Horror fiction: A haunting in the heartland ends with a priest’s violent death. Who is to blame?

It was a swelteringly hot day when Samir Grey walked into the coroner’s office.

It was his first time in Uttar Pradesh. Judging from the curious looks people kept giving him, he surmised it might have been the first time they had received any visitors. The place didn’t exactly have what one may call a welcoming reputation, especially when you skipped the tourist traps like Ayodhya and Varanasi and went deeper into the interior. Here, the people tended to lead more “normal” lives – free from the religious hysteria that had gripped the rest of the nation like a particularly virulent strain of collective madness. People in Dhagalpur were known for their practicality. These were people who measured worth in calluses and sweat, not in the endless opinions that passed for expertise everywhere else.

Like many of the new cities that dotted the urban landscape, it had transformed from a sleepy backwater into a bustling place of commerce within the last decade, but the breakneck pace of growth had left some stragglers behind. Ways of thinking, for instance, were still stuck in, if one were being charitable, the 1600s.

As someone who himself looked like he had just robbed a train, Samir might have fit in well in this town. His eyes had the hard look of soldiers who had gone off to war and come back with PTSD. His clothes were rumpled beyond salvation, there was at least two days’ worth of stubble on his chin, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. He had the face of an intellectual and was dressed like a teacher – one whose attire reflected the low value society placed on education and its practitioners.

The pinched, tight frown of disapproval on his face made him look antisocial in the best of circumstances, which summed up his feelings for society at large.

The woman at the desk looked harried. She held the phone slightly away from one ear, trying to get a word in edgewise while the person on the other end yelled and blustered.

The girl wasn’t a native of UP, he could tell at a glance. And nobody in their right mind would volunteer for a punishment posting like this place. Which meant she was either a fourth-year student on a rural visit or a freshly minted doctor with stars in her eyes and feet not yet firmly on the ground.

Either way, he knew his line of approach.

He marched over to her desk, stiff and annoyed, and stood there with a scowl plastered on his face.

She motioned him to a chair, and he took it with ill grace. A quick hand signal to a waiting peon, and two steaming hot cups of tea were placed on the table. Given the speed at which it arrived, he had no doubt it had been percolating for some time, possibly a few days.

She was still getting yelled at, and for a heartbeat, he wavered between appearing sympathetic – always a useful tactic when attempting to manipulate someone – and continuing to look annoyed. He settled on the latter. It was closer to his default state.

The tea was strongly flavoured with cardamom and bitter almonds. He revised his opinion almost immediately. This was not a few days old. This had been stewing since the Mughal era, achieving that subtle balance between “beverage” and “industrial solvent” that only government offices can master.

He briefly contemplated grabbing the phone from her hands, telling the fellow on the other end to shut up and slamming it down, before dismissing the thought. No need to make a scene just yet.

He made minor adjustment to the stack of files on her table till their edges aligned perfectly. It wasn’t merely aesthetics. The world just made more sense when the corners met.

The files smelled faintly of incompetence, dust, and despair – the three pillars of Indian bureaucracy. He had to remind himself that this was, after all, a government official – some degree of incompetence and laziness was built into the job.

He kept himself occupied by watching the girl. Nodding, eyes unfocused, absorbing reprimands the way a sponge absorbs water –– just enough to avoid spilling any. Years of submission had turned obedience into instinct. She clearly had trouble standing up for herself. He watched patiently for any signs that the yelling was going to break her.

It didn’t. A government job automatically thickens your skin. She was basically a rhinoceros in a salwar. She maintained her composure for a few minutes till the yeller ran out of steam or perhaps oxygen – and then firmly replaced the phone on its receiver with the satisfaction of someone who’d just won a small but meaningful victory.

“How can I help you, Mister?”

“Doctor Grey,” he said stiffly.

“Doctor,” she repeated doubtfully, her lips pursed as if she wasn’t sure he was joking. This man looked like he had the bedside manner of a puppy strangler. But her scepticism was clearly lost on the man.

“Very well. What can I do for you, Dr Grey?” she asked, sipping the steaming hot cup of tea at her desk, before wincing and setting it aside.

“I was hoping to enquire about the recent rash of murders the town has been facing. I believe y’all call him the Razor Killer?”

She said nothing for a moment, her face expressionless. There was something decidedly odd about the man in the way he carried himself. For one, he looked like a mongrel – Indian features for the most part, but he spoke with the clipped precision of someone who’d learned English from a mirror and a superiority complex. He had the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, and something about him was decidedly formal and businesslike. He walked with a cane that had the curved head of a dog on the top. This he now laid across his lap as he studied her.

Excerpted with permission from The Walking Dead, Rohan Monteiro, Penguin India.