The owner of the teahouse arranged a place for us to stay—a small guest shelter near the far edge of the village. Built from rough stone and packed earth, the hut looked sturdy enough to survive the mountain winters, though the low doorway proved dangerous for anyone taller than average. Peter smacked his head against the wooden beam before he even stepped fully inside, swearing loudly in English while Amit burst into uncontrollable laughter. Diljeet muttered something under his breath about careless city people, and I rubbed my temples, already exhausted by Peter’s endless theatrics.
Later that evening, we joined the villagers outside around a large bonfire burning in the open courtyard. Flames rose and twisted in the cold air, casting moving shadows across the surrounding walls. People sat in scattered groups, wrapped in thick shawls, drinking hot tea while quiet conversations drifted through the night. The scent of smoke mixed with roasted meat and mountain pine, filling the air with a comforting warmth that stood in sharp contrast to the freezing wind beyond the village.
Every so often, laughter erupted from one corner of the gathering, echoing strangely beneath the dark peaks surrounding Mastuj.
A young boy approached carrying skewers of grilled lamb balanced carefully on a tray. His bright eyes darted between us nervously. “For the visitors,” he said softly.
We thanked him, and naturally Peter decided it was the perfect moment to attempt speaking in the local dialect. What came out sounded less like language and more like someone choking on pebbles. The boy instantly burst into laughter, nearly dropping the tray, and soon everyone nearby was laughing with him. Even some of the elders smiled openly. Amit laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks while Diljeet shook his head in embarrassment.
The mood stayed light for a while after that. Peter entertained everyone with exaggerated stories about surviving Karachi’s traffic chaos, adding dramatic gestures that made the villagers laugh louder with every sentence. Amit acted out scenes from old Bollywood horror films, jumping at imaginary ghosts behind him. Diljeet reluctantly shared a story about being chased through his own village by an angry goat that refused to leave his doorstep. In return, the villagers told stories of mischievous foxes stealing food from campsites, confused travelers wandering into wedding celebrations by mistake, and old legends about hidden caves where spirits supposedly danced beneath moonlight.
But as the hours passed, the atmosphere slowly changed.
An elderly villager with deep wrinkles etched across his face began speaking quietly near the fire. One by one, conversations faded until only the crackling flames and the distant cry of an owl could be heard. Diljeet listened carefully before translating for us, his voice noticeably more serious now.
“In the valleys beyond these mountains,” the old man said, “there are places where the wind does not sound natural. Sometimes it whispers names. Sometimes it cries in voices that do not belong to the living.”
The firelight flickered over his face, making his hollow eyes appear even darker.
“No one travels there after sunset,” he continued slowly. “Not because of storms. Not because of animals. Because of the ones who still walk there.”
A silence fell over the courtyard.
Even the cheerful boy from earlier sat frozen, staring into the fire with uneasy eyes. Peter shifted uncomfortably, clearly wanting to joke about it, but no words came. Amit gripped his cup tightly, and despite sitting close to the flames, I felt cold spread slowly across my skin.
The old man leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice until it became little more than a whisper.
“If you reach Kailash,” he warned, “never follow the voices. No matter how familiar they sound.”
The warning lingered in the night air like smoke.
A loud crack split through the silence as the fire spat sparks upward. Amit jumped, and Peter muttered nervously, “Fantastic. Even the bonfire’s trying to terrify us now.”
Nobody laughed this time.
The old man stood slowly and disappeared back into the darkness beyond the courtyard, swallowed by the shadows between the houses as though the mountains themselves had claimed him.
For a long while, we remained seated near the dying fire. Earlier laughter now felt distant and fragile. Every pop of burning wood sounded sharp in the stillness, and every movement of wind through the nearby trees carried the unsettling illusion of whispers drifting just beyond hearing.
Peter finally cleared his throat. “Well,” he said weakly, “if the mountains really remember people, hopefully they forget that goat story first.”
Amit let out a small laugh, though even that quickly faded.
I stared into the embers, watching sparks rise briefly before vanishing into the dark sky. The mountains surrounding us felt impossibly ancient—silent witnesses to countless travelers before us. They seemed patient, observant, as though every path, every mistake, every forgotten soul remained etched somewhere within their memory.
Then the wind shifted.
A sharp cold swept across the courtyard carrying the smell of pine… and something else underneath it. Something metallic. Like rusted iron or damp earth.
A chill crawled up my spine.
Near the edge of the courtyard, where the shadows merged with tall grass beyond the walls, I thought I saw movement. A figure perhaps. But when I blinked, nothing remained.
Diljeet finally stood, his expression grim. “Get some rest,” he said quietly. “We leave before sunrise. The road ahead is dangerous enough without losing time.”
None of us argued.
The fire slowly died until only glowing embers remained. Above us, the sky stretched endlessly with cold stars while the mountain peaks stood like dark giants watching over the sleeping village. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once—a lonely sound that echoed unnaturally through the valley, almost like a warning carried on the wind.
Back inside the hut, warmth from the blankets did little to ease the tension hanging over us. Every creak in the wooden frame, every whisper slipping through cracks in the walls, made the silence feel heavier. Peter collapsed onto his mattress joking that the place looked “perfect for a haunted vacation,” while Amit groaned and covered his face with his jacket.
Diljeet, however, remained seated near the window, staring silently toward the mountains. In the dim light I could see the strain in his expression, the unspoken realization that by morning we would be stepping deeper into something far older and darker than any of us understood.
Outside, the bonfire had gone cold.
Beyond Mastuj, the mountains waited in silence—vast, ancient, and fully aware of our approach.
And somewhere beneath my fear, another feeling stirred quietly:
The road to Kailash had already begun calling us forward.
What awaited us there remained unknown. But one question lingered in all our minds—
Would we survive what was waiting in the shadows, or had death already chosen its first victim?
Author’s Note: This chapter was edited with AI assistance for grammar, readability, and flow.47Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRsfqzskTMc
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