The Witch of Gangoli Village – Part 1: The Well of Thirst

“She didn’t scream when they tore her clothes. She didn’t curse.

She just stared… and the deaths began.”

They say the wind in Gangoli doesn’t blow. It watches.

And if you stand still long enough after midnight,

you’ll feel it breathe behind your ears — slow, shallow, and full of teeth.

This is what they whisper in Gangoli.

But no one says her name.

Not anymore.

Twenty years ago…

There was a crooked house on the edge of the village.

It leaned like it wanted to fall but hadn’t decided how yet.

Inside lived a family of five:

Two brothers.

The elder’s wife.

Two grandchildren.

And… the mother.

She was old — skin like dry tamarind bark, fingers yellowed like turmeric roots, always scraping something in the dark.

People called her Dain — witch — but not to her face.

No one had the courage.

She never smiled.

She fed cracked dolls milk in the morning.

She boiled neem leaves and muttered into them.

Sometimes, the smoke from her window was blue, even when no fire was lit.

The only rule in her house?

> ❝ Never drink from the back well. It is mine. ❞

Everyone obeyed.

Until one day… someone didn’t.

The younger son

He was gentle. Quiet.

He helped with fields. Helped with festivals.

He didn’t believe in curses.

One evening, he came home late — sunburned, throat dry.

The pots inside were empty.

So he went out back and drank from the well — his mother’s well.

Cool. Refreshing.

Too late, he remembered her warning.

That night… he couldn’t sleep.

He drank again.

And again.

But no matter how much, his thirst grew — like fire had taken root in his chest.

His wife tried to give him jaggery water.

He spit it out.

By midnight, his lips were peeling, his tongue swollen, and his eyes were wide with fear.

He stumbled into the kitchen.

There was his cup — a steel one, slightly bent, like always.

He picked it up.

> The handle twitched in his grip.

He tried to scream — but couldn’t.

His hand moved on its own, raising the cup to his mouth.

He saw the rim bend, metal curling like a snake coiling… around his jaw.

And then — it sliced.

One clean stroke.

Blood painted the floor in a spiral.

His body dropped, but the cup stayed in his hand, resting like a satisfied pet.

They found him there — neck open, eyes still wide, mouth smiling like he had just tasted something sweet.

His wife said, “He died with peace in his eyes.”

But she never saw what he saw.

The village whispered…

The elder brother knew what had happened.

> ❝ She killed him. Our mother. She warned us. ❞

The next morning, he dragged her into the courtyard — screaming, crying, sobbing with rage.

> “You drank his blood, didn’t you? You demon!”

She didn’t answer.

The fight turned violent. Her sari tore. Her shoulder bled. Her blouse snapped off one side, and her chest was exposed in front of neighbors.

But she did not cover herself.

She simply stood there.

Naked. Staring.

Eyes not angry.

Not sad.

Just… hungry.

The wind stopped. Crows scattered.

Even the goats didn’t bleat.

One neighbor said, “I felt like she looked inside my bones.”

And then she turned.

And walked into the woods.

Alone.

No one followed.

Because no one wanted to be seen by her again.

But that was just the beginning…

To be continued in Part 2: The Eyes That Burn

🩸 Follow if the cup still feels warm.