I don't know about you, but I love the idea of my friends and I gathering around a bonfire on a wintry night, and taking turns to share horror stories that terrified us as children, urban legends that we perhaps believe to be true, and our personal encounters with the paranormal.
1. This computer-friendly ghost.
"So this was around 2010. The internet was new to me and video calls were the shit among my friends during those days. One day, one of my friends called me on Skype and we spoke about stupid things that I can't even remember. Suddenly, my friend froze for a second but the video wasn't interrupted. After some seconds, he asked, 'who's the person behind you?'. I didn't turn to look because I thought that he was playing a lame-ass prank on me. But I asked him to describe the person and he said that it was a boy of around 10-12 years, wearing a red t-shirt. He kept on asking me to look behind me and I finally did. However, as expected, there was no one there. It has been almost 10 years and he still maintains that there was someone behind me.
After a few days, I started feeling uneasy around the table that my computer was on. I would feel something rubbing my foot from beneath the table but I thought of rats and tangled wires as the explanation for it. After a few weeks, my mother said that she had been noticing stuff move in the kitchen by themselves. I didn't believe her until, one day, I saw a glass move by itself. It was clinking like something was stuck inside it while it was upside down. However, I didn't think of it much.
After some days I started to see some women in white around my bed at around 2 a.m. It could have been sleep paralysis. Once, my bua (aunt) told me that something had also touched her feet beneath the computer table. Finally, my grandmother decided to cleanse the house and I haven't noticed anything suspicious since then. I am not superstitious, but I saw what I saw..."
2. This terrifying sleeping companion.
"I wouldn't even have found out about this if it hadn't been for my strange fears and paranoia. For as long as I can remember, I have been deathly afraid of sleeping alone. One of the starkest memories of my childhood is lying flat on my back in bed, feeling too scared to close my eyes, thinking that if I do, someone will appear next to me.
The weirdest thing is that I never imagined this monster, or whatever it was, harming me in any way. It would always just lay on its side, watching me with shining, unblinking eyes, and I would be too afraid to do anything — too afraid to move or scream. This helplessness that I would supposedly feel in an imaginary situation like that pretty much destroyed my childhood.
It had gotten so bad that I would scream and thrash around like a brat well into my teenage years if I was ever forced to sleep alone. Until I was ten years old, I would sleep in my parents' bedroom on a separate cot next to their bed. Then, until my 14th birthday, I would force one of my parents to sleep next to me.
And considering that I was raised in India, therapy wasn't even an option. But that didn't mean that my parents didn't try to get me over these fears. They tried sleeping next to me and sneaking out in the middle of the night, or sitting next to my bed and waiting until I fell asleep. But none of it worked. I would always wake up, sweating and scared out of my wits in the middle of the night, whenever they tried this. I would then immediately scamper off to their bedroom, and wake them up by whispering how scared I was, almost giving them a heart attack in the process.
If I had to guess , these fears started when I was eight years old, when my grandma gave me a doll of a clown that looked eerily similar to this thing . This was a clown from the horror TV show Woh that my smart-ass dad made me watch around the same time, thinking I was too young to be affected by this stuff. He found out how wrong he was when I started screaming like a banshee when my grandma gave me that doll. My problems at night started soon after. I couldn't for the life of me close my eyes without thinking someone was going to be there when I turned around.
On my 14th birthday, my parents finally put their foot down and forced me to sleep alone. I cried, I pleaded, tried to justify that I wasn't really a scared little boy and that my fears were rational but none of it worked. And so I finally started sleeping alone. This is when I developed my strange rituals.
I would drink exactly two glasses of water every night two hours before bed time, so that I would neither feel thirsty nor would I have to get up to pee at night. I would then make sure all the doors leading outside were closed, draw the curtains, and keep the bathroom light switches on. Definitely the most important part of my night time rituals was keeping the pillows in a straight line, next to where I slept, to block off space for any monster trying to sleep next to me.
It took me months before I finally got used to sleeping alone. I wasn't comfortable by any means, but I would at least not be painfully sleepy the next day. Going to college was a godsend. I had a fucking single bed in a tiny room, surrounded by hundreds of noisy boys like me. While many others found it irritating, that noise was like a lullaby to me, doing the job of a therapist for me. After graduation, I came back to my parents' house and began preparing to take exams for government jobs. And my rituals started right back, as if nothing had changed. But I was at least sleeping better.
It all came to a head when I got a job and moved into my own government-owned house with a double bed at the age of 26, just a couple of weeks ago. As my bedtime approached, I followed all my rituals. I drank my water, closed all the doors, drew the curtains, arranged the pillows and slept comfortably.
Things changed the next morning. When I woke up, I found that my pillows weren't there. They were neatly placed, one on top of the other, on the side table.
The most terrifying thing about this was that it wasn't anything new. This had been happening all throughout my childhood. Each morning the pillows I had carefully placed next to me would be gone. I had always assumed that it was one of my parents who had done this, especially my father, who was an early riser. But I was living alone now, and all my doors were locked when I checked them in the morning.
I initially dismissed this, thinking that I might have forgotten to place them next to me last night. I was actually quite happy with this, as it looked like I was finally getting over my fears. But this happened again the next day. And the next. And the day after that. All of the fears of my childhood were back, stronger than ever. I was back to staying awake like an owl, only dozing off for a maximum of half an hour or so each night. And the pillows would be gone from the bed every morning. It was hell.
Now I wasn't a child anymore, so I didn't just assume that something supernatural was happening here. I tried to act like an adult, to think rationally as I was too scared to even tilt my head to the left when lying on the bed. Maybe I was sleepwalking? Maybe that's how those pillows were moving at night all-throughout my life? It was not something my parents knew about and instead chastised me for being so cowardly as a grown-ass man. But I needed answers, so I went out and got a video camera and placed it next to my bed.
It was what I found on the video that made me write this. I wasn't sleepwalking. It was my fears, my imaginations, my nightmares. They were real. My knees were trembling as I saw the strange man phase through my bedroom door. He picked up the pillows, neatly placed them on the side table, and lay down next to me.
I jumped as he looked directly into the camera, with shining, unblinking eyes. I fast-forwarded the video and he stayed there, for hours, just looking at the camera, not moving even an inch. Before I woke up, he simply got up and walked away, disappearing through the closed bedroom door.
I am beyond fucking terrified. I don't know what's happening, what that thing is, why it's doing this, or if even my life is in danger. I need help. I need this to end if I'm ever going to get a wink of sleep again. Please, guys. Help me."
3. This pillion rider.
"My mother-in-law's friend used to cycle home from his shop to his house. The road went through a sort of dark, wooded area where there were no houses or shops or even any street-lights for that matter. One night, after closing up the shop, he rode for a bit and as he was approaching the aforesaid stretch, he saw a lady on the side of the road. She asked him for a ride to where he was going and he obliged. She sat on his bike and when he began to pedal, he noticed that he could not move. Not even one bit. The lady wasn't that heavy; just a normal-looking girl. Then he heard a giggle behind him, and he said that he had never heard such a malevolent giggle. He closed his eyes and yelled out 'Swamiye Sharanam Ayyappa!' (a chant to Ayyappan). Once he said that, he could suddenly pedal. Without looking back, he rode his bike back to his house."
4. This story kept me up all night and I am pretty sure it'll do the same thing to you.
"I used to stay as a paying guest while studying in college in Kolkata, India. My exams were almost over so I booked a train ticket to go back to my home town. Unfortunately, the date was scheduled a few days after the end of the month and that meant that I had to pay my landlord for the entirety of the next month if I stayed because he is a greedy ass.
I wanted to save a few bucks so I decided to stay over at the only relatives I had in the city. My family were on normal terms with them but I had never actually spoken to them in years and they never bothered to call me either. So I got their contact from my mom and called them up on their old number. And it rang! I felt giddy on the inside. I told them who I was and asked if I could stay over for a few days. I got straight to the point, because I wasn't confident that they would let a guy, who wasn't in touch for years, stay over all of a sudden. They were bewildered, but hesitantly said yes.
I arrived at their small house with my luggage and they seemed like a normal family with two kids. The kids seemed okay but I felt unwelcome and the house smelled strange, kind of like a musty mothball smell. The kids avoided making eye contact and gave me orders as to where to go.
I was led into the house, straight to my guest room that was small, had a concrete floor, and a tiny window. It was completely empty except for a mattress on the floor and it smelled like bleach. I didn't mind because I would leave in a few days anyway. After resting for a bit, I sat down for a chat with them. They told me about their poor living conditions and why they distanced themselves from everyone. We chatted for a while and everything seemed normal. But then it was time for us to eat...
The kids sat down with me to eat but the parents said that they would eat later. They gave me rice and curry, but they gave the kids small helpings. I got confused because I felt that they must eat a lot more but I decided to stay quiet. They gave me extra helpings but none to the kids, so I guessed that they were on a diet. Or perhaps they were poor and simply showed me some hospitality. I wanted to ask but felt it was uncouth and the parents distracted me with some conversation.
After eating I went into the guest room, and decided to lie down. The room felt cold and the smell tricked my brain into believing it was colder. I got busy surfing Reddit but after a while, a faint sound that went something like, *Criiickkk, Criiccckkk, Criiickkk*, kept coming from above. I thought it was a bird on the roof at first but it felt so close, like it was right above the ceiling. Curious, I came out to ask them about it but saw that there was nobody home. I searched the rooms but it was empty. I sat down on the couch wondering what happened. I tried to snoop around the rooms — everything was dusty, the furniture was old, but the walls were painted recently, but that struck me as odd because they were poor. I snooped around some more, gave up and got back to surfing Reddit. Thirty minutes later, I heard another sound, like that of a stone getting scraped, and then the kitchen door handle started to move. I felt like I had to hide so I dove back into my room. I peeked and saw all of them come out.
Their bellies seemed full.
I didn't dare venture out of my room. It was time for dinner, and I was more curious then ever. Just like lunch they gave me loads to eat, but took measly helpings for themselves.
Mustering some courage, I asked, 'Did you all eat outside? I didn't see you eat today. And aren't you kids hungry?'
'Oh no dear, the children felt bloated today, so they took some medicines and didn't want to eat much', said the mother with a smile.
'I didn't see you eat today either. Is it because I am here?'
'No, no not at all! We eat quietly in the kitchen, maybe that's why you didn't see or hear us.'
'Oh, okay'.
I didn't say more and quietly got up to go to my room.
I could feel their piercing glares from the back of my head. I felt scared. But I can't seem to get the curiosity out of my head...what is inside the kitchen? What were those sounds? What do they eat?
I wanted to ask you before I find those answers myself, when I try to investigate the kitchen, after everyone is asleep...
****
I am at the train station now, waiting for my train. I don't know how long I slept here on this bench. My head feels heavy, my legs are sore, and there's a deep cut on my hand. I am clutching my handbag, the only belonging I have. What happened yesterday, I must write, because I still do not believe it.
It was midnight, when I decided to get up and stealthily open my door. It was dark, the moon peeking across the curtains accompanied the sound of crickets outside. With caution, I approached the kitchen door. Slowly, I pushed it open, praying that nobody was inside. I slipped in, and carefully closed the door behind me. Done!, I thought. I opened my torch app on my phone, covered it with my hand so it wouldn't shine too brightly and tried to investigate. But it turned out to be a normal kitchen — small containers with spices, a stove, and a fridge. I thought that maybe I was wrong. Perhaps these people were just poor? I turned around and my pinkie toe stubbed itself on something on the floor. I looked down and saw that there was a latch. It was a basement door! I knew I had to look, and before I could tell my poor, curious mind to turn back, I pulled it open slowly, the stone edges scraped the sides and the door creaked open. A stench filled up the kitchen. I hesitated to go down, but I thought I was going to solve a mystery.
I climbed down the very steep steps into the darkness and finally stepped on the ground. I was overwhelmed by the different smells I smelled here — like a musky swamp and paint but also a rotten, stinky smell. I could figure out that I was in a small room. There were clothes everywhere and paint cans — the very same paint used in the walls above — and even more junk. There were pieces of stone, dirt, and machines that looked pretty cool. I thought that was it until I saw another door with a faint blue light coming from underneath. I pushed it open.
A very humid gust of wind hit me, and then I saw it — a giant plant in the middle of the room. I couldn't believe it. There were plants everywhere. Blue lights on the ceiling and humid air coming from a machine that made the very same sounds I heard in my room. There were pipes emanating from it, leading up. Maybe that's why I heard it above me. It was like an indoor greenhouse! There were papers everywhere, newspaper articles about a new plant species, meteor landings, and much more, but I saw a plaque that caught my attention:
'SAMUDRA DAS — Pioneering scientific horticulturalist, plant breeder, and meteorologist'
That was insane, because that was the name of my relative! Who knew he was such an intellectual?
The plant had me in total awe. The giant plant was round and green with huge veins across the room. I felt it wasn't a tree because it was soft to touch and was oozing green goo from the sides into bowls kept beside it. It was very eerie. A label below the plant read 'Anthropophagos Darlingtonia'. I tried to inspect the plant more carefully. I went near the giant plant and noticed that there was something inside the plant, similar to that of a black jellyfish and flashed my light into it. The hair on my neck stood up. I lost my balance and stumbled, frightened out of my wits.
There was a man inside the plant. A man, who was almost dissolved.
Before I could question my eyes, I heard the basement door creak. I quickly got up and hid behind a stack of papers, peeking through the edges. My mouth was running dry and my ears started ringing. I was genuinely scared for my life. I saw that it was one of the kids. He came up to the plant, and drank some of the green goo. This must have been what they were eating. I knew I had to escape right then, so I got up and faced him. He was frightened and stunned. I put my hand around his mouth to stop him from screaming but the bastard bit me hard around my thumb, so I grabbed him by the neck and squeezed; his eyes started to roll and his arms flailed and he fell unconscious. I didn't even know my own strength then but I just wanted to run. I raced up the steps, through the kitchen and into my room, grabbed anything and everything I could and turned, but both my relatives were standing at the door, their eyes hungry with malicious intent.
'You really are daring, I didn't expect you to snoop around so soon. If you..'
'STAND BACK!! I HAVE A KNIFE!! I WILL FUCKING STAB YOU WITH IT IF YOU COME CLOSER!', I screamed as I waved my shaky arm around.
'We need you for the plant, we can't live without it...'
'I DON'T FUCKING CARE, JUST LET ME LEAVE!'
'Listen here, you brat, you ain't leaving this place alive. If you had just slept, you wouldn't have felt a thing, but now you're going to have a messy death like the last one'.
'Wha..?? I..I..I will give you anything..pleasee..plea..'
'Too bad..'
As she was about to complete the sentence, I body slammed her husband into the ground and stabbed him with the knife. She stumbled and fell too, but reached out to grab me. I mustered all the strength I had to get up and run, adrenaline shooting up my veins. He grabbed me by the leg but I weaselled out of it. I squirmed out of both their clutches. As I ran out through the door, the other kid watched me. I felt blessed when the front door wasn't locked. I just ran. I didn't ask for help, maybe because I was so scared for life, I simply wanted to get out, or perhaps I didn't think of it. I just ran through the night and collapsed on the bench.
It's been hours. I needed to write this down before...before..I feel strange now. I think I should contact the police, but my head feels too heavy. I feel hungry. I don't want to die. There's some green goo on the bite. It feels good. I tasted it. It tastes good. I must have it.
I think I'll go back..and taste some more."
5. This story of an arranged marriage that will send several chills down your spine.
"Where my family comes from, arranged marriages are still very much the norm. It's really not what most people think when they hear 'arranged marriage'; it's more like going on a blind date set up by people (usually your parents) who know you, love you, and have your best interests at heart with a very clear endgame. My parents always said that my opinion would be the only one that mattered in the end and that I could say no to whoever they brought home, no questions asked. A love match also wasn't entirely off the table, even if it wasn't their ideal choice for me.
I watched my brother go through the process, and then my two older sisters, and in each case, they said Ma and Papa had done well for them. They all seemed genuinely happy, so the idea of a traditional marriage didn't frighten me despite my western upbringing. I was confident that my parents would find a man with whom I could form a lifelong, loving partnership, just as they'd done for my siblings and their parents had done for them.
I was twenty-two when Ma came home in flurry, an anxious smile on her face.
'Amita, come sit.' She said, pushing me towards the kitchen table. 'I need to tell you something.'
'Is something wrong?'
'No, no, you worry too much! I have good news!'
I waited expectantly while she settled in her seat and grabbed my hands in hers.
'I have found you a husband!'
My heart fluttered into my throat while I processed what she had said. I had known this day was coming, my parents had made it known almost a year before that they were seeking an eligible bachelor for me, but it still felt very sudden in that moment.
'Aren't you happy, bityaa?', Ma asked when I didn't immediately respond.
'Yeah, of course', I said, giving her hands a squeeze. 'Who is he? Do I know him?'
'No, but you know Aunty Chanda and Uncle Raj.'
I nodded. They were close friends of my parents' from back in India. I'd only met them a few times when I was much younger, but I'd heard my parents speaking to them on the phone and knew they visited them whenever they went back.
'They have a son of about your age. Your papa and I have spoken to his parents and to him and everything seems perfect. He's smart, handsome, and he comes from a good family. He is everything we could want for you.'
'Does he have a name?' Her enthusiasm warmed my cheeks and the fluttering sank down into my stomach.
'Madhu.'
She spent the whole evening telling me about him, how he was a 26-year-old MIT grad with a degree in engineering, his love of travel and photography, what she remembered of him as a child. We shared similar life goals and expectations about what marriage would mean for us. The more she spoke, the more I felt like he really could be a good husband for me. By the time I saw his photo, which showed a handsome man with a slightly crooked, but charming smile, I knew I had to speak to him.
Ma set up a supervised Skype meeting between us and our parents a few days later, and when I saw him on screen, flanked by his traditionally dressed parents, I found myself feeling shy and awkward. Our parents did most of the talking, but he did ask me a few direct questions about myself and provided his own answers when I failed to ask him the same. Instead of being put off by my sudden onset tongue-tiedness, he was patient and warm and I was a giddy, blushing mess by the end. It was very unlike me, but it seemed to seal the deal in my parents' eyes.
'He's a good boy, bityaa', Papa said once the call had ended. 'I think you will be happy.'
'It's a good start.' I conceded, not wanting to get too ahead of myself after one meeting, but Papa just pat my cheek and smiled knowingly.
Things progressed quickly, which was exciting and scary and overwhelming. We had a few more supervised 'dates' where we got to knew each other a bit better and then one secret call between just the two of us.
'I want the decision to be yours, Amita, not our parents'', he said.
Usually Madhu was lighthearted and laid back, but now, when discussing our future, he was so serious, so intense, that it made me like him more.
'It is my decision', I said. 'This is what I want.'
'Then it's what I want, too.'
We smiled at each other through the screen, both confident, assured, and, perhaps, just beginning to fall in love.
It was the last time I saw Madhu before the wedding.
He and his parents stopped the video chats, teasing that they were spoiling the bride too much, and we were made to communicate through emails and handwritten letters. I couldn't help but notice that something had changed in the way Madhu 'spoke' to me; sometimes he was far more formal, at other times, he was overly familiar. He was still sweet, still warm, but the ease with which we'd come to talk to one another seemed lacking.
I mentioned it to Ma, who clicked her tongue and waved a finger at me.
'Men aren't so good with words, especially when it comes to putting their thoughts on paper. Your father is hopeless at expressing himself in writing! Don't worry, when he is here, you will see that he is the same Madhu that you have come to know.'
I hoped she was right.
A week before Madhu's arrival, his mother, Aunty Chanda, flew in to help prepare for the wedding. We had hundreds of guests coming, an elaborate party to plan, important ceremonies to ensure were performed perfectly, and only a little time left to prepare. Her extra hands were a blessing and I was surprised to find that she treated me so well. I had grown up hearing horror stories about mother-in-laws, but it appeared that I had lucked out.
And all this was only for a single day event! It was daunting to think that this was the 'small' ceremony. I could only imagine what the proper, days-long wedding was going to be like when we held it in India a few months later.
With only days to go until the wedding, Aunty Chanda invited me to sit with her while she looked at a photo album of Madhu's life.
'He was such a sweet boy', she said and I saw tears forming in her eyes. 'He's always taken such good care of me and his papa.'
'Aunty-ji? Are you ok?'. I got up to grab a box of tissues and set them in front of her.
'Yes, yes,' she hid her face in a tissue and laughed in embarrassment, 'it's just hard for a mother to say goodbye to her son.'
We looked at pages and pages of Madhu growing up, all the way to a recent picture of him on a motorbike with a helmet tucked under his arm. At seeing his smile for the first time in over two weeks, I felt that familiar flutter start up again.
'You will be a good wife to him, won't you?'
She had grabbed my hand and was squeezing it so tightly that I cried out in shock and pain. She released me immediately, but repeated the question with the same urgency.
'Yes!' I said and she started to sob into the photo album.
I excused myself pretty quickly after that and ran to my room, unsure of what exactly had just happened.
When I saw her the following day at breakfast, she acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired and treated me as she always had before. Somehow, that just made the whole encounter even stranger.
The morning of my wedding arrived and I had no time to give my soon-to-be mother-in-law any thought. My female relatives flooded the house and from the time I got up, I was passed around like a dress up doll for mehndi and hair and makeup. Once I had my red and gold saree on and was allowed to look in the mirror, I almost burst into tears. I had never felt so beautiful before.
The rumors started quietly, in whispers behind hands and only when they thought I was out of earshot. My family was starting to look confused, their enthusiasm was waning, and I caught more than one person shooting me a pitying look. It got so bad that if I came into a room, they would stop talking completely and avert their eyes. I tried to ignore it, tried to focus on all that still needed to be done, but it was digging deeper beneath my skin with every passing moment.
When I couldn't take it anymore, I dragged my mother into her bedroom and shut the door.
'What is going on, Ma? Why is everyone acting weird?'
Ma busied herself in front of her mirror and touched up her lipstick, careful to avoid eye contact. 'I'm not sure. It's just people talking. Don't worry about it.'
'Don't worry about what?' My frustration flared and I couldn't help but raise my voice.
'It's nothing, really', Ma said unconvincingly.
'Ma?'
'Hush now. We need to go.'
'Ma!'
'The car is here, get moving!'
Usually I would have been accompanied by my numerous bridesmaids. Usually the parking lot outside the temple would have been overflowing. Usually there would have been a swarm of people milling about, shouting blessings and greetings.
But I was alone in my limo except for my sisters and, when we arrived, there were only a few cars and no one was outside. The balloons and flowers stuck out bright against an all too quiet and still backdrop.
'Do you guys know what's going on?' I asked my sisters, but they looked away and didn't answer.
My father met us outside the temple and took me by the hand.
'Do not worry, bityaa', he said. 'Do your duty and then it will be over.'
'Papa, please, what is going on? Where is everyone?'
'Later, later.'
He led me inside with heavy, but steadfast steps.
The temple had an odd smell; some choking combination of overly sweet and pungent. The cloud of incense and perfumes that had been used burned my eyes and I coughed harshly into Papa's shoulder. Beneath it, there was something much worse, some terrible mix of an unwashed toilet, rotten eggs, and garbage. The further in we walked, the thicker it became, until I could feel it coating the back of my throat and inside my nose.
I could barely keep myself from gagging.
The lights were dimmed, so much so that the sacred fire over which Mahdu and I would hold our hands burned brightest of all. It's flames sent flickering, skittering shadows across the walls and cast a dark mask over my father's grim face.
Our footsteps rang hollowly around us, each one a louder reminder than the last that the temple was almost empty. Where was my family? Where was his family? The music and laughter and joy? There wasn't even a priest. This didn't feel like I was walking into my wedding. It felt like I was walking into a tomb.
Madhu was seated with his back to me and made no move to rise. His parents stood off to one side, watching me with anxious, nervous expressions and wringing their hands. My mother and sisters were hanging back behind me, I could feel their eyes on me, burning into my back.
Nothing about this felt right.
We were almost at Madhu's side. Papa's fingers tightened on my arm and I glanced at him, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. Something buzzed by my head and I found myself following the progress of a fat fly lazily making its way to my fiancé. It landed on his shoulder and I expected him to brush it away and finally turn to look at me, but he didn't move.
The smell was so strong I started to become light-headed and swayed dangerously. I tried to breathe only through my mouth, but it did nothing to lessen that awful stench. I could taste it, I could almost feel it, like a greasy sheen on the air. Beside me, Papa was starting to dry heave and it made me do the same.
And Madhu just sat there.
I pulled away from Papa and, despite his protests, closed the distance to my future husband.
Madhu had been very handsome the last time I'd seen him, that night on Skype when I thought that we might actually be as much a love match as an arranged one. Now he was barely recognizable.
His skin, green and white and stretched taught where it was still attached, had sloughed off in chunks, leaving him with barely half a face. Now there was no slightly crooked grin, only yellowed teeth and cracked, swollen lips. His eyes were bulging and milky in their sockets, ready to pop.
They couldn't fit his wedding attire over his bloated stomach and had cut it up the front to slip it on. The smell that they had tried so hard to cover was coming from him, from his rotting flesh and liquid organs that threatened to burst from his overextended belly.
He was pregnant with all of the gasses and decay of death.
I reeled back, my hands over my mouth, and I looked to my parents in horror.
'There was an accident a few weeks ago', Uncle Raj said sadly. 'A truck hit him while he was riding his motorbike. We were the ones who kept sending letters after, so you might still marry him. It's so important to be wed. I'm sorry....'
'You made a promise to be a good wife', Aunty Chanda said shakily, cutting her husband off. 'You will fulfil your duty to my son.'
'Are you crazy?', I shouted. 'He's dead!'
'It's only symbolic...' Papa tried to say.
'You would let him travel through this life and his next with no one to care for him?' Chanda's voice was getting higher and more frantic. 'You are to be his wife!'
'How could you agree to this?', I whirled on my parents.
'We didn't know until this morning', Ma replied quietly. 'The cooler your aunty had shipped over, the one she said had meats for your wedding...'
I glanced back at Madhu in time to see a fly vanish into his drooping mouth. 'You froze him and had him brought over?'
'It was only symbolic.' Papa said again. 'For your aunty and uncle's sake.'
'It was for him! He needs his wife!' Chanda said.
'He needs to be cremated!'
'You can't let him go into the next life alone. You were meant to be together!'
Uncle Raj tried to quieten her, but Chanda pushed past him.
'You were promised to each other!'
'Chanda, this was a bad idea', Ma said. 'We shouldn't have allowed it.'
Chanda was beyond hearing though. She charged across the room and grabbed me by the hair with a vicious shake.
'He will not be alone!'
I screamed and she yanked hard, pulling me towards the metal vessel where the sacred fire burned. The others were frozen in place, horrified and stunned, but I struggled against her surprisingly strong grip.
'He will not be alone!'
I could feel the heat pulsating off the flames. She was trying to push my face into them, trying to burn me so that I would either be too disfigured to ever marry again or join Madhu in our next lives. The end of my hair sizzled and singed and the acrid smell of it burning mixed with the rot.
My family finally snapped out of their shock and sprang upon Aunty. They pulled at me, at her, tried to get her to release me, and all the while she screamed that Madhu and I were meant to be, it had all been perfect, I couldn't abandon him now.
In the scuffle, someone knocked into the vessel holding the fire. It teetered, unnoticed by most, and then fell.
All it took was a single, hungry spark.
Aunty Chanda's horrible screams, these deep, guttural howls of agony, filled the temple. The fire leapt up her saree, searing it to her skin, feeding on the cloth first and then the flesh beneath. Her arms and neck and face bubbled and blistered, turned black and cracked. She clawed at herself and spun this way and that.
We all looked around, trying to find something to douse the flames, but they were consuming her so quickly and spreading up the nearby flowers, the garland I would have been joined to Madhu under. Raj was ripping at his hair, shouting and yelling, helpless while his wife burned.
Papa grabbed him and dragged him back, yelling for us to run outside to safety. Ma pushed my sisters into action and took me by my upper arm.
Aunty Chanda, entirely ablaze and gurgling wetly now that she could no longer scream, stumbled in a few small circles and then flung herself on Madhu.
His body immediately burst beneath the weight and heat.
We turned and fled after my sisters while the fire took hold of the temple behind us.
We watched the flames grow with tears in our eyes. Even after the fire department arrived, it burned long and bright and vicious.
Aunty Chanda hadn't wanted Madhu to pass into his next life alone. It granted me little solace when I remembered the pain that I had seen in her eyes, the grief that only a mother who had lost her child could understand, but I hoped that, just maybe, now he wouldn't have to."
6. The story of the strange sounds.
"Our parents rented a house on the ninth floor of an apartment complex as my dad was transferred for a couple of years. This was about eight or nine years ago. I stayed in a different city and used to go home for the holidays.
Now, I'm a fairly nocturnal person and I am usually awake until 3 or 4 a.m. Every day, I used to keep hearing the sound of thick anklets emanating from the terrace. This used to happen during the day time as well, but the sound got thicker by night. It was a constant sound of walking. I mean, nobody walks that much, especially in their own house. I didn't pay much attention to it, assuming that it was some girl who keeps walking all the fucking time. I asked my mum casually one day as to what the hell this was all about.
Her reply made my hair stand on end. Apparently, our neighbours' young daughter died when they lived there and she grew up all her life in these apartments. Everyone in my family hears the sounds and, turns out, the others on the floor do too, ever since my mother happened to ask them..."
— u/87x
7. This account of a mysterious room.
"The little trunk screeched as it scraped against the granite floor, sounding like the nails of some eldritch monstrosity being dragged across a humongous chalkboard. I mumbled a quick apology under my breath when I felt baleful looks being shot my way and continued to push the damn thing. Mom was right, I really shouldn't have stuffed all my books and clothes into this old iron box. But then again, this temporary discomfort was preferable to lugging this weight all the way back home hundreds of kilometres away, through crowded railway stations and congested buses.
The echoing shrieking ended abruptly as I ground to a halt outside my destination. I put my hands on my waist and heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of the decrepit wooden board above the rusted iron door. A thick layer of dust rested on the board which had the number 112 embossed on it.
Ah yes, Tilak 112. You know how every college has its own urban legend? A spooky story passed down from generation to generation, growing and morphing over the years and becoming a part of the institution's very heritage and identity. Well, room 112 in Tilak hostel was ours, a supposedly haunted place tucked away in a dark corner of the oldest hostel of the college, named after one of India's greatest revolutionaries. It had acquired quiet the reputation over the years, so much so that no fresher's initiation into campus culture is complete without some drunken senior regaling him with grisly, albeit mostly fictional tales of suicides and murders in Tilak 112 while sipping on cheap beer.
The rickety door swung open with a terrible groan, jolting me out of my reverie and bringing me face to face with my new roommate. Disheveled hair, twinkling eyes and a friendly smile dancing on his lips, he didn't seem all that frightening for an occupant of the infamous room.
'Hey, I'm Ranjha.' He shook my hand. 'You must be my new roommate. Need any help with your stuff?'
'Yes please', I replied gratefully.
We heaved the heavy box into the room, grunting and stumbling along the way, but finally managed to shove it beneath the ledge below the window on the opposite side of the door. I plopped myself on the empty bed, taking a second to catch my breath and rest my aching arms before looking around. A smile crossed my face as I saw the cold, white walls with paint peeling off them and the harsh fluorescent tubes blaring down at us from above. How beautifully ugly.
I introduced myself to Ranjha and soon we were chatting away like old friends.
'So you've been sleeping here for a couple of days now?', I asked, shocked. 'All alone?'
He grinned as he nodded. 'And I'm still alive. Seems like whatever's haunting this room has decided to spare me.'
'For the time being', I added. 'But seriously. Did you notice anything weird about this place? Odd noises or cold spots or someone scratching your toes when you're sleeping?'
'No, no. Obviously', he chuckled as he shook his head. 'You don't really believe in ghosts, do you?'
'No. Of course not!', I said defensively.
'Me neither', he said. 'Engineering students like us should know better than to believe in this superstitious nonsense, right?'
I nodded furiously.
'But even if I did believe in all that', he continued, waving his hand dismissively, 'this room still wouldn't scare me. Its story is more tragic than terrifying after all, no?'
That piqued my interest. 'You mean the boy who was murdered here about 40 years ago.'
'Right', he nodded. 'I'm assuming you're aware of the story?'
'I've heard various versions', I admitted.
'It's like that game, telephone, isn't it? The more the story goes around, the more it morphs and warps, before turning into something completely different from what it originally was.'
'What version do you know?', I asked.
'Well, my father used to work here, so it is as close to the truth as you can get.'
'No shit!', I exclaimed. 'Let's hear it.'
'Alright', he smiled indulgently, before launching into the frightening tale.
'So around 40 years ago, a boy cracked the entrance test to this college. Now what made this special was that he was the son of one of the janitors who worked here.'
'And your father knew him?' I asked, before feeling a little guilty at the interruption.
'Yes he did. And he told me how proud he was of his son. See it wasn't just that they came from a poor background, but that they were also Dalits, or lower castes...For someone like that to surpass such insurmountable odds and get into this prestigious institution was nothing short of incredible.'
'Starry eyed, he walked into campus, just like he had with his father a thousand times before, but as a student this time, taking up residence in this very room. He was a model student, who worked hard and was obedient to a fault. Not being very social, he would often spend his free time in here, hunched over his desk near that window, slogging away to fulfil his family's dreams.'
'It was from this very window that he first saw her, the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. She lived in her father's house just beyond that boundary wall over there, which used to be a simple fence back then. She had an unobstructed vision of his room from the window of her own bedroom. It began like in those old Bollywood films, with them smiling at each other for weeks before he worked up the courage to go out and talk to her.'
'Wait. The shy guy approached her?' I asked, surprised.
Ranjha laughed. 'Love is a strange source of strength, isn't it? His momentary courage paid off big time, and soon they were madly in love with each other... She was the perfect foil for him, extroverted and boisterous. A match made in heaven if there ever was, but one her father didn't approve of.'
'Her father?'
'Yes, the kathputli artist.'
'He was a puppeteer?'
'Yep', he replied. 'One of the most famous ones in Rajasthan, who was even awarded by the President at one point. He was furious that his daughter was canoodling with some boy before marriage, and his rage turned explosive when he found out the boy's caste.'
'Oh fuck!', I swore.
He nodded. 'He snuck into this room at night along with some goons and beat the boy to death, before cutting up his body into little pieces and stuffing them into the cupboard your foot is touching right now.'
I shuddered and quickly brought my feet close to me. 'So…What happened to the girl?'
'Her father got her engaged to a more 'respectable' man', he made air quotes sarcastically, 'but she hadn't gotten over her first love, and hung herself on her wedding night.'
'Wow... Damn...'
'They say she used the same strings that her father used for his puppets to hang herself, though I don't know how true that is.'
'Was the father ever caught?', I asked. 'Did he get punished for what he did?'
He shook his head. 'The police said that the boy was a drug addict and his dealers had murdered him for being behind on his payments.'
'You know, you lied to me', I said with mock outrage. 'That story was pretty disturbing, and I'm more scared of this room now than I was earlier.'
'Hah… Sorry about that', he smiled. 'I see it as more of a tragic love story, than something terrifying. I just can't think of the ghosts of those two trying to harm anyone. Morose, maybe, violent? Nah. Don't see it.'
'I don't know. If that happened to me, I would be a pretty vengeful ghost.'
'Well, let's hope we never have to find out. C'mon, it's getting late. We have registration early in the morning tomorrow', he pointed out. 'Time to sleep.'
Sleep came surprisingly easy that night. I guess I was more exhausted than I realised, and even the haunted room with its disturbing tale couldn't put a dent on my mental state. But something did bring me out of my deep slumber.
I blinked my bleary eyes open, confused at what exactly had woken me up. It seemed to be a sound of some sort that had broken through my dreamy haze and brought me back to consciousness. I craned my head and strained my ears to listen.
Jingle
Jingle
Jingle
It sounded like bangles gently clashing against each other. The soft tinkling sound rode the cold wind and crept its way in through the open window, sending tingling sensations sliding down my back. Bright beams of moonlight filtered through the curtains that gently flapped to the rhythm of the bangles, allowing the light to illuminate the room with a muted white glow. I tip-toed my way over to the window, the cold floor stinging the soles of my feet. Then I pulled the curtains aside, and almost yelped at the sight.
Out there in the hockey field, barefoot and wearing a magenta bridal lehenga was a woman, her face veiled by a thin, translucent dupatta. Soft, pale moonlight washed over her already pale skin, giving her an otherworldly look. Gold jewellery glinted under the light as air swirled and warped around her, seemingly terrified of disturbing the beautiful scene. A couple of metres away, a peacock stood, with its beautiful feathers displayed, their beauty falling far short of the woman in front. My breath caught in my throat. What in the world?
'Wow', I whispered, almost involuntarily, as if out of a desperate need to acknowledge this enchanting sight in front of me.
Then she turned.
Sharply, such that her dupatta slid off her head, exposing her face to my eyes.
To this day, I still regret not violently shutting my eyes then and there.
Her features were wrong, too sharp and angular, looking more wooden than the gentle fleshy curves you expect from a human. She glared at me, her unblinking eyes wide open, almost bulging out of their sockets, making my knees tremble with their unnatural aesthetic. Then her jaw dropped, far too much, as if that was the only way she could open her mouth.
She began to move her lips, while she continued to stare at me. I don't know how, but I felt her whisper right in my ears. She was so far away, but it felt like she was mumbling right next to me. Muttering malicious, evil things, things that no mortal should ever hear. None of it made any sense to me, but alarm bells began to blare all over my body.
Every cell in my body was crying out, warning me of the danger to my life and begging me to run away, but I stood rooted to the spot, as if I had been hypnotised and had lost all control over my limbs.
And then her body moved, with odd jerking motions. She walked towards me, unsteadily. Her movements were stiff and spastic, as if she wasn't in control of her body.
Like a puppet.
Good god.
As she got closer to me, I could see the threads, no, razor sharp, wire like strings attached to her body that were pulled taut as they wrapped around her body, cutting into flesh before disappearing into the inky blackness above. She continued to get closer. And closer. And closer.
Move. Why wouldn't my body fucking move?
She was now right next to my window, and I could see her clearly. There was a deep bruise on her neck, visible just under the heavy necklace, where the rope had pulled tight and squeezed the life out of her body. The flesh around the wound had decayed and the skin had wrinkled and mottled.
She brought her bony hands up and wrapped them around the iron bars of the window, her bangles jingling harshly along the way, and pulled herself up, such that her face was mere inches from mine, her cold breath stinging my body like a sharp electric current. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, her face contorted, her mouth wide open like she was screaming, but no sound ever came out. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen in my life.
And then the screaming finally boomed in the room, the sound arriving with a delay, its oddness slamming into my very soul, punching irreparable holes through it. But the spell was broken, and I took off running.
As I jumped out of the room and crashed into the wall of the corridor outside, I caught a glimpse of Ranjha curled up into a corner and whimpering in fear. I should have stopped to help him or something, but I just didn't have it in me.
I bolted out of the hostel and didn't stop running until I had reached the front gate of the campus and the alarmed security guard stopped me and gave me some water.
I didn't go back to my room that night, choosing to stay outside till dawn broke and then marched down to the administration office as soon as it opened.
The man in charge gawped at me even though I gave him a less supernatural version of the events that had transpired in the night.
'This is a joke right?', he scoffed.
'No sir, it is not. We are not safe in that room. Please understand…'
'Now I know you're joking', he interrupted. 'A roommate? Son, Tilak 112, just like every other room in that wing is a single room.… Hell, there isn't even enough space in there to fit another bed!'"
8. This one will certainly give you sleepless nights.
"My grandfather was an exceptional man. Born in crushing poverty, he took to a life of crime in his teenage years before straightening up and joining the British Indian army, where he served with distinction. After India's independence, he won multiple national-level gold medals in wrestling and subsequently completed his education and started a successful trucking company. He had lived such an extraordinary life he spent his old age simply reliving his memories with friends and family through his great storytelling skills. Us grandkids loved to sit around him as he regaled us with tales from his well-lived life. He always seemed so joyful when he did it too.
But there was this one story that he avoided telling any of us until he was almost on his deathbed. One story that has stayed with me, even after all these years. I remember it all like it just happened yesterday, how his eyes widened, and his bony hands trembled in fear as he recounted the most frightening experience of his life.
Thankfully, I had a tape recorder close at hand and I can tell you what he told me, in his exact words:
'Are you sure you want to record this? Because it's not very pleasant... Okay then. Just don't tell your mother what I tell you here. I don't want to be held responsible for any nightmares you might end up having because of this.
So all this happened back in 1942, in the midst of the Arakan campaign. The Japanese had pushed all the way into Burma… ugh, I mean Myanmar. The campaign was the first offensive push by the allied army, to push the Japs back. And let me tell you, it was a spectacular failure.
We were not prepared for the attack. Remember, this was back when Indians couldn't rise above the rank of Subedar Major and all command posts were occupied by the British. And they had no idea what the fuck they were doing. They had little to no experience fighting in the muggy jungles, our transport infrastructure — our supply lines — were pathetically weak. Hell, Bengal, that was supposed to be the launch pad for the invasion suffered a devastating famine just a year later. I'm sure you must have read about that in school.
The Japanese, on the other hand, were well-fortified and carried out ambushes on a regular basis. It wasn't surprising to have entire patrol squads get wiped out in the blink of an eye. The attackers would suddenly appear out of the shadows and disappear before help could arrive. It was terrible. We were on edge all the time. Every branch that snapped, every leaf that rustled got our fingers pushing against the trigger of our rifles.
Compounding all that were the harsh conditions. We were far more likely to be killed by disease than war. The food we ate was barely enough to keep us on our feet, the threat of malaria and dysentery always loomed large. Snakes, spiders, and other insects larger than anything we'd ever seen crawled on our emaciated bodies as we slept. Sawrms of flies, that looked like dark little clouds descended on the corpses of our brothers. It was hell. We were permanently covered in layers of dirt. Rains lashed the forest at an alarming frequency, turning the weather so humid, it felt like our skin was starting to melt. The repeated spells of rain pretty much destroyed our communication lines, and the ground had turned so boggy that some soldiers had gotten stuck in them, right up to their thighs. It was so bad that at times, command structure had completely broken down, and disorganised chunks of the army were operating almost independently from each other.
It was in such a situation, that, that nightmare appeared in our lives.
One of the worst aspects of fighting in the jungle was the psychological warfare. The Japs would kidnap our soldiers, torture them for information, brutalise them beyond what should be humanly acceptable and sent them back, barely clinging to life. We could never save them, and I think that was the point. To watch our comrades, our brothers in arms waste away in front of us while our meagre medical supplies could do nothing to help them.
But that wasn't the worst of it. You see, one thing they delighted in doing was using our soldiers as bait to draw the rest of us out. They would torture our soldiers, to the brink of death and tie them up to a tree, usually in a clearing, and hide in the forest. If we went out to help, they would pick us off from the trees. All we could do is just stay hidden and listen to the agony filled death throes of our fellow soldiers. Wait till the last drop of life was slowly squeezed out of them as they cried out for their mothers.
It was one such incident that changed everything. Or at least, an incident that looked deceptively like the nightmare that we had gotten used to. James Wavell, a distant relative of Archibald Wavell, the then commander in chief of the British Indian army (and later Viceroy) was in charge of us. He was the one who sent us out on patrol that day. There were about a dozen of us, cutting our way through the jungle when we heard the screams.
You see, in forests, it's actually quite hard to track down the source of a loud noise like that. If someone screams, it feels like it's coming from everywhere, like the woods are echoing the sound and speaking to you themselves.
But not this time.
Instinctively, almost on a primal level, we knew where the screams were coming from. And almost as if in a daze, we gripped our guns tight in our hands and followed, or more likely we were led there, if that makes any sense... It didn't take us long to find the man who was screaming. He was dressed in Indian army fatigues, or at least the trousers — his shirt was torn and hanging from his shoulders. He was — god this is hard — he was tied to a tree, and had his hands on his stomach, trying to push down his intestines that were spilling out like thick, bloody little ropes.
And his screams. It's like I can still hear them. Like they're still making my ears ring. The pain in those screams, I could feel it in my bones. I began walking towards him before I even realised what I was doing. I felt a hand on my shoulder and was pulled back forcefully. I looked into the eyes of the man who pulled me back. They were wide open. Alarmed. Like he knew something was seriously wrong here. He shook his head slowly, warning me not to go ahead even as that man continued to scream. I gulped and nodded.
We spread out into the woods, with our guns drawn, keeping each other in sight, to brace ourselves for the Jap ambush. I winced as twigs snapped underneath my boots. I realised I was afraid. Not of the Japanese presumably hiding in the trees, somewhere close to us. No. But the wounded man in front of us. It was so bizarre. I can't explain it. But I felt it. Deep in my soul. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to run away. To keep running until I left this man far behind me.
I took up position slightly to the man's left and began waiting. Waiting for him to die, and for it, whatever it was to end. But it didn't. The man screamed, he cried, he sobbed, he called for help, but he just didn't seem to die. Minutes turned into hours and the sun began dipping beneath the horizon but he kept on screaming. We stood rooted to out spots, unable to move, as if mesmerized by the strange performance. The moon climbed up into the sky and the man's blood began gleaming under the white light that beamed down on him. But he still didn't die.
My legs were aching, my neck was stiff and I could hear someone to my right crying softly in terror. It was like we knew. Knew that it was not that man, but we who were about to die. And then it happened.
The man stopped crying.
Then the world was plunged into silence.
And I do mean complete silence. We couldn't hear anything. Anything. No birds, no crickets, no leaves rustling in the wind. We couldn't even hear ourself breathing. It was like the forest itself was holding its breath.
And then the man got up. He easily tore off the rope holding him in place and jumped up on his feet. His intestines hung limply from his belly, which looked like someone had punched a hole through it. Fuck. Half his gut was gone. Just straight gone. I could see straight through it. No man can live through an injury like that. Let alone be completely fine like he seemed to be.
You see how scared I am right now? Do you see how my hands are trembling even after all these years, just by thinking about that night? So you can imagine just how terrified I was when that man glared at me. His eyes shot up to mine, like he knew where I was. Like he'd always known where I was. There was such malice in his eyes, I almost passed out from the fear. And then he screeched. It was loud and shrill. Like thousands of babies screaming into our ears. I remember quaking in my boots just looking at that hateful snarl on his face.
He began running towards me. With these big, loping strides, covering half the distance within seconds. Thankfully, that sudden burst of motion had restored my senses and I started running away from him. I dropped my gun, my backpack, and just bolted. I leapt over small rocks and overgrown roots, ducked under branches, waded through thickets, stumbled in the dark, but kept on running. My boots at one point got stuck in the soggy mud, but I pulled myself free and pumped my legs to keep running. I stole a glance over my shoulder and saw him gaining on me, intestines slapping against his thigh as he ran. He was smiling. Ear to ear. Like the chase was the best thing to have ever happened to him. Like he wanted to take his time and truly savor the hunt. Move. Move. Move. Must go faster, I thought.
I heard screams behind me, accompanied by loud tearing and squelching sounds. He was ripping the patrol squad apart. One by one. And soon it was going to be my turn.
My lungs were on fire, each breath a desperate act of survival. My legs were starting to wobble. I knew I would not last long. I couldn't outrun him. But I could hide. I found this small crevice, where this giant tree had been uprooted, tucked away in a dark corner of the woods. I scrambled for the tiny hole and cloaked myself in the shadows. I wasn't even thinking about snakes or some other venomous creature waiting for me in the dark. I just wanted to get the fuck away from that thing. I pulled my knees close to my chest, felt my heart hammering against my sternum and waited. Waited for that thing to find me and put an end to it all.
I heard his footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Felt the leaves shift and crunch underneath his bare feet. Then he began whistling. It was oddly melodious, like a bird singing an ode to the forest. I heard the fallen tree creak as he stepped on it and glided towards me. Dark drops of blood came crashing down on the ground inches from my feet.
He called for me. In my mother's voice. She had been dead for over five years by that point. Gently, with love, he called for me. And laughed when I didn't move. I put my hands on my helmet, pulled it down in front of my eyes and began crying as silently as I could. It was over. I knew I was going to die.
But for some odd reason, he didn't kill me. Maybe it's because he wanted to leave one survivor alive, to go out and talk about him, spread the terror he had inflicted on our patrol squad. I don't know. I don't even know when he left. I spent the whole night there, alone, shivering in that little hole. Even when the sun had come up and bathed the forest floor with light, I still refused to come out, such was the extent of my fear. It wasn't until another patrol came across me that I felt safe enough to come out. They had to carry me back on a stretcher. I was delirious with fear, and every muscle in my body was exhausted. But I was alive...
That was the closest I came to that thing. But that wasn't my only encounter with it. All throughout my stay there I heard stories about it. From my own regiment and others, hell, even the Japs had supposedly come across it. This immortal thing that imitated voices, pretended to be wounded and tore apart entire squads at a time. Or how he came to you at night, when you were sleeping, whispering utter hatred into your ears before dragging you away and slicing you to pieces. Some patrol squads discovered remains of corpses in odd places, like decapitated heads on top of trees or limbs splayed out in strange patterns near the base camp. At one point we feared we were losing more men to that thing than to the Japanese. I'm sure they felt the same.
All the horrors that I witnessed in that country — the air bombings, the disease, the burnt corpses — were all nothing compared to that night. I remember how relieved I felt when we marched into Rangoon. Even with all the guns and artillery going off around me, all I could think of was that I was glad I was out of that damned forest."
9. This spooky tale from rural India.
"It's funny to think that it's been almost 20 years since this happened, and while it may be almost trivial to a reader, it made me question my belief (or the lack thereof) in religion and in the spiritual world. I was in my early 20s, fresh out of college and fancied myself a writer, I wanted to live in seclusion and chose my grandparents' house as my abode for the time being. They had been gone for almost eight years by then and the place had fallen into disrepair. I took upon myself the onerous task of making it habitable and write while falling upon an inheritance for some time. It should be noted that I wasn't alone per se — I did have neighbours living about a mile away — the house was just set further from them and was isolated.
Writing wasn't quite as romantic as I had imagined it to be. The house was in rural northern India — power cuts were the norm in the 90s and were pretty much crippling during the night. I spent my days writing (or thinking about it while tending to the house). The house was a huge mansion which must have required a staff for its upkeep in its heyday. It creaked and groaned now, with its masters long gone. The wintry draughts often shook the loose shingles and rats squeaked in the walls. I was already jumpy living alone and my imagination ran wild. This, coupled with periods of low morale and a lack of ideas led me to take long walks so I could coax my mind into thinking of something worth publishing.
One of my favourite routes ran through the edge of some woods, merging with a country road later. Although I loved the woods, I wasn't too keen about them at night — the forest was darker in those days and you never knew if it was a bird you were hearing or something more sinister. The country road was an unpaved dirt road between not one, but two cemeteries...This road led to the little town where I would go to for my meals and drinks. The entire place had a strange aura at night, and in a word was avoidable.
It was one of those nights where my mind just wouldn't shut down. I tried warm milk and reading but it was an exercise in futility and so I decided to go out for a walk. I donned a sweater and went out in the mildly chilly night. According to the phosphorous hands on my watch, it was 2 in the morning. A light rain had fallen and the place looked surreal — the leaves were laden heavy with the water, it smelled of fresh earth and was invigorating to the senses. I walked by the forest thinking about how the writing wasn't coming along and how I should be out looking for a real job. Tendrils of light mist swirled around at my feet, and I was lulled into a lazy sense of security.
No birds called from the forest and the insects too seemed to be silent that night. In retrospect, these should have been warning signs and I should have headed straight back but my brain had jumped into overdrive and pushed my feet forward. I crossed the road lined by the cemeteries and was almost into town when I realised I should be getting back as I had almost a quarter hour's worth of walk left.
I saw a lantern bobbing up and down, headed my way from the town. I thought I could use the company and let him fall in step with me. He was dressed in the local garb, had a walking stick with him, and spoke in a lilting accent. He asked me where I lived, how come I was here and I in turn told him about my grandparents whom he seemed to have known. He had switched off his lantern as I had my flashlight with me, although the batteries seemed to be on their last leg and its dim yellow glow didn't do much to dispel the darkness. In the fifteen minutes I walked with the man, I wasn't sure if I could see him, although I heard him properly. I felt that first shiver of fear and began to question what exactly was he doing out at this hour and who he really was.
I stopped to light a cigarette to calm my nerves and when I resumed walking, I couldn't hear the sound of his flip-flops beating the dirt and asked him if he was okay. He replied, 'you have narrowly escaped', and his voice seemed to have taken on a gravelly quality and gone was the lilt. My feet registered it before my brain did. I sprinted back to the house and by the time I reached, the shakes had started and I had a stitch in my side. I never did fall asleep that night anyway.
I informed a few of the locals I was friendly with and they said it being a new moon night, it must have been some malevolent spirit. They asked me if I was whistling or humming a tune as it is probably what attracted it to me. The only thing that kept me safe was me lighting that cigarette — the warmth and the fire didn't let it get me. Turns out smoking did save me that night.
I never did finish my book, I left the place, got a job teaching high school students in a posh-ish private school and left the incident behind me, only to ponder upon it at times."
10. And finally, the tale of the weeping woman.
"I heard this story from a cousin of mine, who lives in a small village in the state of Rajasthan in India. A story of an incident that happened many years ago, when the country was still under British rule.
In this village lived an old, frail woman named Leelawati. Well, not exactly, for she wasn't allowed too often into the village at all! Neither were her companions, who lived in a separate area on the outskirts of the village. Leelawati was a professional mourner, along with her other female companions.
In some parts of India, there is a strange custom wherein when someone belonging to an important family would die, they would not be allowed to mourn, because of their social status. So they called in professional mourners, who'd take in all the information they could about the recently deceased, and cry out loud enough for the whole village to listen. Tears would flow like rivers and their wails would be louder than thunder, as they beat their chest in sorrow while walking along with the funeral procession. This custom is known as Rudaali. They would always dress in black, and people would steer clear of them, thinking that they were inauspicious and would bring bad luck to the village.
Leelawati was the oldest of them all. She had even forgotten her age. Her husband had died years ago and she had no children. But her voice was the loudest when crying out during funerals. She was an expert at what she did. Every once in a while, a representative from the colonials would come on down to collect taxes. The village was within a few miles of a large house that the British had made in order to accommodate important officers and other personnel from time to time.
This house was currently occupied by Captain Smith, who was practically worshipped by the local merchants of the village, for he could get them a license to trade opium. One day, Smith was riding on a dusty road while passing through the village on his prized horse that he had gotten from the stables of a Maharaja. As he was riding past, he saw a small black figure lying on the road. It was Leelawati. She had gone to fetch water from the village well and had tripped and fell. She was bleeding from her forehead and her broken earthen pot lay next to her, leaking water over the dusty road.
She reached out and groaned for help, grabbing Smith's boot as he slowed down beside her. Despite not understanding what she was saying, Smith knew she needed help. But he was disgusted by this woman. An old, frail hag lying on the road. How dare she even touch him!
He kicked her off and rode on, going back home.
Leelawati was found dead the next morning. She was cremated near the river, and the priest at the village temple presided over it to pray for her soul.
However, her soul wasn't that prepared to move on.
Later that night, as Smith lay in his bed, he heard someone wailing outside his house. The cry was so sorrowful, it pulled at his heart. He had never heard a sound so depressing before. But strangely, he was drawn towards it. He climbed out of his window and walked towards the road. The weeping grew louder with every step. As he reached the road, he fell to his knees and started bawling himself, his head held in his hands.
Smith's dead body was found on the road by his maid the next morning.
The villagers say that Leelawati still fulfils her duties to this day. Every time someone in the village dies, you can hear her crying and beating her chest that night, walking through the dirt roads of the village. They call her the weeping woman, and they leave a coin on the road outside their house when someone passes away, as a payment, for she has mourned for their loss."
Okay then! Now that you've read these terrifying tales it's YOUR turn to share spooky stories of your own in the comments below.
Note: Some responses have been edited for length and/or clarity.
H/T : Reddit.