Do Not Turn - By Tenuli Perera

Written By: Tenuli Perera

Category: Short Story (Horror and Gothic Fiction-Supernatural Folklore)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Delve into the chilling atmosphere of "Do Not Turn," a short story by Tenuli Perera submitted in the category of Horror and Gothic Fiction-Supernatural Folklore for the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This gripping narrative invites readers into a world where folklore and supernatural elements intertwine, evoking a sense of unease and mystery. With its vivid depiction of cultural traditions and supernatural lore, Tenuli Perera crafts a narrative that captivates and unsettles, leaving an indelible mark on the reader's imagination.

About the Work

"Do Not Turn" explores themes of fear, folklore, and the supernatural, set against a vibrant cultural backdrop. The story is steeped in atmosphere, using rich imagery to evoke a sense of eerie anticipation. As the narrative unfolds, readers are drawn into a haunting tale where the boundaries between myth and reality blur, capturing the essence of horror and gothic fiction. The mood is tense and suspenseful, with a focus on the psychological impact of supernatural events on the characters.

Do Not Turn

Original Submission by Tenuli Perera

Do Not Turn

Written by Tenuli Perera

They had set up a small stage near the junction for the temple fundraiser. Coloured bulbs blinked lazily above the crowd. A loudspeaker crackled between baila songs. The smell of frying oil drifted from the temple gate where women stood over wide iron pans, lifting kokis from hot oil and draining mung kavum onto sheets of newspaper. Smoke from incense coils drifted over the crowd, mixing with the faint tang of wet mud from earlier drizzle. Somewhere a dog barked, far enough to make the field feel larger than it was.

Foreigners always said the air smelled of cinnamon, jasmine, and wet paddy after rain. They spoke of the mist over the fields and the temple bells as if everything here was gentle and poetic. They did not know how heavy it became after midnight, how it pressed against your chest, or how it tasted of oil, smoke, and something metallic you could not name.

Amali stood in the centre of it all, laughing too loudly, spinning once just to feel the attention land on her shoulders. She liked to shine. Nirmala liked standing just behind her, half hidden, half included.

Amali was the only one who had ever waved her over and said, “Come stand here, don’t be so stiff.”

The only one who had decided she was worth keeping.

Before going on stage, Amali had nudged her toward the kavili stall. “Buy some extra for my aunt,” she had said. “She hasn’t eaten properly since…you know.”

Everyone knew. The aunt had miscarried the week before after walking into the fields at dusk searching for her husband. The baby had been longed for. The village whispered, lowered their voices, avoided eyes.

Nirmala bought two extra packets. The paper grew warm and slightly oily in her hands. The wind carried the faint aroma of jasmine from the temple courtyard, mingling with smoke from nearby hearths and the smell of damp rice straw from the fields.

“Don’t disappear,” Amali teased before climbing onto the stage.

She disappeared instead.

When the music stopped and she did not return for her slippers, Nirmala felt it before anyone else did. Something small but wrong.

“They probably went off somewhere,” one of the boys said.

“Girls like her,” another added with a shrug.

By ten, the crowd thinned. By eleven, the lights were being unscrewed. By midnight, only dogs and wind remained. Cicadas chirped somewhere distant, and the air smelled heavier now, damp, sticky, with the faint metallic bite of wet soil.

Nirmala went to the police post near the bus halt. The officers did not look concerned. One of them was eating short eats from a folded newspaper.

“She’s probably with a boyfriend,” he said lazily. “Come in the morning if she’s still missing.”

In the morning.

As if fear could be delayed politely.

Not that the authority that’s supposed to serve and protect its citizens were polite in their assumptions of a young missing girl.

Nirmala stepped back into the night with the kavili still in her hand. She could have gone home. She could have waited. But waiting meant accepting that Amali might not come back, or accepting the claims of what others think of young girls when they’re missing for a while. And Nirmala had already spent most of her life being left out of things. Amali had been the first person to pull her into the centre of anything. She was not going to let go of that so easily.

Everyone knows you are not supposed to walk alone after midnight. Not past the cinnamon shed. Not near the old well across the fields.

Not beneath the goraka tree that leaned over it like a witness.

And if someone calls your name from the dark, you are not supposed to turn around.

Nirmala had heard the story since childhood. Kalu Kumaraya waits where the light thins. He calls gently at first. If you answer, he comes closer. If you turn, he claims you. Illness. Madness. Slow ruin. He does not need to touch you to harm you. They say he prefers girls who shine.

The path across the fields was damp. Mud clung to the hem of her skirt. Frogs croaked low and rhythmic from the irrigation channels. The air smelled of wet earth, jasmine, oil, and smoke from distant fires. A temple bell rang once in the distance, hollow and thin.

The well stood ahead, dark and round, swallowed halfway by the shadow of the goraka tree. Its branches twisted low and heavy, leaves thick enough to swallow moonlight. The bark was rough and scarred. Dark sap had dried in uneven streaks down its trunk, almost black against the pale wood.

Children were told not to linger beneath it.

Halfway across the field, she heard it.

Not loud.

Just her name.

Soft. Drawn out.

Almost affectionate.

She froze.

The voice had not come from in front of her.

It had come from behind.

Every warning she had ever been given pressed against her skull. Do not answer. Do not turn. Keep walking.

Her heart pounded so violently she could taste iron at the back of her throat.

“Amali?” she forced out, staring straight ahead.

Silence.

Then again.

Her name.

Closer.

The sound slid over her skin like cold water.

She began walking faster. The well and the dark sprawl of the goraka tree loomed ahead, its shadow pooling around the stone ring like spilled ink.

The air felt wrong. Too still. Even the frogs had stopped.

Her name came again.

Right behind her ear.

She broke.

She turned.

He stood where the field dipped slightly before rising toward the road. Tall. Dark-clothed. Not quite shadow, not quite man. The branches of the goraka tree trembled though there was no wind.

His face seemed both clear and blurred, as if the dawn had not decided whether to reveal him. His eyes were deep and steady. Patient.

“You came alone,” he said softly.

“Where is she?” Nirmala asked.

“She answered.”

Near the well, beneath the goraka tree’s heavy shade, she saw movement.

Amali was sitting against the stone ring, knees drawn to her chest. The glitter from the stage still clung faintly to her cheeks. Her head was tilted slightly, ear angled toward the dark mouth of the well.

Her lips were moving.

Not laughing.

Whispering.

“Amali!” Nirmala ran toward her.

Amali flinched violently, then turned slowly.

Her eyes looked wrong.

Not empty.

Occupied.

As if something stood just behind them, looking out.

“Don’t,” she whispered. Her voice sounded layered, thin but carrying something beneath it. “He’ll be angry.”

When Nirmala glanced back, he was closer. Close enough that she could see the faintest suggestion of a smile.

“You should not have turned,” he murmured.

Amali’s fingers dug into the stone of the well. Her nails scraped against it, as though trying to carve something invisible. A thin line of blood marked one fingertip.

“He said he liked how I shone,” Amali said softly, eyes still fixed somewhere beyond Nirmala’s shoulder. “He said I was bright enough.”

The eastern sky had begun to pale. A thin blade of sunlight cut across the edge of the field.

The goraka tree’s shadow shifted.

He flickered.

For a moment his outline thinned, stretched toward Amali like smoke.

Amali inhaled sharply, her back arching as if something cold had passed through her.

Then he was gone.

Just gone.

The field felt ordinary again. Frogs resumed their croaking. Wind brushed the rice stalks.

Nirmala grabbed Amali’s shoulders. “It’s morning,” she said. “There’s no one here.”

Amali’s gaze slowly settled on her.

For a second, there was recognition.

Then her mouth curved.

Not her stage-smile. Not bright. Not loud.

Something softer.

Knowing.

By the time the sun rose fully, villagers had gathered. Someone covered Amali with a shawl. Someone else muttered about girls wandering at night.

Amali laughed suddenly at nothing, head tilting toward the goraka tree as if someone had spoken again.

Within weeks, the story changed.

Some said she had been with a boy. Others said shame had disturbed her mind. Her family stopped correcting anyone.

The word “mad” was used more often than her name.

They took her away eventually. For treatment, they said.

No one spoke about the cuts they found on her arms, thin lines tracing shapes like letters no one could read.

No one spoke about how she refused to stand in direct sunlight, always drifting toward corners where shadows pooled.

No one spoke about the way she sometimes smiled at empty doorways and whispered, “I know. I’m listening.”

No one spoke about the fact that she had answered when her name was called.

Nirmala still walks past the well sometimes.

In the early hours, before sunrise, when the air is thick and the fields are silver. The goraka tree still leans, heavy and watchful.

Sometimes, when the wind shifts just right, she hears it again.

Her name.

Soft. Patient.

And every time, no matter how much she has grown, no matter how much she tells herself it was imagination, her body remembers that night.

It remembers the way his voice slid across her skin.

It remembers how Amali’s eyes had not been empty, but shared.

And she does not turn.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices and creative expressions. Participants from around the world are invited to share their work in various categories, showcasing talent and innovation in the literary arts. This competition provides a unique opportunity for writers to gain recognition and engage with a global audience, fostering a vibrant community of wordsmiths and storytellers.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Tenuli Perera for sharing "Do Not Turn" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your story's intricate weaving of folklore and supernatural elements offers a haunting glimpse into a world filled with mystery and fear. Thank you for contributing your voice to this year's competition, enriching the literary landscape with your unique narrative perspective.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.