It was strangely foggy and clouded on an otherwise, summertime, except for the full moon that has reflected in the riverside. A fisherman was sailing a slightly long boat, only to catch the fishes with the net, similar to a spider's web, comparatively larger. Perhaps, wickedness might break into some limits. The fisherman was already shivered with cold and fear. None would run for help, as it was more than six. Only when he sailed the boat, not even birds were chirping. Despite the lake turned a bit swampy, it was clear that the horror strikes within. Little did he knew, his nose started to bleed. It was more like a word of a dying man.

But he was quite fit, compare to his nose-bleeding. Looking up, he realized that it's a bit of a drip from the blood rain. Then, he heard a screeching sound of someone eating a raw meat. Until, The Fisherman rubbed his eyes and he looked at a young handsome, shadowy man with scarlet eyeballs, glowing more than a demon could be. It was continuously chewing the raw fish and blood splattered like rain that already flew through The Fisherman's face.

"STOP!" screamed The Fisherman.

The demon paused.

Fisherman was scared and froze but he dared to get close to The Entity. It was grunting like a lion in such a manner that The Fisherman tried to tuck himself with a colorful towel. Until, its vampire teeth turned visible and jumped into the fisherman. Everything went black, even the moon was covered by the clouds. The Fisherman was nauseating because of The Entity's ferocious approach. Slowly like a leech, it sucked The Fisherman's leg, turning half of body hollow. Then it crawled like an itsy-bitsy spider and bit him like a rough bulldozer. Dark smokes were coming out with a horrible aura and smell of an old burnt garbage. After that, blood splattered as such that river Nile has turned into gory bath. Everything turned soundless. Not even the birds chirped.

Another day, an old woman was sitting in the coast of the riverside that, turned into a swamp. However, it was surrounded trees with the sound of birds. Until a crow called. The old lady looked at it, transforming from swampy water to bloodbath. A fiery-looking skeleton floated to the coast- it was not other than The Fisherman. His old mother was shocked, screaming and weeping. The rest of the crowd showed up. The Old lady rushed to the dead skeleton, and yes, The Fisherman was her son.

"Mizan, my son!" sobbed the old lady. "I've told you, not to go to that riverside after six o'clock. THIS DEMON HAS STABBED HIM!"

Then a firm, cordial, rich, handsome, old man had arrived at the scene of the crime. He was disgusted by looking at the dead body. Controlling his emotions, he slowly approached near the Old Lady and attempted to console her.

"Ama Didi!" said the rich man politely.

"I just want my daughter-in-law and son back! Khalil! Can you bring him back to me?" screamed Ama Didi, the old lady.

"I wish I could! But I'm no God! I'm just a human being like you! I know that pain," said Khalil, the rich man.

"No, you don't! Crops damaged! No food! And what else? Women possessed or vanished! Aren't there any other ways to stop all these charades! I just want my son to serve food! I want nothing more!" screamed Ama Didi.

Then Khalil, the head of the village announced that, other than the holy places, everyone must have to be inside their houses at 6 o'clock in the evening. It was devastating with the span of nearly four decades that the village had been terrorized by the demons. Its myths were strong and still stronger than any other entities in the lore. That's why the village was empty and led to many benefits, as well as drawbacks.

However, Mizan's story reached across the whole nation by Khalil who sold the press for the coverage, only for a limited amount. Various journalists tried to research over the story but due to the public's dismissal and unclear evidence, they have abandoned it quickly. Then, one of the newspapers 'The New Age Bangladesh' had taken the initiative. Coincidentally, the editor Mr. Benazir Chowdhury found one journalist who could go in-depth to the story.

Mr. Benazir Chowdhury was more of a leader and father figure than a Head Editor or a boss. The work environment around him was friendlier than the usual press. Adored by the seniors and inspired by the interns and juniors. Despite his unorthodox ways, he was loved by all. However he maintained that character in both personal and public life. He might be an aged man of nearly his sixties, with a heart of a young man.

Looking at the achievement, he was grateful to some of the journalists. The posters, advertisements, articles and photos made him smile with peace and humming an old folk Bengali song. In his heydays, he used to smoke cigarettes, whereas nowadays, he takes only a lollipop since the last seven years because he realized his age limits as well as diseases to come. Then, he thumped the bell. Suddenly, his assistant Partho knocked the door. Mr. Benazir said "Come in, Mr. Partho"

Partho was pretty young of his 40s, looked like his 20s. He slowly entered the room. Mr. Chowdhury smiled and said "how's your assignment going?"

"About the ghost story?" asked Partho.

"Ah...yes!" said Mr. Chowdhury.

"Many of our journalists were spared only with an underwear. Some were even scared to go there and few turned a bit insane. Since then, no one is ready to go there," said Partho.

"Are you in touch with Wahid?" asked Mr. Chowdhury.

"Yes sir, but he's losing his confidence after his wife's passing" said Partho.

"Such a beautiful wife, he had! I'm still really sorry for her passing. It's been a year and five months..." mourned Mr. Chowdhury.

"I remember how we used to share her food. But this crash in the old abandoned airport is much pitiful...Oh, by the way, he just arrived now" said Partho.

"Could you kindly call him, please? I will talk to him" asked Mr. Chowdhury.

"Alright sir" replied Partho.

Partho stepped out of the cabin. After few minutes, a handsome but kind of a regular guy with a short, trimmed beard and a non-ironed check shirt with a bag pack hanging on his shoulders, entered with the office. He cleaned his square framed spectacles and rubbed his nose. Mr. Chowdhury looked at him and widened his eyes. He exclaimed "Wahid, you haven't aged a day!"

"It's good to see you, sir," said Wahid.

"Have a seat, Wahid," said Mr. Chowdhury.

Wahid was quite weary and tired. Slowly, he walked and sat on the rich-like plastic chair. In the room full of old-fashioned aesthetics with a slight touch of the present, he was the dull one of the bunch. Maybe, he was missing his wife and son in the plane who supposed to comeback from Nepal. Also, it may have been an issue on being in a midlife crisis. Or perhaps, he might have a lot of things that were sensing around in his mind. Mr. Chowdhury curiously looked at him.

He said, "well, how are you doing, Mr. Wahid?"

"Not too well, but trying to keep things up" said Wahid.

Wahid drank some water. However, he knew that something more than death would come on its way, but couldn't say which one. Hence, he was prepared for Mr. Chowdhury's words, as soon as he joined the editorial. But psychologically, Wahid was devastated and couldn't get over his wife's demise.

"I know what you're going through, dear. I'm really sorry for your wife though. Past is the precious history to be kept, whereas present is what not to miss and future is the addition to the present, either dark or light because it's a mystery. Anyway, what's your hometown, again?" said Mr. Chowdhury.

"Umm...Meghpur, an hour away from Bandarban and on the way to the borders of India" replied Wahid.

"Do you know, what's going on in Meghpur, right now?" asked Mr. Chowdhury.

Wahid wasn't surprised. He was sure that the myth rose again but wasn't certain about what's to come on the way. Perhaps, that maybe another news, or maybe a bit more than what had been imagined. Therefore, he became ready to speak of it.

"Is that the news about the fisherman?" asked Wahid.

"Close enough. However, since then, no journalist have ever dared to go to the village. Even the newspaper editorials have published the half-baked story. Some of them even disappeared in such a manner that a lot of people were scared to go there. My point is, you're connected to Meghpur and you may know about its mythology. I think you're the only one who could make a book about it" said Mr. Chowdhury.

"I always wanted to go to Meghpur. As a child, my mom used to forbade me to go there. I was quite stubborn. Even before death, she swore not to go to Meghpur. Until, I overheard a conversation from a neighbor with my mom that, the demons were lurking at Meghpur since I was born. But vaguely, some said that it was once known as Surjopara until the demons took over the whole village. It's crazy!" said Wahid.

"To correct you, Meghpur was conquered by demons until a hero named Mahaveer arrived and slayed the monster. Until, it stroke back in 1981, a year you're born, according to your CV. That means, you have a bigger connection around it" said Mr. Chowdhury.

Wahid ate a chocolate cookie.

"I think, I need to have a consideration towards it" said Wahid.

Wahid was stunned inside. A lot of things were jumbling towards his mind. Would he break his mom's promise? What's the connection between the ghosts of Meghpur and Wahid? It's like something more to come and drums were beating like a plethora of suspense.