An incomplete horror story

I submitted this short story for a competition and got a prize for it. Unfortunately, I cannot get hold of the entire story now

In the summer of 1992, I had to spend a considerable time in the jungles of Central India, working as an auditor for Indian Railways. Life was hard, but the pay compensated for it. For many a weeks I slogged in dilapidated Dak bungalows, miles away from civilisation. I would have continued with this rather dreary, albeit financially rewarding life, had fate not landed me in Meedhapur.

The place was said to have a dark past, which is probably why few people volunteered despite the lucrative allowance. I was considered brave for accepting the offer, and the supervising officer sent me a note that said, 'Do not step outside after dark!'. I smiled at the joke.

The next day, Babulal, the guesthouse attendant, an old and irritable fellow, picked me up from Raipur. He was visibly perturbed by my frequent stops on the way, as I stepped down to photograph the flora and fauna. During the last leg of the journey, he drove rather rashly, occasionally glancing at the west. He hardly replied to my casual chitchat, and while I had taken a strong dislike to the fellow, his focus on the road was commendable. It was almost as if his life depended on it.

It was nearly sundown by the time we reached the guesthouse. It was a two storied building, with a visage that was distinctly British. The place was doubtlessly falling apart, but still held some of its old majesty. One part of the building looked onto the garden that had been run over by weeds, and the other overlooked the jungle. It was evident that wild beasts frequently showed up, for the perimeter was secured by six-feet of barbed wire. I would have taken a walk around, but Babulal almost pushed me into the verandah. I gave him a stern look, and he apologised profusely, attributing the accident to his old age and wobbly knees. As he opened the door, Babulal got extremely animated, switching on the lights and pulling down the curtains. Minutes later, he was a completely different man, hospitable to the core, and unnervingly garrulous. I asked him to shift my luggage upstairs, where the rooms were much larger and airier. While Babulal was visibly perturbed by this decision, I was ferociously adamant, and he had to give in. Our relationship had started on a sour note, but the man had prepared refreshments in advance, which were duly presented to me. As it was getting late, Babulal wanted to serve the food before retiring. I worked late into the night, as sleep was hard to come by. The heat was stifling, and I perspired profusely. To make matters worse, the place seemed to be infested with rats that ran up the walls. As I looked outside, could see the trees swaying on the opposite hill, promising a pleasant summer breeze. I thought it wise to open the window that overlooked the jungle.

Switching off the light, I threw the panes ajar, and peered into the valley below. As my eyes got accustomed to the dark, I could see a faint light flickering in the jungle. A faint sound reached my ears, and as I began to comprehend it, a chill ran down my spine. It was the sound of neither bird nor beast, but a very human cry that wavered but never stopped.

The next day I woke up late. Babulal...