Blood soaked the wooden floors, darkening in the dim lantern light. A man lay twisted, his fingers clawing at his own throat, mouth frozen mid-scream. His eyes—wide, glassy, and unblinking—reflected something unseen, something monstrous. His last breath had long escaped, but the echo of his final words still clung to the room like the stench of death.
"He is watching… He sees me… I see… myself."
In another dawn, a child's small body hung limply from the wooden rafters. No signs of struggle, no hesitation in the knot tied around his neck. His family found him in the morning, a smile carved across his face. On the walls, written in trembling fingers, were the same words:
"He is watching… He sees me… I see… myself."
The deaths began as whispers, tragedies hidden behind doors, but soon, the streets could not hold the silence. Every night, more were found—some with hearts that had simply stopped, others who had clawed at their own faces until there was nothing left to see. No cause. No connection. Only the words.
Ambika Kalna had once been a town of peace, where prayers floated into the air and families slept with doors unbarred. Now, the people no longer whispered their gods' names at night. They whispered his.
And the town had begun to rot under its own fear.
Dhaka, Bengal Presidency – 1899
The thick stench of iron clung to the damp morning air, mingling with the scent of burning tobacco. The narrow alley was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of distant footsteps. A body lay slumped against the stone wall, the blood beneath it still glistening under the faint light. One eye was missing—an empty, gaping socket stared at the sky.
Isarish took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose as he crouched beside the corpse. His lips curled into a smirk.
"Nice."
The local inspector Rayhan shuddered. "This is the third one this week."
Isarish tilted his head, flicking ash onto the blood-stained cobblestone. "And the first one since I arrived," he mused, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze.
The victim's face was frozen in terror, his remaining eye bulging, his mouth slightly open as if his last breath had been stolen mid-scream. A crude symbol had been carved into his chest—deep, precise. Not the work of someone in a frenzy.
Isarish's fingers hovered over the wound, his smirk never fading. "Whoever did this… took their time." He glanced at the inspector Rayhan. "Didn't just want him dead. Wanted him ruined."
The inspector Rayhan swallowed hard. "His name was—"
"—doesn't matter," Isarish interrupted lazily, rising to his feet. He stretched, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. "Tell me something more interesting. Like how a man loses his eye before he stops breathing."
The inspector Rayhan hesitated. "We… don't know. The eye was removed with precision, probably with a fine surgical instrument. But what's worse—his chest was carved with that symbol, deeply, methodically. It was slow. It's clear the killer wanted him to suffer before he died."
Isarish chuckled, a sound too light for a scene this gruesome. "Then let's find out." His gaze flickered to a crumpled piece of paper near the body, soaked in blood. He plucked it up, careful not to stain his gloves.
The ink bled into the paper, but the message remained.
"Would you like to know the truth?" - Note
A slow smile stretched across his lips. "A poet and a butcher. How charming."
The inspector Rayhan shifted uneasily. "We found the same note with the last two."
"Of course you did." Isarish tucked the note into his pocket and took another drag of his cigarette. He let the smoke linger in his lungs before exhaling, watching it swirls into the morning mist.
Someone was watching. He could feel it.
He turned on his heel, voice laced with amusement. "Let's see if the truth is as ugly as they say."
And with that, he walked away, trailing smoke and curiosity behind him.
The inspector Rayhan hurried to keep up as Isarish moved through the narrow alleyways, his coat brushing against the damp walls. The city was waking, but it wasn't the usual bustle of the morning market. There was a tension in the air—whispers threading through doorways, shutters closing just a little too fast.
The people of Dhaka had learned to fear the dawn.
"Where to now?" the inspector Rayhan asked, his voice tight.
Isarish flicked his cigarette away, watching the ember sizzle against the damp ground. "Home."
The next moment, they were standing in front of the house of the first victim. The morning mist had thickened, and a subtle unease hung in the air, clinging to the damp walls of the narrow street. The house was an old, creaking structure, much like the others in this part of Dhaka—stone, with sagging windows and iron railings twisted with rust. But something about it felt different now. It wasn't just another house—it was the scene of a crime, a place where the grim work of someone methodical had begun.
Isarish stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the house. The inspector Rayhan, still trailing behind, cleared his throat nervously.
"This is where it started," the inspector Rayhan muttered. "The first victim. The house... it's been under observation since the body was found."
Isarish nodded but didn't move forward. He stood in front of the gate, his eyes scanning the surroundings, reading the silence of the neighbourhood. There was no hustle from the market today, no chatter or calls. The place felt like it had been suffocated by the weight of the recent events.
"Let's go," Isarish said quietly, pushing the gate open with a soft creak.
The interior of the house was just as sombre. Dust had settled thick over everything. The floorboards creaked under their feet, echoing their steps as they moved inside. The atmosphere was stifling, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Isarish's eyes were sharp, assessing every detail with that same unsettling precision. The furniture was still in place, the walls lined with old pictures, but something about the arrangement felt off—like the space was unnaturally still, as though it hadn't been lived in for a long time.
"Look at this," Isarish muttered, pointing to a corner of the room where a set of footprints was faintly visible, still discernible in the dust. The print was distinct, but there was something unusual about it—too deliberate, too careful.
The inspector Rayhan bent down, inspecting the marks. "They've been here recently, whoever did this."
Isarish gave a low chuckle, his voice almost a whisper. "Not just that. They knew exactly where to step, where not to leave a trace. This is no spur-of-the-moment act."
He stood and moved towards the back of the house, the inspector Rayhan trailing cautiously behind. The kitchen was the first room they entered, and it was here that Isarish found something peculiar: a knife, gleaming ominously in the dim light.
"Hmm," Isarish said, kneeling beside the countertop. The knife had been used recently, the blade still slick with traces of something that had dried—blood, likely. "This is where the symbol was carved. The killer didn't want to do it in a hurry. They took their time."
The inspector Rayhan looked away, unease building in his chest. "The note from the first victim… the one we found with his body. It said the same thing as the one from the last murder: 'Would you like to know the truth?'"
Isarish's lips twisted into a smile, though his eyes remained cold. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough. This isn't just a series of murders—it's a message."
He rose to his feet, his movements fluid and purposeful. He glanced back at the inspector Rayhan, his expression unreadable.
"Let's see what else they've left behind."