Chương 149: Chapter 149
The city of Dhaka had always been loud. The horns of buses, the cries of vendors, the clatter of construction—these sounds filled the air during the day, a constant rush of life. But at night, it was quieter. That was when the Bat Who Laughs made its appearance. It didn't matter whether the streets were bustling or the city was at rest. When the clock struck midnight, the terror began.
The Bat Who Laughs was not a myth, not a story told by parents to keep their children from staying out late. It was something else. Something worse. It was a thing, a thing that flew through the streets and alleys, dragging its long, twisted claws across anything it could reach, feeding on the living, leaving behind only death.
People spoke of it in hushed whispers, their voices shaking, their faces pale with fear. They said it wasn't a bat, not in the way you'd think of a bat. It was something far worse. It was the shape of a man, but twisted. Deformed. And it laughed—always laughed—its voice an echo of madness that filled the streets and crawled into your bones.
Nashit had heard the stories. He had heard about the Bat from his mother, his father, his neighbors. He had heard about the killing hour—the time between midnight and six a.m. when anyone caught outside would die. He had heard it all. But Nashit was young. He was full of life, full of dreams that stretched far beyond the dirty streets of Dhaka. He was a photographer, capturing fleeting moments of beauty in a city that had none left to give. But that was before.
That night, like all the others, Nashit was inside his small apartment in the heart of the city. He had heard the news—the Bat had killed again. A family, just a few blocks away, torn apart by that thing. But Nashit had gotten used to the news by now. It was as if it was part of the city's pulse, something everyone just accepted, like the noise, like the endless hum of people trying to live their lives in the face of so much destruction.
It wasn't that Nashit wasn't scared. He was. Who wouldn't be? But fear doesn't stop the hands of time, and fear doesn't stop the photographs from needing to be taken. His camera sat on the table, the lens aimed at nothing in particular, his fingers twitching as though they had a life of their own.
Outside, the streets were quiet. Too quiet.
He glanced at the clock. It was eleven thirty. Midnight was coming, and the killing hour would begin. Nashit shuddered and looked out the window. The darkness outside felt thick, like it could swallow him whole if he wasn't careful. The city, which should have been bustling, had gone eerily still. He didn't know if it was just his mind, or if the Bat was already close.
He didn't hear it at first. The laughter. It wasn't loud, not at first. It was a low chuckle, a sound that crawled up the back of your neck. Nashit froze, his body stiffening as the sound slowly grew. It was coming from somewhere far off, but the sound carried like a whisper in the night.
The Bat.
Nashit quickly pulled the curtains shut, his heart pounding. He knew what he was supposed to do. Stay inside. Stay inside and don't make a sound. But his curiosity—his hunger for life—pushed him forward, pulling him toward the balcony.
The city was bathed in a sickly yellow light, the streets empty and deserted. There was nothing out there. Nothing.
But Nashit could feel it, deep in his gut. It was there. The Bat was out there, somewhere in the darkness. Its laughter continued, quiet but persistent, like it was playing with the night.
He took a step back, away from the balcony, and grabbed his camera. Maybe if he just got one shot, just one, it would be worth it. The story of a lifetime. A picture that would get him noticed, that would bring attention to his work.
He stood at the window, waiting.
It was almost time.
At midnight, the laughter stopped.
Nashit didn't hear it anymore. The silence was worse than the sound. It was as if the Bat had gone to sleep, waiting for its prey to come to it.
The clock on his wall ticked loudly, the only sound in the room. Tick. Tick. Tick. The seconds dragged on, and the silence grew heavier, suffocating him.
Then, a soft thud.
Nashit's breath caught in his throat. The sound was faint, but it was enough to send a jolt of fear through him. Something was outside. Something big. He dared to glance through the window again, his heart hammering.
There was nothing.
He could barely make out the outlines of the buildings below, dark figures in the dim light. His mind raced, but his body remained still.
Then, another thud.
Closer.
The Bat wasn't laughing anymore. The silence was worse than any laughter, the calm before the storm. Nashit's fingers tightened around his camera, but he couldn't bring himself to lift it to his eye. He was frozen, trapped in the fear of what he knew was coming.
He heard it again. Closer.
The thud of heavy feet, dragging across the ground. The sounds of claws scraping against stone. And then, that laughter.
The Bat was close.
Nashit tried to step away from the window, but he tripped on his own feet. He fell, his camera hitting the floor with a sickening crack. Panic gripped him, his chest tightening as he scrambled to his feet.
Another thud. This one was louder.
The Bat was here.
The door to his apartment rattled. Nashit's eyes went wide as he rushed to the door, bolting it shut, his hands shaking. His breath came in shallow gasps, the panic building as he pressed his ear to the door, listening. He couldn't hear anything anymore. Just his own heartbeat, pounding in his chest like it was trying to break free.
The door rattled again. This time, louder.
Nashit backed away, his mind racing, but there was nowhere to go. No escape. He had heard the stories. He knew what came next.
The door shattered.
Splinters of wood flew into the room as the Bat's clawed hand reached through, grabbing the edge of the doorframe. The laughter was louder now, closer, like it was laughing at him, laughing because it knew there was no hope left.
Nashit stumbled back, his mind refusing to accept what was happening. The Bat stepped through the door, its twisted body filling the doorway. It was no longer a man, no longer anything human. Its wings stretched wide, the claws at the ends of its fingers glistening in the dim light.
Its face—its smile—was the last thing Nashit saw.
The Bat Who Laughs didn't speak. It didn't need to. Its presence, its grotesque form, the madness in its eyes—it was enough.
And as Nashit tried to scream, as his mouth opened to beg for mercy, the Bat stepped forward. It reached out and grabbed him by the throat, its claws digging into his skin. Nashit's world went black, not from death but from the crushing terror that filled every inch of his being.
The Bat's laughter echoed in his ears as it dragged him into the darkness, its claws tearing into his flesh as if it were nothing more than a plaything. Nashit's last thought was that maybe, just maybe, it would all be over soon. But it wasn't. The Bat had never been merciful, and it wouldn't stop until it had its fill.
The killing hour had only just begun.
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