He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible

I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth

Reya looks out the window of the bus, the glint of sunlight falling across her oval face makes her olive skin shimmer.

What do we make of the mysterious thread that connects these stories not by genre, but by an imagination so wondrous they leave room for an underlying horror, and the many things that can mean?