The Road to Khangkhui

“The villagers of Khangkhui believed the forest only hunted people after dark.

They were wrong.

It began watching long before sunset.”

The road became narrower after they crossed the old suspension bridge.

At first, nobody inside the van paid much attention to it. Music still played softly from Ibotomba’s phone, empty snack packets rolled near their feet whenever the vehicle hit potholes, and grey clouds drifted lazily above the hills outside.

But as the hours passed, the world around them slowly began to change.

Concrete buildings disappeared.

Roadside shops became scattered wooden houses.

Then smaller roads.

Then forest.

By evening, the hills surrounding the road had turned dark beneath the cloudy sky. Tall bamboo groves leaned over both sides of the path while fog moved quietly between distant trees.

Inside the van, Lanchenba adjusted the camera resting on his lap and stared outside without speaking.

The deeper they travelled, the weaker the mobile network became.

“No signal again,” Ibotomba complained from the backseat. “If I die here, nobody can even upload my photo.”

Thoina looked up from her notebook.

“You’re not important enough for national news.”

“That’s rude. At least respect the dead.”

“You’re not dead yet.”

“Emotionally, I am.”

Lanchenba smiled faintly but remained quiet.

That was normal for him.

Even during college, he had always been the silent one in every group. People remembered him more for standing behind cameras than participating in conversations.

The driver suddenly slowed the van near a roadside tea stall built beside the hills.

“We should stop here,” he said. “Road ahead becomes difficult after dark.”

Nobody argued.

The cold evening air hit them immediately after stepping out of the vehicle. Wind moved through the hills carrying the smell of wet soil and approaching rain.

The tea stall itself looked old and worn down. A rusted tin roof covered a few wooden benches while steam rose continuously from a black kettle near the counter.

An elderly man looked up as they entered.

“Where are you all heading?”

“Lairen Village,” Thoina answered politely.

The old man’s expression changed slightly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough for Lanchenba to notice.

“You have relatives there?”

“We’re filming a documentary,” Ibotomba replied before anyone could stop him. “About local folklore and ghost stories.”

For a moment, the old man remained silent while pouring tea into small glasses.

Then he asked quietly,

“You came during this season?”

Thoina frowned slightly.

“What’s wrong with this season?”

The old man placed the glasses carefully onto the table.

“Too much rain.”

Nobody responded immediately.

Outside, bamboo leaves rustled softly in the wind.

Lanchenba watched the old man closely.

He had seen reactions like this before whenever outsiders mentioned local ghost stories. Some villagers became excited. Others uncomfortable.

But this man looked genuinely uneasy.

Ibotomba leaned forward curiously.

“So the stories are real?”

The old man stared at him for several seconds.

“Young people from cities always ask that first.”

“And?”

“And later they stop asking.”

The atmosphere around the table grew quieter after that.

Even Ibotomba stopped smiling briefly.

Thoina opened her notebook.

“The bamboo forest near Lairen Village,” she asked carefully. “Do people really avoid it?”

The old man’s eyes shifted toward her immediately.

“You should not go there after sunset.”

“We’re only documenting stories.”

“Stories exist because something happened first.”

Rain began falling outside.

Soft at first.

Then steadily against the roof above them.

Lanchenba finally spoke.

“Has anyone actually disappeared there?”

The old man looked at him differently after that question.

Carefully.

As though deciding whether to answer honestly.

Finally, he nodded once.

“A boy went missing three months ago.”

Thoina lowered her notebook slightly.

“Was he found?”

The old man shook his head slowly.

“They only found his shoes near the river.”

Silence settled across the tea stall.

Outside, fog drifted slowly between the dark hills while rainwater flowed along the roadside.

The driver glanced outside nervously.

“We should leave now if we want to arrive before night.”

Everyone stood up quietly.

As Lanchenba reached for his bag, the old man suddenly spoke again.

This time directly toward him.

“If you hear someone calling your name from the forest,” he said softly, “do not answer immediately.”

Lanchenba frowned.

“What do you mean?”

The old man’s expression remained serious.

“Sometimes the voice does not belong to a person anymore.”

For a brief moment, nobody moved.

Then Ibotomba laughed awkwardly.

“You’re making this documentary better already, uncle.”

But the old man did not smile.

Not even slightly.

And somehow, that unsettled Lanchenba more than the story itself.

The rain grew heavier as they returned to the van.

By the time the engine started again, darkness had already begun swallowing the hills ahead.

And somewhere beyond the fog-covered road waiting before them, the bamboo forest stood silently beneath the rain.

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