RANCH
By Ayush Agarwal
They called it Ranch, not because it was foreign or fancy, but because no one could find a better word for it.
According to government records, it was Plot No. 47, Block D, somewhere beyond the sal forests of Jharkhand, where the road thinned to dust and the mobile signal died like an exhausted animal. But for the villagers of Chandipur, it was Ranch—a place where cows refused to graze, birds never nested, and children were warned never to look back once they crossed its gate.
Aarav returned after twelve years.
The train dropped him at a station that smelled of rust, mahua flowers, and forgotten promises. Ranchi had changed—new flyovers, glass-fronted cafés—but the land beyond the city remained stubbornly old. Timeless. Watching.
His father’s death had been sudden. Heart failure, the doctor said. Aarav knew better. His father had survived floods, riots, and debt. Hearts like that didn’t just stop.
The house—the Ranch—stood exactly as it had in his dreams.
Black wooden walls. Sharp rooflines. No paint. No warmth. Built too modern for the village, too lonely for comfort. His father had constructed it years ago, claiming he needed “space to think.” The villagers said he needed space to hide.
Thunder cracked as Aarav stepped inside.
The air was cold. Not seasonal cold—old cold. The kind that settles in bones. Dust lay untouched, yet the place felt… occupied. As if something had been waiting, patient as a creditor.
That night, the dreams returned.
A hooded figure stood in the fields, face hidden, arms crossed. Behind it, lightning tore the sky open. Each time Aarav tried to run, the earth softened beneath his feet, swallowing him slowly, lovingly.
He woke up screaming—to silence.
On the third day, old Mahato, the village watchman, finally spoke.
“You shouldn’t have come back, babu,” he said, eyes fixed on the Ranch. “Your father made a deal.”
Aarav laughed. “With whom?”
Mahato didn’t answer. He only pointed to the forest.
Years ago, the land had belonged to the Santhal tribe. Sacred ground. Burial ground. When mining companies arrived, papers were forged, palms were greased, and people were displaced. Aarav’s father had been the mediator—the bridge between money and muscle.
The Ranch was built right on the oldest site.
“They warned him,” Mahato whispered. “Some lands don’t forget. Some debts aren’t written on paper.”
That night, Aarav found the basement.
He didn’t remember it existing.
Stone steps led down into darkness. The walls were etched with symbols—tribal, ancient, angry. At the center lay a shallow pit. Dry blood. Fresh smell.
And a diary.
His father’s handwriting trembled across the pages.
It watches. It waits. It wears faces. I fed it land, then animals. Then men. It wants blood tied to blood.
The last entry was dated the day before his death.
It wants my son.
Lightning split the sky as footsteps echoed above.
Slow. Heavy. Familiar.
Aarav looked up.
The hooded figure stood at the top of the stairs, face still hidden, but he knew. He had always known.
The Ranch didn’t want revenge.
It wanted inheritance.
By morning, the house stood quiet again. Smoke rose gently from its chimney.
And the villagers whispered that the Ranch finally had its owner.
Some lands don’t forget.
Some stories don’t end.
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