The Weeping Stone of Kolsai

My name is Aarav, and I am a geologist, not a believer in the supernatural. I have spent my life studying rocks and the stories they tell, but the stones of Kolsai taught me that some stories are not meant to be read—they are meant to be lived, and if you are unlucky, they are meant to end you.

It began three years ago, when I was assigned to survey a remote valley in the Himalayas, near the vanished village of Kolsai. The locals whispered of a curse, of a stone that wept, and of the souls trapped within it. I scoffed at their tales, as did my colleague, Rohan, a man as skeptical as I was. We set up our camp at the edge of the valley, where the forest clawed at the sky and the wind carried a sound like a child’s sob. Rohan joked that the valley was weeping for our intrusion. I laughed, but deep down, the sound unsettled me.

Our mission was to map the geological formations, and one morning, we discovered a massive black monolith jutting from the earth. It was smooth, impossibly so, and warm to the touch, as if it had a fever. At its base, a pool of dark, viscous liquid collected—the ‘tears’ the villagers spoke of. I collected a sample, noting the unusual composition, but as I did, I felt a vibration, a hum that seemed to answer a frequency within my bones. Rohan, ever the pragmatist, dismissed it as a natural phenomenon. That night, he complained of nightmares, murmuring in his sleep, ‘They are watching.’ I dismissed his unease.

The next day, Rohan grew listless, his eyes hollow. He insisted we leave, but I wanted to complete the survey. As I worked, I heard him behind me, mumbling. I turned, and he was staring at the stone, his lips moving in a language I didn’t know. His eyes were black, like the stone’s surface. I grabbed his shoulder, and he snapped out of it, gasping, claiming he had seen faces in the stone—faces of the lost, contorted in agony. I attributed it to altitude sickness, but that night, I too dreamt. In my dream, the stone was a gateway, and something was trying to squeeze through, its fingers already reaching into our world. I woke to find Rohan missing from his tent.

Panic set in. I searched the valley, calling his name until my throat burned. Finally, I found him near the stone, kneeling, his hands pressed against its surface, his body shivering. When he turned to me, his face was that of a stranger—his features had shifted, elongated, as if the stone had remolded his flesh. He spoke in a voice that was not his, a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself, ‘You should have left. Now you are part of the wall.’ I grabbed him, and as I did, the stone’s surface rippled, and I saw faces emerging—hundreds, no, thousands of faces, all twisted, all screaming in silence. One face was Rohan’s, and it was being pulled inward.

I stumbled back, horror-stricken, as Rohan’s body was swallowed by the stone, leaving no trace. I ran for hours, but the valley seemed to stretch, to mock my escape. The weeping sound grew louder, and I realized it was not the wind—it was the stone, crying for its victims. I eventually reached the nearest village, but no one would speak to me, as if I were marked. They just pointed to the mountains and whispered, ‘Kolsai’s hunger grows.’ I returned to the city, but I was never the same. I cannot sleep, for when I close my eyes, I see the faces, and I feel the stone’s pull, calling me back. I have tried to rationalize it, but deep down, I know the truth: the stone is still there, weeping, waiting. And one day, I will join Rohan in its eternal wall. This is my warning: if you hear a stone crying, do not listen. Run. Do not be curious. The earth keeps its secrets, and some are meant to devour.