The Loop of Unmaking

The move came without warning, as all transfers do. My father, a cautious man who measured risk in columns and ledgers, had been posted to the coastal town of Verasur, a place that existed on maps only as a smudged dot. The bank provided us a flat in what was called the ‘Officers’ Enclave,’ a cluster of twelve identical buildings, each a mirror of the other, arranged in a perfect hexagon around a central courtyard. The courtyard held a single banyan tree, its aerial roots hanging like the tangled hair of a drowned woman.

We arrived in the late afternoon, under a sky the color of a healing bruise. The air was thick with salt and something else—a faint, sweet odor, like overripe fruit left to rot in the sun. Our flat was on the third floor of Building Seven. The rooms were spacious, but the walls were painted a sickly yellow, and the windows faced the courtyard, offering a perfect view of the tree. My mother, a woman who found comfort in ritual, immediately began to sprinkle turmeric water in every corner, muttering prayers. I watched her, feeling a familiar unease. There was something about this place that made my skin prickle, as if the silence itself was listening.

The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The ceiling fan creaked in rhythm, a slow metronome of dread. I heard a sound, faint at first, like a child’s laughter, but distorted, as if played backward. I sat up, listening. The laughter faded into a low hum, then into the soft shuffle of bare feet on the floor above. But we were on the top floor. I told myself it was the building settling, the wind, the neighbors. But I didn’t believe it.

The next morning, I met the other residents. They were all bank employees, like my father, but they moved with a strange uniformity, their smiles too wide, their greetings too rehearsed. There was a woman named Mrs. Iyer, who spoke in a monotone, her eyes never quite meeting mine. She told me, ‘You’ll get used to the sounds. They come and go. It’s just the sea.’ But there was no sea in sight, only the endless stretch of the Enclave and the banyan tree.

I decided to explore. The Enclave had a small park, a few benches, and a community hall, but no one ever used them. I walked through the corridors of the buildings, and I noticed something odd: every flat had the same layout, the same yellow walls, the same view of the tree. Even the families seemed interchangeable—the father with his briefcase, the mother with her pallu, the children with their school bags. They all moved as if on a loop, repeating the same actions at the same times.

On the third day, I saw a young girl, about seven, playing under the banyan tree. She was not like the others; her clothes were torn, and she had a haunted look. I approached her, and she looked up at me with eyes that were too old. ‘Are you new?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘Don’t stay here,’ she whispered. ‘They’re not real. They’re shells. The tree feeds on your memories, and then you become one of them.’ She pointed at the tree, and I saw that the roots were not roots but thin, writhing filaments, glistening with moisture. They seemed to pulse, as if alive.

I wanted to ask her more, but she ran off, disappearing into Building Four. I followed, but when I entered, I found only a locked door. I knocked, but there was no answer. I turned to leave, and I saw the tree’s roots had extended toward the building, almost touching the walls. I felt a sudden dizziness, and for a moment, I couldn’t remember why I had come here.

That night, I was lying in bed when the sound came again—the child’s laughter, but now it was clearer, and I could make out words: ‘Let me out, let me out.’ I looked out the window, and I saw the little girl under the tree, her face pressed against the trunk, her hands on the roots. She turned and looked up at me, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Then, the tree moved. I swear it moved. The roots lifted, and she was pulled into the trunk, as if the wood had parted to swallow her. I blinked, and she was gone.

I ran to my parents’ room, but they were sleeping peacefully, their chests rising and falling in perfect sync. I shook my father, but he didn’t wake. I screamed, but no sound came out. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. And then I heard a new sound—a scraping, like nails on wood, coming from the walls. I stood in the center of the room, my heart pounding, as the lights flickered. The yellow paint began to peel, revealing dark, wet rot beneath. The smell of decay filled the air.

The walls began to breathe, expanding and contracting. I saw faces in the patterns—the faces of the residents, but twisted, their mouths open in perpetual screams. I recognized Mrs. Iyer, her eyes hollow. I recognized the man from Building Two, his skin hanging off in strips. They were all there, trapped in the walls, their voices a whispering chorus: ‘You will be one of us soon.’

I don’t know how I escaped. I remember clawing at the door, and then I was in the corridor, running. The corridor stretched endlessly, doors on both sides, each one opening a crack, and from each, a hand reached out, pale and skeletal. I didn’t stop until I reached the central courtyard. The banyan tree stood before me, its roots now reaching across the entire ground, forming a web. The little girl was there, standing at the base of the trunk, but she was transparent, a ghost.

‘It was my mistake,’ she said. ‘I didn’t listen. I tried to leave the Enclave, but the tree wouldn’t let me. It took my memories, my voice, my body. Now I’m just a remnant.’ She pointed to a spot on the ground. ‘There’s a way out, but you have to be quick. It knows. It always knows.’

I looked where she pointed, and I saw a small crack in the concrete, barely wide enough for a fist. From it, a faint light glowed. I knelt down, and I heard the tree creak, felt its roots tighten. I began to dig with my bare hands, tearing at the concrete, the roots snapping at me like whips. The girl screamed, ‘Now!’ and I shoved my hand into the crack, pulling with all my strength. The ground gave way, and I fell into darkness.

I woke up on a beach, the sun rising over the ocean. I was lying on the sand, my clothes torn, my hands bleeding. I looked back, and there was no Enclave. Just a barren stretch of land, with a single dead tree, its roots like dried veins. I staggered to my feet and walked for hours until I found a small village. No one had heard of Verasur or the Officers’ Enclave. The bank had no record of my father’s transfer. In fact, I discovered that my father had retired years ago and was living with my mother in our old house, thousands of miles away.

I called them, and my mother answered. She sounded relieved. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been so worried. Your father had a heart attack last month, but he’s fine now. Please come home.’ I took the next train back, trying to forget. But sometimes, in my sleep, I hear the tree—the rustle of its leaves, the whisper of its roots. And I see the faces of the residents, and I wonder if I’m still there, trapped in the walls, a shell waiting for a new soul. My father is happy to see me, but I notice he has a habit of staring at the banyan tree in our garden, and sometimes, he hums a tune I’ve never heard before.