It was a gloomy afternoon in the village of Shantipur. A light drizzle fell from the sky, and thick black clouds hovered overhead. A 10-year-old boy named Aarav slipped and fell into the village pond while playing with a group of friends. The children panicked and screamed for help. Villagers rushed to the scene, diving straight into the water.

But strangely, though the pond water was clear and not deep enough to drown a grown adult, they searched the entire afternoon and still found no trace of Aarav.

The tragic news spread through the village like wildfire.

The next day, dozens of young men were mobilized. Nets were cast, and the pond bed was thoroughly searched. The entire pond was stirred up.

But it was all in vain.

The pond wasn’t large. The water didn’t flow anywhere. Then how — how could the boy’s body have vanished without a trace? No one had an answer.

On the second day, the sky turned dark again. Thunder rolled across the clouds, though no rain fell.

That morning, Aarav’s mother — a frail woman with sunken eyes and dark circles from two sleepless nights — quietly walked toward the pond holding one of her son’s old shirts.

No one knew what she planned to do.

She trembled as she lifted the shirt into the air and cried out — a cry cracked and broken by grief:

“Aarav… come back to me, my son…
I brought your shirt… You must be cold out there…”

Her voice cut through the thick silence, echoing over the still surface of the pond — like a summoning from beyond.

And then, it happened.

The calm waters suddenly began to churn violently.

Winds rose from nowhere, howling across the pond. The trees along the shore bent and swayed.

And from the center of the pond… the water swirled into a pitch-black vortex.

From within it, a figure slowly emerged — pale and purple, its body soaked, hair hanging wet and long over its face. In one lifeless hand, it held the very shirt the mother had been clutching moments ago.

Gasps echoed across the banks.

For a moment, the entire village stood frozen in place.

Then, an elderly woman screamed.

“Ghost! That’s a ghost!”

Panic exploded.

People screamed and ran in all directions. Some tripped and fell. Others pushed past one another, not daring to look back.

Only the mother stood still.

Her eyes wide, arm still outstretched toward the water — toward the figure that now began to sink slowly back into the dark pond. The shirt was no longer in her hand.

From that day on, no one dared to approach the village pond after nightfall.

They whispered that, whenever storms came and rain threatened the land, a voice could still be heard — faint, sorrowful — echoing through the wind and rippling water:

“Aarav… come home, son…”