Chapter 1: The Forbidden Tracks

Chapter 1: The Forbidden Tracks

The air in their small, mud-walled house was thick enough to chew. It tasted of damp earth, simmering dal, and a fear so old it had become part of the plaster. Arjun cinched the strap of his modern leather backpack, the squeak of the buckle a sharp, defiant sound in the oppressive silence.

"You will not go," Bimal said. His voice was not loud, but it had the weight of chipped stone. He stood in the doorway, a wiry silhouette against the hazy Bengal afternoon, blocking the path to the future.

"I have to, Baba," Arjun shot back, his frustration coiling in his gut. "This is the Physics qualifying exam. In Malda. My scholarship, my entire life, depends on it." He gestured around the cramped room, at the faded calendar with its depiction of the goddess Kali, at the single sputtering bulb. "My ticket out of this."

The words hung in the air, cruel and sharp. Bimal flinched as if struck. "There are other ways. The bus to Rampurhat, then another..."

"That will take two days! The exam is tomorrow morning. You know this." Arjun’s voice rose, cracking with the desperation of a trapped animal. "The Chhayagarh Line is the only way."

At the name, Bimal’s face, already a mask of weathered anxiety, tightened. "That is not a train, Arjun. It is a curse with iron wheels. You do not ride it. You do not speak its name. Especially not now."

"Not now?" Arjun scoffed, his modern, rational mind bristling at the superstition. "Because the old Thakur finally drank himself into the grave? What does a rich landlord's liver failure have to do with a train?"

"It was not his liver," Bimal whispered, his eyes darting towards the shuttered window as if the whispering reeds outside could hear. "The new Thakur’s men found him. He was... hollow. As if something had scooped him out from the inside. The pact is weakened. Unsettled. It makes the Line... hungry."

Arjun felt a flicker of unease, but squashed it with logic. He had heard these stories his whole life. The Line, a relic of the British Raj, was a ghost story the village used to frighten children. A bargain struck by the first Thakur of Chhayagarh, a deal with something to bring prosperity to their remote lands in exchange for... well, the stories were always vague on that part. A toll. A price.

"Baba, it's a steam engine. Metal and coal. It runs on tracks. It doesn't have an appetite." He pushed past his father, the worn fabric of Bimal’s kurta brushing against his arm. For a moment, his father’s hand shot out, grabbing his bicep with surprising, sinewy strength.

"My father warned me," Bimal’s voice was ragged, his eyes wide with a terror that seemed ancient, a hand-me-down horror. "He saw what it takes. He forbade me from ever setting foot on that platform. I forbid you."

Arjun saw only the chains of tradition trying to drag him back down. Love, yes, but a suffocating love. He softened his voice, a strategic retreat. "Baba, I will be fine. I'll call you the moment I reach Malda. This is my chance."

He gently pried his father's fingers from his arm. Bimal didn't resist further. He simply crumpled, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The fight went out of him, replaced by a chillingly passive dread. As Arjun stepped out into the dusty lane, his father’s final words followed him like a shroud.

"The fare is always more than you think."

The walk to the station was an exercise in defiance. The village of Chhayagarh seemed to hold its breath as he passed. Women pulling water from the well stopped their gossip, their eyes following him. Old men smoking on a porch fell silent, their hookahs bubbling mutely. They all knew where he was going. The path to the station was untrodden, the grass growing high over the packed earth. No one used it. No one had for a generation.

He was an outcast by choice, the boy who thought himself better than their stories, smarter than their fears. And today, he would prove it.

The station wasn't just disused; it was actively decaying, being swallowed by the relentless green of the jungle. A faded sign, its Bengali script flaking away, read 'Chhayagarh'. The platform was a crumbling brick spine half-buried in weeds. The tracks were two streaks of rust disappearing into the encroaching foliage on either side. There was no schedule board, no ticket window, just an unnerving, profound silence. The usual chorus of insects was absent. The air was still and heavy.

Arjun checked his watch. The train was due, according to the old tales, at sunset. He sat on a broken bench, his backpack a comforting weight on his lap. He felt a sliver of triumph. Here he was, in the heart of the village's greatest fear, and there was nothing. Just rot and silence. His father's fears were just that—stories.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple. The silence deepened, becoming a pressure against his eardrums.

Then, the ground trembled.

It wasn't the familiar, rhythmic rumble of an approaching train. It was a wet, heavy, thudding. A giant's footfalls. The vibration came up through the soles of his shoes, a sickly, organic pulse. Arjun stood up, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. The thudding grew louder, closer, accompanied by a sound like tearing gristle and the hiss of a thousand leaking pipes.

From around the bend, it emerged.

His rational mind fractured.

It had the basic shape of a Victorian locomotive, but it was a blasphemous parody. The chassis was a fusion of glistening black metal, ornate with gold trim, and pulsing, pink flesh. Thick, ropey veins snaked across the boiler, throbbing with a dark, inner light. Steam vented from its funnel, but it smelled coppery and foul, like a slaughterhouse.

And it had no wheels.

It moved not on rails, but on massive, skinless legs of muscle and bone, dozens of them, churning and tearing into the earth where the tracks should have been. They moved like a centipede's, digging into the soil, ripping up weeds and stones, leaving a gouged, steaming furrow in their wake.

Arjun was frozen, his breath caught in his throat. This wasn't a machine. It was a beast wearing a costume of steel.

The monstrous engine slowed, its great legs churning to a halt directly in front of the platform. The thudding ceased, replaced by a sound of wet, contented breathing. A door on one of the carriages hissed open, not with the clank of metal, but with the sound of separating flesh.

A figure appeared in the doorway, stepping down onto the platform as if this abomination were the most normal sight in the world. He was unnervingly tall, dressed in a pristine, 19th-century black waistcoat and trousers. A towering top hat sat on his head, casting his entire face in an impenetrable shadow.

All Arjun could see beneath the brim was a smile. A wide, toothy, unblinking grin that stretched too far across the shadowed face. It was a smile of pure, cheerful, malevolent service.

"Welcome, valued passenger!" the figure chirped, his voice smooth and pleasant. He tipped his hat, a gesture that seemed both polite and mocking. "The Chhayagarh Line is delighted to have you this evening. Running right on time."

He held up a golden pocket watch, which ticked with a frantic, irregular rhythm.

Arjun couldn't speak. He could only stare, his mind a whirlwind of terror and disbelief. This was real. His father wasn't mad. The stories were true.

The Conductor’s grin seemed to widen. "Destination: Malda, I presume? A fine choice. We have a special service for the scholars of Chhayagarh." He gestured towards the open carriage door, a dark maw that smelled of ozone and old blood. "Please, step aboard. We wouldn't want to be late."

The desire to run, to scream, to flee back to the ignorant safety of his village was a physical force. But behind that was the crushing weight of his ambition. The exam. His future. To turn back now was to admit defeat, to be trapped forever. His mind, desperately seeking an anchor of logic, seized on one thought: it’s just a ride. It goes to Malda. Whatever this thing is, it has a destination.

Trembling, clutching the strap of his backpack like a holy talisman, Arjun took a step. Then another. He walked past the smiling Conductor, averting his eyes from that terrible, fixed grin, and stepped across the threshold into the belly of the beast.

The door behind him closed with a wet, final squelch. The horror had begun.