The Vulture of the Gorge

He stood on the hotel balcony, gazing out at the vast meadows stretching far into the horizon. The breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees, and high on the mountain peaks, clouds had spread a misty veil. This place was far from the hustle and bustle of the city—peaceful, desolate, and filled with a mysterious beauty. He thought to himself, this is exactly the kind of place where weariness fades away.

He had the look of someone searching for silence—tall, with tired eyes, perhaps in his late thirties. A hint of stubble covered his face, and his clothes, though neat, were travel-worn. There was something in the way he stood—hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched—that spoke of someone who had been carrying weight for a long time.

Before evening fell, he set out for a walk. The hotel owner had warned him that wild animals often roamed the area after sunset, but he had brushed it off. He kept walking along a narrow trail that wound down into a deep gorge between thick trees. The air was fragrant—damp, sweet, as if some hidden flower was blooming nearby.

The gorge itself had a reputation. The locals called it "Shikaar Ghati"—The Hunting Gorge. Old stories spoke of strange disappearances, of shadows that moved without light, of voices that lured wanderers into the depths. But the stories had faded into the realm of folklore, retold only by firelight or in hushed warnings. To outsiders, it was just another beautiful landscape.

And then he saw her.

A young girl, sitting on a rock with her back turned toward him. Her long black hair swayed gently in the wind, and she wore a simple, local dress. When she heard his footsteps and turned around, there was a strange gleam in her eyes—like someone who carried untold stories.

“There’s no path this way,” she said softly, her voice shy.

“I... I’m just exploring,” he replied, managing a polite smile. “This place is really beautiful.”

She tilted her head. “Are you here alone?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

She looked around slowly, then back at him. “Most people come here in groups. It’s safer.”

“Safer? Why?” he asked.

She gave a small shrug. “Animals... old lands... who knows what still lingers here.”

There was a pause. The wind passed gently between them.

“You look tired,” she said suddenly.

He chuckled. “That obvious, huh?”

She nodded. “Like someone running from something.”

Her words struck him oddly. Not accusing—just observant.

“Maybe just running toward quiet,” he replied.

She smiled faintly. “Sometimes quiet holds things louder than noise.”

He didn’t quite know how to respond. The girl seemed young, but there was an old rhythm in her tone, as though she was used to speaking in riddles. He took a step forward, glancing at the rock where she sat.

And then he felt it—a tug in his right arm. Looking down, he noticed a deep scratch—as if something sharp had pierced his skin.

“You're hurt,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I can heal it.”

Something about it felt odd, but he nodded. The girl reached out and gently placed her hand over the wound. The moment her fingers touched his skin, a cold sensation surged through his body. His eyes grew heavy, and his head began to droop.

“What’s... happening...?” he murmured, but the girl said nothing. Her smile had widened, and that glint in her eyes had intensified.

Darkness clouded his mind. He didn’t scream. That was the strange part. As the cold crept through his limbs and the forest spun around him, he felt no fear—only an odd sense of surrender. A whispering wind curled through the trees, almost like it carried voices from long ago.

He fell to his knees.

The girl stood over him now. Her figure, still slender and calm, shimmered slightly as if her shape were not quite fixed. Her hands, now no longer soft, seemed sharper at the tips—as though her fingers had become talons.

She tilted her head.

“I told you it’s dangerous after sunset,” she said again, but this time her voice wasn’t shy—it was older, deeper, echoing with something ancient.

His vision blurred. She stepped closer.

From a distance, the vultures were already circling.

The next morning, some local villagers found a body near the edge of the gorge. It was almost skeletal, as if a wild animal had torn it apart. Vultures circled overhead, waiting for their next feast.

A young boy picked up a smartphone lying nearby. He turned it on and found the camera app still open. The last photo taken was of a vulture perched on a rock—the very same rock where the girl had been sitting the day before.

He zoomed in on the image. The vulture’s eyes... they had the same gleam.

His hands trembled. Was it just a coincidence? Or was the secret of the gorge still alive?