"The Second Warning"

It happened in 2018, in the heart of central India, during a solo trip I took to disconnect from city life. I was searching for peace—what I found was something else entirely. Something ancient. Something hidden. Something dark.

I had planned to explore a stretch of forest near the Satpura hills, known for its serene waterfalls and tribal culture. There was a village called Juna Kheda where tourists rarely went. My guide, a local named Ravi, was hesitant at first. “That area,” he said, “has stories. Not for outsiders.”

But I insisted. I wish I hadn’t.

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Into the Green Unknown

The jungle was beautiful at first. Towering sal trees, sunlight breaking through the thick canopy, birds echoing like songs from another world. We trekked for hours, stopping occasionally to drink from streams or chew on dried tamarind Ravi carried in a cloth pouch.

By late afternoon, we reached the clearing where I planned to camp. That’s when Ravi grew strangely quiet. He pointed toward a narrow trail off to the right, one I hadn’t noticed before.

“That path?” he said, almost whispering. “It leads to an old hermit’s place. But you shouldn’t go.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. “They say a tantrik lives there. A black magician. Not someone you meet with questions.”

The word “tantrik” stirred something in me—curiosity? Recklessness?

Ravi wouldn’t go further. So I left my bag at the campsite, took my camera, and followed the narrow trail.

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The Encounter

The forest grew denser. The air smelled of ash and wet earth. I walked for maybe thirty minutes before the trees opened into a small clearing. There stood a circular hut made of stone and mud, wrapped in red threads and peacock feathers. Strange symbols were drawn around the entrance in what looked like ash or charcoal.

I should have turned back.

But I didn’t.

A voice called from inside. “Come in.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t threatening. It was calm—almost amused.

I stepped through the door.

The inside of the hut was dimly lit by oil lamps placed on the floor. Smoke curled from an incense pot. The air buzzed with energy, like the low hum before a thunderstorm.

And there he sat.

An old man, maybe in his 70s. Bare-chested, ash smeared across his skin. Eyes so sharp they looked through you. Around him were copper bowls, bones, dried herbs, and an open book with scripts I couldn’t understand.

“I know why you’re here,” he said.

“I… just wanted to see who lived here.”

He smiled. “You didn’t come for peace. You came for truth. Maybe a story. A thrill. Isn’t that what all city men seek?”

I didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t wrong.

“You believe in logic,” he continued. “You believe in your science, your news. But there are older truths. Not everything that exists wants to be proven.”

I felt cold. And oddly small.

“Are you a black magician?” I asked.

He paused. Then chuckled softly. “People give names to things they fear. What I do is not black or white. It simply is.”

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The Ritual

He asked me to sit.

I don’t know why I did. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something deeper—a pull I couldn’t explain.

He placed a copper bowl in front of me and threw in crushed herbs, a few drops of oil, and what looked like a beetle. He lit it with a match. Blue smoke curled out.

“Breathe,” he said.

I did.

The world shifted.

The walls stretched. His face blurred. I heard whispers—female voices, chanting, crying, laughing all at once.

Then silence.

When I looked up, he was staring into my eyes. “You opened a door inside you,” he said. “It will not close easily.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, voice shaking.

He said nothing. Only handed me a folded cloth pouch. “Take this. When the dreams begin, burn what’s inside.”

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The Aftermath

I ran back to the campsite. Ravi saw my face and said nothing. We left the next morning.

Back in the city, I tried to forget.

But then the dreams began.

Dark forests. Eyes staring from the trees. A voice whispering my name from behind locked doors. Always the same hut. Always the same smoke.

And in the dreams—I always went inside.

One night, I woke up screaming, my window wide open though I never opened it. There were ash marks on my floor.

I remembered the pouch.

Inside were dried leaves, black salt, and a small bone.

I burned them, as he said.

The dreams stopped.

But sometimes, in quiet moments, I still smell that smoke.

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Conclusion

I met a man the world would call a black magician. Was he real? A hallucination? A trickster? I don’t know.

But I believe this:

There are paths in life—physical and spiritual—that we walk without understanding their cost. There are doors in the forest and in our minds that lead to ancient places, older than language, deeper than science.

And once you’ve peeked through them, even briefly, you’re never truly the same.

If you ever find yourself on a quiet jungle trail, and someone warns you not to go further—listen.

Some meetings are not meant for the living.