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Palan must have been eight then. Haru, who was ten, happened to be his best friend.

It was the month of Kattik—cold winds had already begun. In winter, the nights stretched long, and the Sundarbans nearly slipped into a frozen stillness by that time of year. Icy, sharp winds could cut you apart if you weren’t bundled in something warm.

In those short days and fleeting afternoons, no amount of play ever felt enough. So Haru made a proposal to Palan, “What if we go fishing by ourselves, just once, in a fortnight?”

Both boys had often watched their fathers set out for local fishing trips at night, returning by the break of dawn, their nets heavy with the nature’s gifts.

To their surprise, their parents were not really displeased with the plan, either—it would not only keep the boys busy, train them early for the actual hardship of life, but also help bring in some extra catch to sell at the local market—some extra cash!

Palan and Haru decided to set their expedition at the KhapaDanga pond, barely a hundred yards from their village. They agreed on a plan, Palan would meet Haru on his way to KhapaDanga, at three o'clock in the morning. He would make a call from behind Haru’s hut—the spot where a narrow trail opened up into a shortcut leading straight to the pond.

The day had finally arrived. Palan woke at midnight and quietly bundled himself into layers of sweaters over his half-pants—just in case they had to get into the pond. He grabbed his father’s heavy lift-net, awkward in his small arms, and stepped out into the cold. The cold wind of Kattik bit his soft sparkly face as he walked towards Haru’s hut. But before he could call out Haru’s name, he saw Haru already waiting impatiently—“You’re late” Haru said, frowning slightly, though his eyes gleamed with excitement. Palan grinned and said nothing. Their adventure was about to begin. The smell of fish had already filled the air in their imagination.

Both boys knew how to set a lift-net. They had watched their fathers and uncles do it countless times since they were little. Though the set-up was harder than it looked, but they managed. Haru’s skills in setting up the net rather seemed like a pro.

No sooner had they fixed the net—barely even lowered it into the water—a flurry of fish began to thrash inside. Chuno-Punti, small Rohu, silvery Chanda—it was like a sudden rain of fishes. The net bowed under the weight, all on its own, without either of them having to push it down. Within an hour or two, the daylight broke softly, gliding through the branches of the trees, across the hazy, plough-marked fields of winter time. By then, the net was visibly heavy, nearly submerged into the pond.

“Hold this side” Palan said, pointing to one edge of the net. Haru nodded and braced himself. Palan turned around to fetch the rope—the one used to lift the entire net.

These kinds of nets weren’t known for big catches. Twenty, maybe thirty fish at best. But today—this net was stuffed. At least two hundred fish! The whole thing bulged with life, threatening to snap.

Heart pounding, Palan grabbed the rope and gave it a pull.

It lifted like air—feather light.

Something was wrong.

He turned, confused—and froze.

There was Haru, crouched in the mud, surrounded by a chaotic pile of scattered fish. His mouth was full. Raw fish, scales still glinting in the early light, hung from his hands. He was eating them. Devouring them, one after another. Palan stared in horror.

Nearly all the fish were gone—barely fifty remained tangled in the net. The rest lay heaped around Haru, bones and heads already scattered beneath him.

Palan splashed down into the cold mud, dumbfounded.

And then—nothing.

Everything else—Haru, the fish, the strange hunger—melted into the fog. The only thing he remembered after, was the shaking! His father and Gopi uncle frantically shaking Palan in broad daylight, rough hands on Palan’s shoulders, a voice calling his name, again and again.

What Palan had heard later was absurd. Haru, it turned out, had never stepped out his home that night. He had heard no whisper, no call. He believed that the plan was already abandoned by Palan. But someone—or something—had heard it—earlier, while they were making this plan, a Stinky Fish Ghost had caught wind of their conversation.

And that changed everything.

Stinky Fish Ghosts are tricky beings. Whispered about in village tales that they dwell near ponds, rivers, and swamps—always watching, always hungry. They’re known to help in fishing, they have acute flair in luring fishes, but unable to drag them out of the water. Sometimes, they take the form of someone from the fishing group. Other times, they slip into a person’s body in that very group—unnoticed. And if neither, they simply follow the fishermen quietly, driven by an inhuman craving for fish.

It is said, if you're in the hands of a Stinky Fish Ghost, you're sure to have a good catch.But you’ll never know if it’s your catch—or theirs.

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