Ramdeen was a poor farmer who spent his entire day working in his fields. From sunrise to sunset, he ploughed the soil, sowed seeds, and watered the crops with tired hands. He lived a simple life with his wife and two children in a small mud house near the field. Despite the hard work, Ramdeen never complained, because his family’s survival depended on the land he worked on every day.
One evening, while returning from the field, Ramdeen felt a strange sensation, as if someone was watching him. He turned around, but there was no one—only the crops swaying slowly in the wind. That night, his wife noticed something odd in his eyes. They looked restless, as if he had not truly returned from the field. Ramdeen said nothing and went to sleep.
Over the next few days, the crops began to grow unnaturally fast. Their color was no longer a healthy green but a dark, almost black shade. Thick roots started emerging from the soil, twisting like veins. At night, Ramdeen often whispered in his sleep, repeating the same words again and again: “I have given enough… please don’t take me.”
The villagers soon gathered to see the strange field. An old priest examined the land and trembled with fear. He revealed that the field had once been a cremation ground, a place where many restless souls were burned. He warned Ramdeen that the land demanded a price from those who fed it with their sweat.
One stormy night, unable to resist the pull of the field, Ramdeen walked into it alone with a lantern in his hand. The wind howled violently, and the crops bent toward him like living arms. Suddenly, the ground cracked open, and dark shadowy figures rose from the soil. A deep voice echoed through the field, saying, “You gave us your labor… now you belong to us.”
The next morning, the villagers found the field strangely peaceful. The crops were perfectly cut, but Ramdeen was nowhere to be seen. In the center of the field stood a human-shaped scarecrow, its face eerily similar to Ramdeen’s, staring endlessly into the distance. Even today, people say that if you pass that field at night, you can hear the sound of a plough and a whisper carried by the wind: “Those who enter the field after dark never return the same.”
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