Chapter 671

The old house stood on a hill overlooking the village. Locals whispered tales about it, stories passed down through generations, always spoken with a shiver and a glance over the shoulder. They said a woman lived there once, a woman who could bend in ways no human should.

Priya had not paid them much mind. At twenty-nine, she considered herself too pragmatic for ghost stories. She had come to this remote village in search of quiet, a retreat from the clamor of city life.

The house, though dilapidated, offered an escape, a solitude she desperately craved. It was cheap, isolated, and possessed a strange charm, despite its disrepair.

The first few days were peaceful. Priya spent her time reading, exploring the surrounding woods, and enjoying the silence. The air was clean, the nights were dark, and the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl. It was exactly what she needed.

But then, the noises began. Faint at first, almost imperceptible. A creaking floorboard when no one was walking. A soft scratching sound from within the walls.

Priya dismissed them as the house settling, old wood groaning under its own weight.

One evening, as dusk deepened into night, she heard it clearly. A dragging sound, slow and deliberate, coming from upstairs.

She froze, book slipping from her grasp. The house was supposed to be empty, save for her. Her heart started to race, a cold dread creeping into her stomach.

She told herself it was just the wind, playing tricks with the old house. But there was no wind that night. The air was still, heavy with the silence that now felt oppressive. The dragging sound came again, closer this time, right above her head.

Hesitantly, Priya stood up, her breath catching in her throat. She told herself to be rational. It could be an animal, a raccoon perhaps, that had found its way into the attic. But the sound didn't feel animal. It felt… deliberate. Intentional.

She reached for a heavy iron rod she had found in the shed, its cold weight offering a small measure of reassurance. Taking a deep breath, she started up the creaky wooden staircase, each step groaning loudly in the stillness. The dragging sound stopped as she ascended.

The upstairs hallway was darker than downstairs, shadows pooling in every corner. The air felt colder here, a noticeable drop in temperature that sent shivers down her spine. She moved slowly, rod held ready, listening intently. Silence. Absolute, unnerving silence.

She reached the top of the stairs and paused, scanning the hallway. Doors lined both sides, all closed. The dragging sound had come from this direction, she was sure of it. Taking another deep breath, she moved towards the nearest door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle.

The door creaked open, revealing a small, empty bedroom. Dust motes danced in the moonlight filtering through the window. Nothing. She checked the other rooms, each one empty, each one silent. Relief washed over her, quickly followed by a prickle of unease. If it wasn't upstairs, where had the sound come from?

As she turned to go back downstairs, she heard it again. The dragging sound, this time from behind her. She whirled around, rod raised, but there was nothing there. Just the empty hallway, bathed in moonlight and shadow. Her breath hitched in her chest.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice barely a whisper. Silence answered her. She felt foolish, talking to an empty house. But the dread was still there, a heavy weight pressing down on her. She decided to go back downstairs, lock all the doors, and try to forget about it.

As she reached the top of the staircase, she saw it. At the end of the hallway, in the deepest shadows, a shape. Tall and thin, impossibly thin, it seemed to blend into the darkness at first. Then it moved. Or rather, it bent.

It was a woman, Priya could now discern, though barely. Her back was to Priya, but her form was contorted at an unnatural angle. Her spine seemed to be bent almost in half, her head nearly touching her lower back. She was dragging herself along the floor, slowly, deliberately, making that awful sound.

Priya gasped, stepping back in terror. This was no raccoon. This was something else, something deeply wrong. The figure continued to drag itself forward, not seeming to notice her presence. Its movements were jerky, unnatural, like a puppet with broken strings.

She wanted to scream, to run, but her body felt frozen, her feet rooted to the spot. She could only watch, paralyzed by horror, as the bending woman moved closer, dragging herself out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

As the moonlight illuminated her, Priya could see her more clearly. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over bones that seemed too long, too thin. Her hair was black, matted and tangled, hanging down to the floor. But it was her posture that was truly horrifying.

Her back was bent at an impossible angle, her limbs twisted and elongated. It was as if her bones had been rearranged, forced into a shape no human body should ever take. And yet, she moved, dragging herself with a grotesque, determined slowness.

Priya found her voice, a choked whisper. "Who... who are you?" The bending woman stopped dragging. Slowly, impossibly slowly, she began to straighten up. Priya watched in frozen terror as the figure's back unbent, vertebra by vertebra, creaking and popping like dry branches snapping.

The woman stood up, her form still distorted, her limbs too long, her torso twisted. She turned to face Priya. Her face was hidden in shadow, but Priya could feel her gaze, cold and empty, fixed upon her. A chilling stillness filled the air.

Then, the bending woman spoke. Her voice was raspy, like dry leaves rustling in the wind, barely audible. "You should not be here."

Priya's mind reeled. It was real. The stories were real. This creature, this twisted woman, was the one from the village tales. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her paralysis. She had to get out. She had to run.

She turned to flee back down the stairs, but the bending woman moved. Not with swiftness, but with a disturbing fluidity, her distorted limbs propelling her forward in a strange, unsettling gait. She moved faster than she should, her unnatural form defying physics.

Priya scrambled down the stairs, her feet stumbling on the wooden steps. She could hear the bending woman behind her, a soft dragging sound now mixed with a light, padding footstep. She didn't dare look back, her heart pounding in her chest, fear lending her speed.

She burst out of the front door, into the cool night air. She didn't stop running, her lungs burning, her legs aching. She ran blindly, away from the house, away from the bending woman, towards the village she had so recently sought to escape.

She ran until she reached the first houses, gasping for breath, her body trembling. Lights were on in some windows, casting a warm glow into the darkness. She pounded on the nearest door, desperation giving her strength.

An old man opened the door, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw her frantic state. "What is it, child? What troubles you so?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"The house," Priya choked out, pointing back towards the hill. "The woman... the bending woman... she's there."

The old man's face paled. He looked at her, then at the dark hill looming above them. He knew the stories, everyone in the village did. But they were just stories, weren't they? Or so he had always believed.

"Come inside, child," he said, pulling her into his small house. His wife came to the door, her eyes also filled with worry. They offered Priya water, and a place to sit, their faces etched with apprehension.

Priya tried to explain, to describe what she had seen, but her words came out in a jumble, broken by sobs and gasps for air. The bending woman, her twisted form, her raspy voice, the dragging sound, it all tumbled out in a rush of terror.

The old couple listened in silence, their expressions growing graver with each word. When she finished, a heavy silence descended upon the small room. The old man finally spoke, his voice low and somber.

"The tales… they are true then." He shook his head slowly. "We have always known of her. She has been in that house for generations, they say. A curse, some believe. A punishment."

"But what is she?" Priya asked, her voice trembling. "What does she want?"

The old woman sighed, her eyes filled with a deep sadness. "No one knows for certain. Some say she was a woman who angered the spirits, twisted and broken as penance. Others say she is something older, something that has always been there, drawn to sorrow and pain."

"And what does she do?" Priya pressed, fear still gripping her heart. "Why is she in that house?"

The old man looked at her, his eyes filled with a chilling understanding. "She collects sorrows, child. She feeds on them. People who go to that house… they are drawn there by their own sadness, their own grief. And she… she takes it from them. And in return…" his voice trailed off, heavy with implication.

"In return, what?" Priya asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The old woman answered, her voice soft and mournful. "In return, she gives them peace. A final peace. But it is not a peace you would want, child."

Priya felt a cold dread wash over her. Peace? What kind of peace could this twisted creature offer? And why had she been drawn to that house? Was it her own sadness, her own grief, that had led her there?

She had come to the village to escape the memories of her past. The loss of her family in an accident, the emptiness that had consumed her life ever since.

Had she unknowingly sought out this place of sorrow, seeking some kind of solace in its desolation?

"You must not go back there, child," the old man said, his voice firm. "You must leave this place. Go back to the city, to your life. Forget about this village, forget about the house, forget about her."

Priya nodded, tears streaming down her face. She understood now. The bending woman didn't want to harm her, not in the way she had initially feared. She wanted something else, something far more insidious.

She wanted her sadness, her grief, her pain. She wanted to take it, to consume it, and in return, offer a twisted, final peace.

But Priya didn't want that peace. She didn't want to surrender her sorrow to this creature. Her grief was a part of her, a painful reminder of what she had lost, but also a testament to the love she had once known. To give it up would be to lose a part of herself, to become hollow, empty, truly broken.

She stayed with the old couple for the rest of the night, huddled in their small house, the fear slowly receding, replaced by a profound sadness. As dawn broke, painting the sky with pale hues, she made a choice.

She would leave the village, as the old man had advised. She would go back to her life, to the city, to the world she had tried to escape.

But she would not forget. She would not forget the bending woman, the twisted figure in the shadows, the collector of sorrows.

And she would carry her grief with her, not as a burden, but as a reminder of the life she had lived, the love she had known, and the resilience of the human heart, even in the face of unimaginable sorrow.

She left the village that morning, walking away from the house on the hill, leaving behind the bending woman and her offer of a twisted peace.

She carried her sadness with her, a heavy weight in her chest, but also a source of strength, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, life, in all its pain and beauty, continues. And sometimes, that is all the peace one can truly ask for. The peace to keep living, to keep feeling, even when it hurts.

Years later, Priya found herself back in the city, building a life, piece by piece. The memories of the bending woman remained, a haunting echo in the recesses of her mind, a somber reminder of the darkness that lurks at the edges of the world.

She never spoke of it, burying the experience deep within her, a secret sorrow added to the ones she already carried. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, she would wonder about the bending woman, still in that old house on the hill, still collecting sorrows, still offering her twisted, unwanted peace.

And she would be grateful that she had chosen to keep her own grief, to carry her own weight, to live with her own pain, for it was in that pain that she found the strength to keep going, to keep living, to keep bending, but not breaking.