The rain had been falling for three days without a break. Thick, heavy sheets of water turned the Kerala forest into a world of grey mist and rushing streams. Officer Meera Nair, fresh from the city, gripped the steering wheel of her government jeep and tried to see the narrow road ahead.

This was her first posting as a forest officer. She had been told the small wildlife station at Vattamalai was quiet, almost sleepy. But as the wipers struggled against the downpour, Meera wondered if she had been given the full truth.

When she finally reached the station—a cluster of wooden huts with tin roofs—dusk had already fallen. Rain drummed like a thousand drums. A lone guard, Soman, waved her inside.

“Madam, you made it,” he said with a worried smile. “The river is rising fast. We may be cut off tonight.”

Meera hung her wet jacket on a nail and looked around the main hut. The smell of damp wood filled the air. A radio crackled faintly, but the signal was weak. She saw the other staff members: Rafi, a young tracker with sharp eyes, and Lakshmi, the cook who was stirring a pot of steaming kanji.

“Any problems in the forest?” Meera asked.

Soman exchanged a glance with Rafi. “Some strange killings,” he admitted. “Animals found without a drop of blood. Not eaten, just… drained.”

“Maybe poachers?” Meera suggested.

Rafi shook his head. “No bullet marks, no traps. Only deep claw marks we don’t recognize.”

Meera frowned. “Show me tomorrow. For now, let’s rest. The rain isn’t stopping.”

That night the storm grew wild. Wind rattled the shutters and water seeped under the door. Meera tried to sleep on a wooden cot, but the forest outside roared like an angry sea.

Near midnight, a loud thud made her sit up. Something heavy had fallen just outside the hut. She grabbed her torch and stepped out.

A deer lay on the wet ground, eyes wide open, its body perfectly still. No blood, no wound except three long slashes across its neck.

Rafi appeared behind her, raincoat flapping. “Same as the others,” he said. “It wasn’t here an hour ago.”

The sight chilled Meera. “Whatever did this is still close,” she said.

Lightning flashed, and for a heartbeat she saw dark shapes moving in the trees—too big for normal animals, too quick for humans.

By morning, the river had flooded the only bridge to the nearest town. Phone lines were dead. The radio gave only static. They were alone.

Meera called a meeting. “We stay alert,” she said. “No one goes out alone. We need to find what’s doing this before more animals die.”

They spent the day checking the forest edge. Everywhere they found strange claw marks on trees, almost like writing. Rafi whispered an old tale about the Kuruthi Pakshi, a blood-drinking spirit bird said to appear during great storms. Lakshmi crossed herself and refused to listen.

Meera tried to stay logical. “Legends don’t kill deer,” she said. But a small voice inside her wondered.

That evening, as darkness fell again, the air felt heavier, charged. The rain softened to a mist, and the forest grew unnaturally silent. Even the frogs stopped calling.

Around midnight a long, low howl rolled through the valley. It was not the call of any animal Meera knew—neither wolf nor leopard. It vibrated in her bones.

Soman gripped his rifle. “Madam, we should stay inside.”

But Meera shook her head. “If we don’t find it, it will keep hunting.”

Taking torches and rifles, the four of them stepped into the night. The rain had slowed, but a thick fog wrapped the trees. Visibility was barely a few meters.

They followed a trail of crushed plants until they reached the old bamboo grove. The smell of wet earth mixed with something metallic, like iron.

Suddenly, Rafi froze. “Look.”

A giant shadow moved between the trunks, silent and fast. Two pale lights—eyes—glowed for a moment and vanished.

The howl came again, closer now.

Before anyone could react, the shadow leapt. A huge dark figure slammed into Soman, knocking him to the ground. Meera fired her rifle, the sound exploding in the quiet night. The figure recoiled, then bounded into the mist, leaving behind deep claw marks on a tree.

Soman lay gasping, his raincoat ripped but skin untouched. No blood—only three burning scratches across his chest, like the deer’s wounds.

“We must go back!” Lakshmi cried.

Supporting Soman, they hurried to the station. Meera barred the door and checked the rifle. Only two bullets left.

Hours dragged by. The storm returned, hammering the tin roof. Soman shivered with fever. Meera kept watch, eyes on the dark window.

Through the roar of rain she heard faint whispers, as if the forest itself was speaking. Words she could almost understand, calling her name.

At one point, the door creaked open though the latch was still drawn. Wind rushed in carrying the scent of iron.

Rafi held up a lantern. In its light Meera saw muddy footprints on the floor—three-toed, larger than any animal she knew. They led inside, then simply… stopped.

Just before dawn the rain eased again. Meera decided it was time to face the creature. “It will not stop,” she told the others. “If we wait, it will come for us.”

Rafi insisted on joining her. They followed the strange footprints back to the bamboo grove. The early light was grey and cold.

At the heart of the grove stood an ancient stone shrine, overgrown with moss. Around it lay the bodies of more animals—monkeys, birds, even a wild boar—each without a drop of blood.

A deep growl rumbled from behind the shrine. Slowly, a shape emerged.

It was unlike anything Meera had seen: taller than a man, its body covered in wet black fur that shimmered like feathers. Its face was long and narrow, eyes glowing the color of the moon. Claws curved like sickles.

For a long moment, creature and human stared at each other.

Meera raised her rifle. “Stay back,” she said, though her voice trembled.

The creature tilted its head, almost curious. Then it spoke—not in words but in a low humming that filled the air like music. Images flashed in Meera’s mind: ancient forests, floods, humans cutting trees, fires in the hills. A feeling of pain and warning.

“It’s not just hunting,” Meera whispered. “It’s protecting the forest.”

Rafi looked at her in shock. “What?”

The creature stepped closer. Meera lowered the rifle. “We will leave,” she said softly. “We will respect your home.”

The humming grew softer, almost gentle. Then the creature turned and melted into the mist, disappearing as if it were never there.

By the time they returned to the station, the river had begun to fall. The bridge would reopen by afternoon. Soman’s fever broke, and the scratches on his chest had faded to pale marks.

When the forest department team finally arrived two days later, Meera told them about a large unknown predator. She left out the part about the voice in her head. They nodded politely and blamed a rogue leopard, though they never found tracks.

Before leaving Vattamalai, Meera visited the bamboo grove one last time. The shrine stood silent, the dead animals gone. Only the smell of rain and wild flowers remained.

She placed a small offering of rice near the stone. “We will protect this place,” she whispered.

As she walked back, the clouds parted and a single beam of sunlight broke through, lighting the wet forest in gold. The monsoon was not over, but for the first time in days the silence felt peaceful, not threatening.

That night, back in the town, Meera listened to the gentle rain on the roof. She knew the forest would always keep its secrets. But she also knew the creature—whatever it was—would watch, waiting for the next storm.

Somewhere in the endless green, a low, musical hum drifted through the trees, a reminder that the wild still guarded its own.