A 75-Year-Old Man Ordered 14 Cases of Water Every Day. When the Delivery Boy Finally Called P0lice, What They Found Inside the House Sh0cked an Entire Village…
A Job Like Any Other
My name is Ravi, and I’ve been delivering mineral water in the dusty little town of Baraut, Uttar Pradesh, for nearly eight years.
It’s not glamorous work. Every morning, I load my cart with 20-liter water bottles, dragging them across uneven alleys, sweating under the weight. Still, it pays the bills, and in a place where jobs are scarce, that’s more than most can say.
I’ve grown used to seeing the same faces: shopkeepers, schoolteachers, housewives. But there was one customer who stood out from everyone else.
A 75-year-old man who, without fail, ordered fourteen 20-liter bottles of water every single day.
At first, I thought it was a mistake. No family of two or three could drink that much water. Maybe he ran a small canteen or supplied water to nearby workers. But when I reached his address, I realized nothing about this was ordinary.
His house sat at the very end of a lonely lane, crumbling with age. Paint peeled from its walls, weeds grew wild in the yard, and the windows were always shut. No laughter, no sound of television, no signs of life—just silence.
When I knocked, he opened the door only a crack, just wide enough to slip out an envelope of money.
“Leave them there,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, like gravel dragged across stone.
And then the door slammed shut.
The Routine Turns Strange
Days turned into weeks. Weeks became months.
Every morning, the same ritual: I’d unload fourteen bottles, he’d hand me cash without ever making eye contact, and the door would close.
But gradually, I began to notice things that didn’t add up.
He never returned the empty bottles. Instead, he insisted on paying extra for new ones each time. That struck me as odd—most households simply reused them.
Worse, sometimes when I placed the bottles down, I caught a faint metallic odor lingering in the air. It wasn’t the smell of cooking or medicine. It was sharper, almost like rust… or blood.
The villagers had their own theories.
“Maybe he’s gone senile,” one shopkeeper said. “Old men do strange things.”
Another whispered, “I heard he was once a doctor. Maybe he’s experimenting with something.”
I laughed along, but deep inside, unease gnawed at me.
What could one old man possibly need with 280 liters of water every single day?
Signs No One Could Ignore
One evening, after finishing my deliveries, I passed his house again. It was nearly dark, the sky bruised purple, and the street eerily silent.
That’s when I heard it—a muffled sound from inside.
At first, I thought it was a radio. But then it came again—low, guttural, almost like someone crying underwater.
I froze, my cart still in my hands. My instinct screamed to walk away, but curiosity rooted me to the spot.
Through the small gap under the door, I noticed trickles of liquid seeping out—clear at first, but with streaks of something darker.
The hair on my neck stood up.
The next morning, when I lifted one of the bottles he’d left outside, I saw faint reddish stains clinging to the plastic rim.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Going to the Police
I went to the local police outpost, my heart thudding as I tried to explain.
“Sir, this man—he’s using water for something. Fourteen bottles every day! And I heard sounds… strange sounds. Please, at least check once.”
The constable chuckled. “Ravi, half this town is strange. You think we have time to chase ghosts because an old man drinks too much water?”
But I insisted. I swore I wasn’t imagining it. Finally, one of the younger officers, Inspector Sharma, agreed to come along.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll humor you. But if this is nothing, you’ll be carrying the bottles for us as punishment.”
I almost wished it was nothing. Almost.
The following morning, I made my usual delivery—but this time, I wasn’t alone. Two policemen stood behind me, hands on their batons.
I knocked. Silence.
I knocked again, louder. “Uncle, your water delivery!”
The door creaked open just a crack, and the old man’s sunken eyes peered out.
But before he could close it, the policemen shoved it wide.
“Police inspection!” Sharma barked.
What lay inside made my stomach lurch.
The House of Water
The air reeked of dampness and rot. Buckets, tubs, and tanks filled every corner of the house, each brimming with water. The floor was slick, algae coating the tiles.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
In the back room, under a dim yellow bulb, stood giant containers—metal drums lined up like soldiers. Their lids were sealed tight.
Sharma pried one open. The stench hit us first—putrid, metallic. I gagged, covering my mouth.
And then I saw it.
A pale hand floated just beneath the surface.
My knees nearly gave way. The policeman beside me cursed and stumbled back.
Inside the tanks were human bodies—submerged, preserved in water.
The Monster’s Past
The old man didn’t resist when they handcuffed him. His face was disturbingly calm, almost relieved.
In the interrogation that followed, his story spilled out in fragments.
His name was Dr. Mahesh Verma, once a respected physician in Delhi. Forty years ago, during communal riots, his entire family had been slaughtered in front of him—his wife, his two daughters.
Something broke inside him that day.
He returned to his ancestral home in Baraut, living alone, consumed by rage. Over the years, he began targeting people he believed “corrupt” or “unworthy”—politicians, moneylenders, even neighbors who had wronged him.
He would lure them, kill them, and submerge the bodies in water tanks to slow decomposition.
“Water keeps them silent,” he whispered during questioning. “Clean. Pure. As if they are sleeping.”
Every day, he ordered more water to refill the drums, keeping his grim collection hidden.
When news spread, the entire village descended into chaos.
Some swore they’d always known he was dangerous. Others defended him, saying grief had driven him insane.
I couldn’t sleep for nights. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw those pale hands swaying in the water, lifeless yet strangely peaceful.
The man I’d thought was just another eccentric old customer turned out to be a monster who had lived among us for decades.
And I—through my deliveries—had unknowingly helped him hide his crimes.
Dr. Verma was taken away, the house sealed. But the image of those tanks still lingers in my mind.
I keep asking myself:
How many doors in this world conceal horrors we can’t imagine? How many neighbors, quiet and polite, are hiding secrets darker than we dare to believe?
That old man fooled an entire town. He fooled me.
And now, every time I knock on a door to deliver water, I wonder…
If I push it open, what might I find waiting inside?
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