HeronBarlock

**1899, British India, Bengal.** The village of Ambika Kalna is gripped by an unspeakable horror. Corpses appear with no visible wounds—only lifeless eyes, hearts mysteriously stilled, and walls daubed in blood: ***“He is watching… He sees me… I see myself.”*** The nightmare spreads to Calcutta, where victims claw at their own faces or hang themselves with eerie calm, their final acts framed by shattered mirrors. No connection binds the dead, save the chilling refrain and the unshakable sense of being *seen*.  

**Isarish**, a mercilessly logical investigator, is tasked with unraveling the carnage. A man of contradictions—brilliant yet apathetic, devout yet haunted by doubt—he wields scripture as deftly as evidence. A Muslim who prays in shadows, his faith is a blade that cuts both ways: solace in ritual, torment in unanswered questions. To him, the curse is a puzzle, not a phantom… until he stares into the mirrors left behind and glimpses the fractures in his own soul.  

The **Curse of God**—*Ishvarashapa*—leaves no marks, only madness. It whispers through reflections, turning victims into judges of their hidden sins: hypocrites choke on their lies, the greedy starve amidst plenty, the cowardly drown in their fear. Isarish traces its path from Ambika Kalna’s trembling priests to Calcutta’s colonial elite, finding no killer, only a pattern of despair. Is this a mortal orchestrating terror through poison and psychosis—or a divine reckoning, forcing sinners to confront what they bury?  

**In the glass, truth waits. But is it God’s… or mankind’s?**
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"What if your reflection held every lie you’ve ever told—and God sent a madman to make you **read them aloud?"

WHISPERS OF DEATH : Ishvarashapa

"Truth is a beautiful lie—sugar-coated, easy to swallow, but never raw. It is not the truth they fear, but exposure. Beneath their masks of virtue lie sins too shameful to face, so they bury them under deception, whispering to themselves that lies can cleanse what has already been done. But lies do not erase sins—they only delay judgment.

They parade righteousness, yet their kindness, love, and mercy are measured—given where it serves them, withheld where it costs them. They claim to love, but only when it is easy. They forgive, but only when it is convenient.

They hate others because they despise themselves. The reflection of their own filth in others is unbearable. And when the truth strips away their illusions, they do not embrace it. They recoil, disgusted.

Because the truth is not kind. It is not merciful. It does not bend to comfort their fragile selves.

Their true selves… they are unbearable, aren't they?"

WHISPERS OF DEATH: Ishvarashapa [ The Curse of God ]