Padma closed her eyes, fighting tears.

In the playground, children were still jumping ropes and shouting.
Then suddenly, little Mithu came running, panic on his face.

“Stop! Go home! All of you!” he screamed.

The kids laughed at first.
“You always scare us for nothing!”

But when they looked into Mithu’s eyes—
eyes that had seen his parents swallowed by the same tree—
their smiles faded.

“My mother and father also didn’t listen…” he whispered.
“And they never came back.”

None of the children argued after that.
They simply ran home.

The bazaar started shutting down.
Chandrima hurriedly packed up her shop.
“Shibu, come. Enough for the day.”

Shibu tried to act brave.
“Ma, why don’t we just chop down that tree?”

Chandrima turned, horror flashing across her face.
“The one who tries to cut it… will be the first to die.”

Shibu swallowed hard.
No shopkeeper needed another reminder.

By 6:50 PM, Bhairavpur began sinking into an unnatural stillness.
The air grew heavy.
Dogs stopped barking mid-howl.
Children’s voices disappeared.
The pond turned ink-dark.
The temple bells stopped ringing.

Only hurried footsteps echoed for a few seconds—then silence again.

Old Raghunath locked his doors and looked up at the reddening sky.

“There’s a smell of crying in the wind today,” he murmured.
“This won’t be a peaceful night.”

Thakur Prasad heard him and turned away quickly—as if he didn’t want the truth to touch him.

Shadows stretched across the village, swallowing the dusty road.
At 6:55 PM, every household closed their doors.
Padma Rani’s hands shook as she bolted hers.
Mithu stood beside her, whispering,
“It’ll wake up today…”

At 6:58 PM, Bhairavpur fell into a silence so absolute that people could hear their own heartbeat hammering inside their ears.

Everyone stayed inside their darkened homes.
Doors barred.
Windows covered.
Lamps dimmed or hidden under clay pots.

No one dared to look toward the river.
No one dared to speak.

Because in that final minute before the hour turned—

The entire village was holding its breath.

Waiting.

Not for sunset.
Not for darkness.

But for the sound—

That sound which marked the moment
when the banyan tree by the river
woke up.

The villagers knew the truth too well:

At exactly 7 PM,
the tree was no longer a tree.

Something else awakened inside it.
Something old.
Something hungry.

And Bhairavpur waited, trembling,
for the first cry
that meant the night had begun.