A chilling collection of true stories that defy explanation and challenge the boundaries of belief.

 Introduction

There's a unique terror in real-life horror—stories born from whispered legends, inexplicable encounters, and chilling truths that defy logic. Unlike fiction, these tales don't offer the comfort of being purely imaginary. They haunt because they're real—or at least, they feel like they could be.

This collection takes you into the eerie, the unsettling, and the downright terrifying moments that people have faced. From the spectral girl on the ancient Peepal tree to the shadowy figures that seem to watch from the corners of everyday life, these stories are grounded in truth and the unexplainable.

Each tale pulls back the curtain on the thin veil that separates the ordinary from the supernatural, drawing you into a world where the unexplained is always just a breath away. Brace yourself for sleepless nights, lingering chills, and the unsettling sensation that you might not be as alone as you think.

Welcome to The Umbrella and the Ghostly Visitor and Other Real-Life Horror Stories. Read on—if you dare.

About the Author

Sweeta Devi is a writer deeply intrigued by the eerie and unexplained phenomena that exist just beyond the edge of our understanding. With a passion for uncovering unsettling real-life stories that defy logic and challenge our perceptions of reality, she takes her readers on a journey through the strange and often terrifying aspects of the world around us.

Her storytelling is inspired not only by her own personal encounters with the unexplained but also by the shared experiences of others, blending these real-life tales into narratives that are both chilling and captivating. Sweeta's work invites readers to consider the mysteries that lurk in the shadows of our everyday lives—the moments when the supernatural brushes up against the mundane and when legends and unexplainable events feel too real to ignore.

By bringing these stories to life, Sweeta offers a powerful reminder that sometimes, the most haunting tales are the ones grounded in truth, offering a chilling reflection of the unexplained forces at work in the world.

The Stories

1.The Umbrella and the Ghostly Visitor

In the midst of a relentless monsoon, a simple act of kindness leads to an encounter with a mysterious figure whose past refuses to stay buried.

2.The Girl on the Peepal Tree A seemingly innocent schoolyard encounter leads to a terrifying realization when a girl, perched in the shadows of an ancient tree, is revealed to be far more than a mere figment of the imagination.

3.The Spirit I Encountered in the Hospital Trapped in a hospital room with an inexplicable force, an unexpected encounter blurs the lines between the living and the spectral, leaving an indelible mark on the psyche.

4.The Dark Secret of Our Quarter's Last Room In a quiet room at the end of the quarter, a long-buried secret waits to be discovered. Though it has remained untouched for years, one fateful night, curiosity unearths a force that refuses to stay hidden.

5.The Dream Before the Tragedy

A vivid dream foretells a tragedy, and when the events begin to unfold as predicted, the thin line between premonition and reality begins to unravel.

6.The Encounter with the Mysterious Old Woman A chance meeting with an old woman on a quiet street turns dark, revealing a sinister motive. What seemed like an innocent encounter unfolds into a chilling revelation of the woman's true intentions.

7.The Haunting of Hostel 6 A student living in the hostel opposite Hostel 6 encounters the restless spirit of a young man who took his life there, uncovering a haunting tale that refuses to remain forgotten. 

8.The Haunting After the Bus Accident After a fatal bus accident, the restless spirits of the deceased torment the villagers, blurring the line between life and death. The lingering hauntings force the villagers to face the wrath of those who never made it home.

9.The Tantric of Kamakhya In the mystical temple of Kamakhya, a brief encounter with a tantric reveals an unsettling interest. His cryptic words hint at a dark power, leaving behind a lingering sense of unease and a terrifying glimpse into the unknown.

10.The Haunting of Apartment 301 The strange occurrences within Apartment 301 escalate to unexplainable extremes, drawing a reluctant tenant into a chilling mystery that threatens to consume the tenant.

 The Umbrella and the Ghostly Visitor

My father once shared a chilling story from his time in Sikkim, where he was stationed during the relentless monsoon season. The rain fell unceasingly, turning roads into rivers and enveloping the forests in a thick, suffocating mist. He and his colleagues lived in a modest quarter on the outskirts of a small village, spending their evenings indoors, listening to the constant drumming of rain on the tin roof and sharing stories.

One particularly violent storm, as the wind howled and the rain lashed against the walls, a sharp knock echoed through their quarters. Startled, my father opened the door to find a young man drenched to the bone, his clothes clinging to his thin frame and water dripping from his hair. Yet, despite his soaked appearance, the man stood with an eerie calmness, almost too composed for someone caught in such a downpour.

"Namaste," the young man said with a faint, unnerving smile. "I'm caught in the storm. Could you lend me an umbrella?"

Without hesitation, my father reached for his prized red umbrella—a worn, old thing, but his lucky umbrella. He had carried it for years, through countless storms and bad luck, believing it kept him safe. He handed it to the man with a firm, almost urgent, "Take it. Keep it safe. But I want it back."

The young man nodded, his eyes glimmering strangely in the dim light. "Thank you. I'll return it soon," he promised before vanishing into the night, his figure swallowed by the mist almost immediately.

Days passed, and then weeks, but the umbrella was never returned. My father grew anxious. It wasn't just any umbrella—it was his lucky red umbrella. Without it, he felt a creeping sense of unease, as though something important was slipping away from him. One afternoon, fed up with waiting, he decided to visit the village and find the young man.

Accompanied by a colleague, he trekked through the mud-laden trails, the skies now clear after the storm had passed. The village was small and quiet, the wooden houses perched precariously on the slopes of the hills. My father asked around, describing the young man to several villagers. They exchanged uncomfortable glances, some even stepping back as if afraid to speak. Finally, an elder approached, his eyes filled with dread.

"Are you certain you saw him?" the elder asked, his voice shaking.

"Yes," my father replied, his voice firm. "He came to my quarters asking for the umbrella. He promised to return it."

The elder's face grew grim. "That sounds like Gopal," he murmured. "But Gopal has been dead for three years."

The words hit my father like a slap. "Dead? How?"

The elder explained that Gopal had drowned during a fierce monsoon. He had been crossing a swollen river when the current pulled him under. His body was found days later, eerily preserved, as if he had simply fallen asleep. The villagers had cremated him, but some whispered that his spirit remained—haunting the village, appearing to those caught in storms, asking for help.

My father felt his blood run cold. "But he borrowed my umbrella," he insisted. "It's real, and he promised to return it."

The elder's expression softened with pity. "If it was Gopal, you wouldn't find your umbrella with him. But there is something you need to see."

The elder led my father and his colleague to a small, dilapidated house on the outskirts of the village. Inside, hanging from a hook by the door, was an umbrella. My father's breath caught in his throat—it was unmistakably his. The same red fabric, faded and stained, the plastic handle worn smooth from years of use—it was his umbrella.

The air grew thick with tension as my father stared at the umbrella. How could it have ended up here? The man he saw that night had been real—too real. The umbrella had been his. But now, staring at it, my father felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

"Why is it here?" he whispered.

The elder's voice was low, almost a warning. "Because Gopal never left. He comes back for what he lost, and once something is taken, it's never returned."

My father left the village with a sinking feeling in his chest, his mind racing with unanswered questions. That night, back in the quarters, he recounted the events to his colleagues, who listened in stunned silence. None of them could explain it, but the story left a permanent mark on them all.

To this day, whenever my father recalls that encounter, there is a strange edge to his voice. He warns of the monsoon rains in Sikkim—how they sometimes bring more than just water. The storms carry with them something far darker—whispers from the past, shadows that never fully fade, and the restless spirits of those who have unfinished business.

And if a stranger ever knocks on your door in the middle of a storm, asking for an umbrella, don't be quick to offer it. Some things, once taken, are never meant to be returned.

  The Girl on the Peepal Tree

I grew up in a small, remote village, far from the noise and clamor of city life. The village was surrounded by dense forests and fields, a place where time seemed to slow down. The school I attended was located on the outskirts of the village, tucked away in a quiet corner with nothing but nature around it. It was a peaceful place for most, but there was always an eerie feeling that lingered in the air, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up every so often.

I was a rebellious soul, always upbeat and defiant, never one to follow the rules. I never believed in the superstitions that the other students whispered about, but at the same time, I couldn't help being intrigued by the strange and mysterious. It was during one of those early mornings that I had an experience I would never forget.

It was the day of my Science exam, the first term paper, and as usual, I hadn't prepared well. I had spent more time daydreaming than studying, and now I was rushing to get a last-minute revision. I lived in a small quarter with one of the teachers, located near the edge of the school grounds. It was early, maybe 6 or 7 in the morning, and the other students had already gone out for their morning exercises. But I decided to skip that and do some quick revision on my own.

I opened the door of the quarter to step outside and get some fresh air, my heart already pounding in anxiety over the exam. But what I saw immediately froze me in place.

Across from the quarter, near the Peepal tree that stood like a sentinel, there was a girl—shrouded in darkness, with her features blurry and undefined. She seemed to be perched on one of the tree's thick branches, almost blending into the darkness of the tree itself. At first, I thought it might be my imagination, or perhaps a trick of the early morning light, but the longer I stared, the more real she seemed. My heart raced.

And then, the moment our eyes met, something changed. The girl, who had been completely still, suddenly moved with excitement. Her dark form jerked to life, and I could sense her happiness, her joy that I had noticed her. It was as if she had been waiting for someone to see her, and now that I had, she was thrilled. Without any warning, she began shaking the branches of the Peepal tree violently. The sound of the tree's leaves rustling in the wind grew deafening, and the branches swayed wildly, almost as though the tree itself was alive.

Fear gripped me, and my heart dropped to my stomach. The tree's violent shaking seemed to mirror the girl's excitement, her shadowy form radiating an energy I couldn't escape. I felt as though I was drawn into her presence, pulled toward her, even though every instinct in me screamed to run.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My mind was racing, but my body was frozen, trapped in the moment. And then, finally, I managed to break free from the trance. My heart thudded in my chest as I slammed the door of the quarter shut. The loud sound of the door closing seemed to snap me out of the daze.

I backed away from the door, feeling the weight of fear and confusion settling over me. My hands trembled as I tried to make sense of what had just happened. What was that? What did I just see? I wanted to push the experience out of my mind, but it was impossible. The girl on the tree, the shaking branches, the energy—everything felt so real, so vivid.

After a few moments of gathering my thoughts, I mustered the courage to open the door again. Cautiously, I looked in the direction of the Peepal tree. The once-violent shaking had stopped. The branches were still. The tree looked ordinary again, like it always had. The figure was gone, vanished into the air.

The other students began returning from their morning exercises, laughing and chatting as they walked back to the hostel. The presence of their voices brought a strange sense of comfort, as if the normality of their arrival had restored some balance. I breathed deeply, still shaken, and without thinking much about it, I turned and walked back toward the hostel to prepare for the exam.

But deep down, I knew I would never forget what I had seen—the girl on the Peepal tree, her excitement when I noticed her, the violent shaking of the branches. It lingered in my mind, a haunting image that I couldn't shake. I never spoke of it to anyone, unsure of how they would react. But every time I walked past a Peepal tree after that, I couldn't help but glance up, half-expecting to see her again, watching from the shadows, happy that someone noticed her.

 The Spirit I Encountered in the Hospital

During one of the most difficult times in my life, when my father was admitted to the hospital, I spent what felt like endless days and nights waiting. The air in the hospital always felt heavy, filled with the constant beep of machines and the sterile scent of antiseptic that lingered in the hallways. My mind was exhausted, and my body felt like it was running on empty. I wasn't beside my father in the ICU; instead, I sat in front of the ICU room, in the dimly lit hallway, waiting for any sign that things would get better.

It was late in the night, and the hospital seemed strangely quiet. The nurses had come and gone, and the hallway was mostly empty, save for a few stray footsteps. I was sitting on a mat that I had placed on the floor, trying to rest my tired body, my eyes half-closed, caught somewhere between sleep and waking. It was in that liminal space that I felt something shift in the air—a warmth, something unfamiliar in the cold, sterile atmosphere of the hospital.

And then, I saw him.

He appeared suddenly, standing at the far end of the hallway near the ICU room. He looked like someone who didn't belong in a place like this, not in the sense that he was out of place, but because he radiated an energy that was almost too vibrant, too warm, for such a grim environment. He was young, probably in his early twenties, with dark hair and kind, gentle eyes. His face was calm, yet there was a quiet strength in him, as if he had an understanding far beyond his years.

I was too stunned to react immediately. He just stood there, looking at me with a serene expression, as though he could see the exhaustion and pain written all over my face. I felt no fear, just a strange sense of comfort, as though this young man was there for a reason, to give me something I desperately needed—reassurance.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke, his voice soft and calm, in my local language: "Sida keidowramino," which means, "What are you doing here?"

I blinked, unsure if I was dreaming or hallucinating from exhaustion. But his presence felt real, solid, and his words, though simple, held so much meaning. I gathered myself enough to answer. "My father is sick. That's why I'm here," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded in understanding, and then, with a soft, reassuring smile, he said, "He will be well."

I wasn't sure why, but his words felt like a promise. There was no doubt in his voice, only calm assurance. It was as though, at that moment, everything would be okay, even though my father was in critical condition. The young man's words had a soothing quality that seemed to lift some of the weight off my chest. For a brief moment, I dared to believe that things might turn out all right.

Just as I was about to say something else, my aunt, who had been sleeping beside me, stirred and shifted. I turned toward her, distracted for just a moment, and when I looked back, the young man was gone. Vanished, as if he had never been there at all. I rubbed my eyes, questioning whether I had imagined the entire encounter, but the feeling he left behind—the warmth, the calm—still lingered.

The rest of the night passed in a blur, and sadly, my father did not survive. The grief of his passing was overwhelming, and the loss is something I still carry with me. However, I've never been able to forget the young man I saw that night. His brief, kind presence in the hospital gave me a sense of peace, a feeling that I wasn't alone in my sorrow.

I believe he wasn't just a figment of my imagination, but a spirit who came to comfort me during one of the darkest times of my life. His reassuring words and the warmth he brought with him made me feel as though my father had been guided to a better place. And even though my father didn't make it, I hold on to the belief that he was taken to that place by someone kind—someone like the young man I saw that night.

 The Dark Secret of Our Quarter's Last Room

When I was a child, there was one room in our quarter that always unsettled me—the last room, tucked away at the far end of the hall. It wasn't locked, yet I instinctively avoided it. This room wasn't anything extraordinary at first glance. It had a bed, an almirah with a large dressing mirror attached to it, some old sports equipment, and a few boxes filled with miscellaneous things. But something about it never felt right. The air inside was always heavy, thick with a presence I couldn't explain. It was as if the room itself was holding something back, something dark and uninviting.

I spent over eight years in that quarter, and though I eventually left both the house and the school, that room still lingers in my mind. It was more than just a room—it felt like a place apart, an island of strange energy in what should have been a normal home. It wasn't just the room itself that made me uncomfortable; it was the feeling I had whenever I walked by it. Like something was watching me, lurking just beyond the door, waiting. Over the years, I learned to stay far away from it, but I had no idea how sinister the room truly was until one evening, when everything changed.

It was a quiet night, much like any other. My family was going about its usual business. My father was in the living room, flicking through a newspaper. My brother had stepped outside to run an errand. The house was peaceful, save for the low hum of everyday life. I was in the dining room, finishing up some homework, when my teacher—who had been staying with us—was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. It was a routine evening, no different from the countless others we'd spent in that house.

Then, something happened. It was a sound at first, a call from my father that reverberated through the house. "Come here, [Brother's Name]!" he called, as he usually did when he needed something. But this time, something odd occurred. The voice that answered my father's call did not come from the living room or the hallway. It came from the direction of the last room—the one that I had always avoided.

"Yes, Dad."

It was unmistakably my brother's voice. I knew it instantly. It sounded exactly like him—clear, polite, and casual. Neither my teacher nor I thought much of it at first. After all, my brother had just left the house. Surely, he had entered and gone into the room without us hearing him. But then, as I thought about it more, something struck me as strange. I had seen my brother leave only moments before. He couldn't possibly have returned and entered that room without us noticing. The voice, though familiar, seemed out of place.

I didn't mention anything at first, dismissing it as a simple trick of the mind. But my teacher, who had been standing in the kitchen, looked up sharply. His face went pale. He had heard it too. We exchanged uneasy glances, both confused by what had just happened. The sound of the voice lingered in the air, reverberating with a strange tension that neither of us could explain.

A few moments passed, and I continued waiting for my brother to return from his errand. Surely, he would be back soon. The door opened, and my brother stepped inside, completely unaware of what had just transpired. He had been outside the entire time. There was no way he could have answered my father's call from the direction of the last room.

My heart sank, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. That voice—it hadn't been my brother's. It had been an exact replica of his voice, but it wasn't him. My mind raced, trying to understand what had happened. How could something—or someone—mimic his voice so perfectly?

The teacher and I were silent, still processing what we had heard. My brother, completely unaware of the eerie exchange, went about his evening as if nothing was amiss. But I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. That room—the last room—was no longer just a place I had avoided. It had become something far more sinister. Something capable of imitating voices, something that wasn't human.

I stood up from the dining table, my legs trembling beneath me. My gaze was drawn toward the last room, even though every instinct in me screamed to turn away. The door to that room was slightly ajar, as it always was. The mirror on the almirah reflected the faint light from the hallway, casting strange, unsettling shadows on the walls. I felt a pull, a strange compulsion to move toward it, but I couldn't. My body refused to obey.

My teacher, his face pale with fear, broke the silence. "We need to stay away from that room," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, too frightened to speak. He had known something was wrong, too.

Later that night, sleep eluded me. I lay in bed, wide awake, my mind racing. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel it—the presence from the room. It was as though something was waiting just beyond the door, something ancient and malevolent. The mirror in that room, which had once seemed so mundane, now felt like a portal, a gateway to something far darker. What had it reflected all these years? What had it been hiding?

I couldn't stop thinking about the voice. It was so clear, so real. But it hadn't been my brother's voice. It had been something else. Something that had imitated him perfectly. I wondered if the room itself had been manipulating the very air, pulling the sounds from some deep, unknown place. Or perhaps the mirror had been a conduit, allowing whatever dark force lingered in that room to reach into our world.

Over the next few days, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread whenever I passed that room. I avoided it more than ever. The door was never fully closed, and every time I caught a glimpse of the reflection in the mirror, it sent a cold shiver through me. The house no longer felt like a home—it felt like a place of surveillance, like the last room was watching, waiting.

Eventually, my family left the quarter. I went on to finish school, and the house became a distant memory. But the unease never fully left me. Even after all these years, I often think about that room—the voice, the mirror, and the presence that lingered there. It still haunts me, especially when I hear a familiar voice in the distance, too perfect, too clear, and too chilling.

Whatever was in that room, whatever had been mimicking voices and pulling at the fabric of reality, is something I hope never speaks again. But deep down, I know that the last room still holds its dark secret, waiting for the next soul to come across its threshold. And when they do, I can only hope they will heed the warning, just as I should have done all those years ago.

 The Dream Before the Tragedy

It was the last day of March, the 31st, when the unthinkable happened. My cousin, someone I considered more like a brother, passed away peacefully in his sleep. He was young, still in his twenties, and his sudden passing left us all in shock. But what made this loss even more surreal was the strange premonition I had months before it occurred. I had already seen his death in a dream long before it became reality.

It had been months earlier when I had a vivid and unsettling dream that still haunts me. I dreamt it was dark in the morning, just as the first light of dawn hadn't yet broken through the night. I found myself surrounded by people, their faces wet with tears, lost in grief. The air was thick with sorrow, yet I felt strangely detached from it. I didn't understand why I was crying, but my hands were soaked with tears, as though I was part of the sadness, even though I didn't know why.

As I looked around, my gaze fell upon a mat in the middle of the room. There, lying motionless, was a body. The details were unclear, but the sense of finality in the room was undeniable. The grief of those around me was overwhelming, and yet, there was a strange, inexplicable calmness that settled over me. I couldn't figure out who the body was. Their faces were obscured, but the feeling of loss in the room was unmistakable. It felt as if I was witnessing something irreversible, but I couldn't make sense of why I was there or who the body belonged to.

I woke up abruptly, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. The images of the dream—the mourners, the body lying on the mat, and the overwhelming sense of loss—stayed with me long after I opened my eyes. I didn't know what to make of it. The dream felt too real to be just a random nightmare, but I couldn't find any logical explanation for it. I pushed it aside, telling myself it was just a strange dream, but the feeling it left behind was hard to ignore.

Months passed, and life carried on. The dream slowly faded from my thoughts as time went by. But then, on the night of March 31st, I got the call. My cousin had passed away in his sleep. He had been perfectly healthy, and his sudden death left everyone stunned. The news hit me like a heavy blow, and I rushed to his home, my heart racing with the unbearable weight of grief.

When I entered the room where he had been sleeping, I froze. There, lying on the mat, in the exact same position I had seen in my dream, was my cousin. His body was motionless. The scene before me was an eerie replica of the dream I had months ago—the mat, the stillness, the quiet grief in the room. I couldn't believe it. How did I know? How had I dreamed this months before it happened? The details were too precise, too perfect, to be a coincidence.

As I stood there, my mind racing, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a random nightmare. It felt like a glimpse into the future, something I had been unknowingly shown. The grief in the room felt familiar, as though I had already experienced it in that dream, but now, it was real. The eerie calm I had felt in the dream settled over me once more.

On April 1st, we performed the final rites and cremated his body. But even as I watched the flames consume him, I couldn't escape the feeling that somehow, I had known this was coming. The dream had been a premonition, a warning I hadn't understood at the time. I had seen the loss before it even happened, and now, it was a reality I had no control over.

To this day, I don't understand why I saw it. It wasn't just a bad dream or a figment of my imagination—it was something deeper, something beyond my comprehension. The memory of that dream, of my cousin lying motionless on the mat, continues to haunt me. And I can't help but wonder: why was I shown this? Was it a warning? A glimpse into something beyond our understanding?

 The Encounter with the Mysterious Old Woman 

It was an ordinary day, or so it seemed. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long, fading shadows across the street. There was a quiet stillness in the air, a heaviness that made the world feel oddly silent. My footsteps echoed down the empty road as I walked back to my quarter from school, a route I had taken countless times before. Yet today, something felt different. The usual hum of life seemed muffled, and the silence felt like a weight pressing down on my chest.

I first noticed her from a distance—an old woman, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps. Her faded sari hung loosely on her frail frame, and her face, though wrinkled by time, was expressionless. But there was something unsettling about her, something that didn't belong.

As she drew closer, the unease in my stomach grew. Her movements were unnervingly deliberate, too controlled for someone her age. She wasn't in a hurry, didn't seem to have any place to be, yet she kept walking straight toward me. My heart began to race, a cold feeling crawling up my spine.

But what truly unsettled me were her hands. Hidden behind her back, she didn't carry anything—no bag, no belongings. Her hands were simply concealed, as though she was hiding something from view. I couldn't shake the feeling that she was preparing for something, planning something sinister.

What was she hiding? I thought, my mind racing with possibilities. A sharp object, like a broken piece of mirror? Was she planning to harm me? The thought hit me hard, like a cold punch to the gut. The closer she got, the more my fear intensified. My breath quickened. What if she's here to kill me? The thought flashed across my mind, and I froze in place. Every instinct told me something was horribly wrong.

I couldn't bring myself to look away from her, my body frozen by a combination of fear and curiosity. She was getting closer now, yet there was something about her movements that seemed off. She wasn't looking at me. Her gaze was cast downward, avoiding eye contact entirely. It was as though she was trying to hide her true intentions, as though she knew that if I saw her eyes, I would know what she was planning.

She kept walking toward me, each step slow, calculated—measured with purpose. It was like she was playing a game, a game where I had no choice but to follow her rules. I knew she wanted to catch me off guard. She wanted to strike when I wasn't prepared. But as she got closer, I realized something: I didn't have to move. I didn't have to let her control the situation.

The distance between us, still wide, was my safeguard. If she tried to charge, I would have enough time to react. Enough space to turn and run, back to the safety of my quarter. My legs tensed, ready to spring into action. I was not trapped—not yet. She was waiting for me to move, to flinch, to show fear. But I didn't. I remained still, my gaze fixed on her.

Suddenly, her steps slowed. She stopped walking altogether, standing perfectly still. Her hands remained hidden behind her back, her eyes still cast downward. It was as though she was waiting for me to take a step, for the distance between us to close so that she could strike. But I didn't move. I held my ground, standing firm, watching her, waiting for her next move.

Her plan had failed. She couldn't get to me. She needed me to move, to let down my guard. But since I didn't, she seemed to lose her resolve. She finally raised her head, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. And then, something strange happened. She smiled—a twisted, almost disappointed smile—as if acknowledging my luck in avoiding whatever it was she had planned. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away.

It was as if she was saying, You got lucky this time.

I stood there, heart still pounding in my chest, as I watched her retreating figure. What had just happened? What had she really been planning? I didn't know. The uncertainty gnawed at me, but there was no time to dwell on it. I quickly stormed towards the school, thoughts spinning in confusion and fear.

As I neared the school gates, I glanced over my shoulder once more. And there she was again, standing in the distance by the Shiv Ji temple. Her figure was still, watching me. But now, her smile is gone. Only the faintest shadow of it remained. She was gone. The air felt less oppressive, but the lingering unease remained.

I quickened my pace, eager to put as much distance as possible between myself and that terrifying encounter. My heart still raced, and questions swirled in my mind—what if today had been my last day? Why had she wanted to harm me? What had she been hiding? Why had I crossed paths with her at all?

I felt a fleeting sense of relief wash over me. Maybe I'd never see her again. I was thankful for that thought—for the idea that, somehow, I had been spared.

 The Haunting of Hostel 6

It was during the summer of my internship at a renowned university, a time I had been eagerly awaiting for months. I had just turned 19, and the thought of spending a few weeks in a prestigious place with access to vast knowledge, new experiences, and opportunities excited me beyond words. The university campus was magnificent—lush green lawns, historic buildings, and the promise of lifelong connections. But what I didn't expect was the dark story that would haunt me for years to come.

I was staying in Hostel 5, a newer building tucked away in a quiet corner of the university's sprawling campus. Just across the courtyard, nestled between two tall oaks, was Hostel 6—a far older building. Its exterior seemed to carry the weight of time, with cracked windows, a few faded patches on the walls, and an eerie stillness surrounding it, especially at night. The other students would often joke about it, calling it "the haunted hostel" in hushed voices, but I brushed it off. Ghost stories and urban legends never affected me.

One evening, just a week into my stay, the entire atmosphere of the campus seemed to shift. A rumor began circulating among the students that someone from Hostel 6 had tragically taken their own life. A young man, just a year older than me, had been found lifeless in his room. They said it was an impulsive decision, a result of mounting academic pressure and emotional struggles that nobody had noticed until it was too late.

The news hit me harder than I expected. It felt surreal—how could someone so young, just a few steps away from everything that I was experiencing, end their life in such a dark way? I couldn't shake the image of this unknown soul, so close, yet so far. I spent the next few days reflecting on the fragility of life and the silent battles people fought. But it wasn't just the sadness of his death that lingered in the air—it was something else. The first night after hearing the news, I was lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The hostel was eerily quiet, a calm that contrasted with the unsettling feeling gnawing at me. Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed from the other side of my room. I jolted upright, my heart racing. No one had knocked—my door was locked, and the hallway outside was empty.

A chill ran down my spine, and I tried to brush it off as nerves, maybe a trick of the wind. But then, a faint sound drifted through the room. It was a soft tapping, almost like footsteps, but they didn't match the usual rhythm of the students coming and going. These steps were slow, dragging, like the weight of the world was on them.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I found myself standing in front of the window that faced Hostel 6. The moonlight reflected off its windows, casting long shadows across the courtyard. It was then I saw something that made my blood run cold—a figure, standing in the window of Hostel 6. A young man, no older than 20, his face obscured by the darkness of his room. His silhouette was barely visible, but the shape of his posture seemed all too familiar—his head slightly lowered, as if burdened by something heavy.

I tried to dismiss it as my mind playing tricks on me, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It wasn't until later that night when I lay in bed, trying to sleep, that I heard a voice—a soft whisper, so faint that I thought I imagined it.

"Help me…"

The voice was low, barely audible, but it seemed to come from the direction of Hostel 6. My heart raced. I couldn't move. It was as if my body was frozen in place, as if the air had thickened, and my mind was slowly unraveling the reality around me.

Over the next few days, I became more aware of the odd occurrences that happened around Hostel 6. At night, the lights flickered more than usual. The sound of distant crying would seep through the walls of my hostel, coming from nowhere. I began to hear rumors from other students who'd visited Hostel 6 during the day. Some claimed to have seen the figure of a young man standing by the window, staring out, his expression unreadable. Others said they felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and despair, a weight that clung to them, making it hard to breathe.

One evening, driven by a strange mix of fear and curiosity, I decided to visit Hostel 6. As I walked toward the entrance, the air grew colder, and the trees above seemed to lean in, as if to watch me. The hostel was silent, too silent, and the once-innocent jokes about the place now felt like warnings I had ignored.

I approached the building cautiously, my steps slow, my heart beating in my chest. I had no idea why I was so drawn to it, why I needed to go inside, but something told me I had to. As I stood at the entrance, I noticed something odd—a faint light flickering through the cracks in the door. It was coming from the second floor, the room where the young man had died.

I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. The place felt abandoned, as if no one had been inside for days. When I stepped inside, a wave of cold air hit me, and the floor creaked underfoot. The walls seemed to close in around me, and my skin prickled with unease. I moved toward the staircase, slowly climbing to the second floor.

That's when I saw it. The same figure, standing in front of the room where the young man had died. He was no longer just a silhouette—this time, I could see his face. It was pale, gaunt, his eyes hollow, as if drained of life. His expression was one of deep sorrow, his hand slowly reaching out as if to grab something—someone.

But it wasn't me he was reaching for.

Suddenly, everything went dark.

When I woke up, I was back in my room, drenched in sweat, my body trembling uncontrollably. I glanced out the window toward Hostel 6, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw the same figure standing in the window, watching me.

I left the university soon after that incident, feeling as if I had narrowly escaped something far darker than I could have ever imagined. The haunting presence of that young man followed me for days, his sorrowful eyes never leaving my thoughts.

To this day, I sometimes hear whispers in the dark, whispers that remind me of the boy I never knew, whose presence still lingers in the hallways of Hostel 6—a tragic soul, trapped in his own despair. And as for Hostel 6 itself, it still stands, its windows dark, its halls empty. Some say the boy is still there, waiting, lost in the shadows, for someone to hear his cry.

But I'll never forget the haunting I experienced that summer, a ghostly reminder of the life that was cut too short.

 The Haunting After the Bus Accident

The haunting incidents following the tragic bus accident, where all the girls and their teacher died, were unlike anything the small village had ever experienced. The village, nestled in a remote hill station, had always been peaceful, but after the accident, a deep, unsettling silence settled over the area at night. The ghostly presence of the girls and their teacher lingered, their spirits trapped in the violent aftermath of their untimely deaths.

It began just days after the crash. The night air, which had once carried the sweet scent of pine trees and fresh mountain air, now felt heavy with sorrow and tension. Villagers, many of whom had known the victims personally, began to hear strange sounds in the middle of the night. At first, it was faint, almost imperceptible—the soft whisper of voices carried on the wind, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone crying. But the crying wasn't from a single person; it was the collective sorrow of many voices, all echoing in perfect harmony.

Families who lived closest to the cliffs reported hearing the cries of the girls at all hours of the night. The sound was always the same—a mournful wail that seemed to rise and fall with the wind, as though the spirits were still mourning the tragic end to their lives. Some villagers even claimed to have heard the unmistakable voice of the teacher among the cries, calling out for her students, as if searching for them, even in death. Her voice, gentle and filled with care, would blend with the others, making the sound all the more sorrowful.

One of the most chilling incidents occurred one cold evening, not long after the crash, when we decided to take a midnight stroll. We had always been curious and unafraid of the dark, but that night, something felt different. As we walked, we noticed the trees swaying unnaturally, their branches creaking in the wind. It was then we heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps following us.

We quickened our pace, thinking it was another villager out for a late walk, but when we turned around, no one was there. The footsteps grew louder, and soon, we felt the air grow colder, as if a heavy presence had enveloped us. The hairs on the back of our neck stood on end, and our hearts began to race. We felt the distinct sensation of being watched, as though something—someone—was following us, but when we looked around again, there was nothing but the stillness of the night and the chill that hung in the air.

Terrified, we ran back home, our feet barely touching the ground as we hurried to our doorstep. As we reached the safety of our house, we glanced back one last time and saw something that made our blood run cold. At the edge of the path, where the trees met the cliff, we saw figures standing—shapes that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, faint and translucent, yet undeniably present. They were the spirits of the girls and the teacher, standing in silent mourning. We could feel their sorrow, an overwhelming sadness that threatened to consume us. With a final shudder, we closed the door and locked it behind us, too frightened to sleep for the rest of the night.

Other villagers began reporting similar experiences. One man, a local farmer, spoke of hearing a soft, pleading voice calling out his name in the dead of night. At first, he thought it was his daughter, but when he stepped outside, no one was there. The next night, the same thing happened again, only this time, he heard the voices of the girls, their cries growing louder and more desperate. Each time he went to investigate, there was nothing but the stillness of the night and the chill that hung in the air. The voices would stop as suddenly as they started, leaving behind a sense of profound loss.

As the haunting incidents grew more frequent, villagers started to avoid the area around the crash site. No one dared venture too close to the cliffs after dark, and even the bravest among them started feeling uneasy when they passed the stretch of road leading to the site. The place where the accident had happened seemed to be cursed, its very air thick with sorrow and a sense of unfinished business.

One particularly chilling account came from an elderly woman who lived alone in a small cottage near the road leading up to the cliffs. One evening, while sitting by her fire, she saw a figure standing in her garden. She thought at first it was a trick of the light, but as she looked closer, she saw a girl standing there, her clothes tattered and dirty, her face obscured by long, dark hair. The girl appeared to be staring at the elderly woman, her eyes empty and void of life. Terrified, the woman bolted inside her cottage, but when she looked out the window, the girl was gone. She had vanished into the darkness, leaving only the unsettling feeling of her presence behind.

As the weeks passed, we could no longer ignore the supernatural disturbances that plagued the town. The cries, the whispers, the shadowy figures—they all pointed to one thing: the spirits of the girls and their teacher were not at peace. It was clear that something had to be done to help them find closure.

That was when the village elders decided to call upon a spiritual healer, a man known for his powerful rituals. He had been sought after for his ability to deal with troubled spirits. The healer agreed to help, though he was reluctant. He knew the spirits were strong and their grief even stronger.

The healer made his way to the crash site late one night, armed with incense, sacred herbs, and a collection of talismans to ward off malevolent forces. He began chanting ancient prayers in a low, rhythmic voice, his eyes closed in concentration. The wind howled, and the trees swayed violently as he worked. The spirits, sensing his presence, seemed to respond. For a brief moment, the cries of the girls and the voice of the teacher grew louder, almost as if they were protesting. The air grew heavy, and a cold mist rolled in, surrounding the healer as he continued his ritual.

The healer did not falter. He called upon the spirits, telling them it was time to let go of their grief and find peace. He promised them that they would not be forgotten, that their lives would be honored and remembered. He chanted the words of release, asking the spirits to ascend to the afterlife, where they would be free of their pain and sorrow.

As the ritual reached its climax, the wind suddenly stilled. The oppressive atmosphere that had loomed over the crash site for weeks lifted, and for the first time since the tragedy, the air seemed lighter, warmer. The cries ceased, and the presence of the spirits gradually faded into the night. The village was silent, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. The haunting had finally come to an end.

The next morning, the villagers returned to the site to find it had changed. There was a sense of peace where once there had been sorrow, and the chilling presence that had once consumed the town was gone. The spirits of the girls and their teacher had found their way to the afterlife, their cries and whispers no longer disturbing the living.

Though the villagers would always remember the tragedy, they knew that the spirits of the lost girls were now at peace. The healer's ritual had done what was needed, and the haunting was over.

 The Tantric of Kamakhya

It was a bright, sunny day during my visit to the famous Kamakhya Temple, perched on the Nilachal Hill in Assam. The temple, known for its deep spiritual significance and rich history, was a place of divine energy and mysticism. As a curious traveler, I was eager to experience its sacred aura, but what I didn't expect was to cross paths with a figure who would leave me with a lingering sense of dread.

I was with my mother and a guy I was fond of, walking towards the temple complex, which was bustling with pilgrims and tourists. The air was filled with the scent of incense and the faint sounds of temple bells ringing in the distance. The stone steps leading up to the temple were ancient and worn, and there was an air of serenity about the place.

As we continued walking through the complex, we passed by a secluded corner near a smaller shrine. It was here that I first noticed him—a man standing by a stone pillar, observing us with an intensity that made me uneasy. He was of medium height, fair-skinned, healthy, and surprisingly handsome in an almost unsettling way. His appearance was striking, and his calm, piercing gaze seemed to hold some unspoken message.

He wore a black turban and a black dhoti wrapped around his waist, his torso bare. The look was unusual, almost ritualistic. He appeared to be a tantric, someone deeply involved in spiritual practices, and I couldn't shake off the feeling that his presence was far more intense than it should have been.

At first, I tried to look away, but there was something magnetic about his gaze, drawing me in despite my instincts telling me to keep my distance. His eyes never left me. I could feel his eyes boring into me as though he was studying me, waiting for something. My heart began to race, and I felt a sense of foreboding wash over me.

I glanced at my mother and the guy I was with, but they were lost in the beauty of the surroundings, unaware of what was happening. My feet felt like they were glued to the ground. It wasn't that I wanted to stay; it was as if my body refused to obey my mind. I desperately wanted to turn and walk away, but I couldn't. It was as though an invisible force had a hold on me, making it impossible for me to move.

The man's stare never wavered. I could feel his presence like a dark cloud hanging over me. His intentions were clear—I could sense it in the way he was looking at me. He wasn't just admiring me; it felt more like a silent demand, a hunger, as if he wanted something from me that I could not provide.

I turned back to the guy I was with, silently pleading for him to notice my discomfort, but he was still oblivious. In a moment of panic, I discreetly waved my hand at him, signaling for him to come over. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel myself getting colder as the seconds ticked by.

As soon as he saw my wave, he started walking toward me. I felt an instant sense of relief as the hold on me seemed to loosen. The tantric man's gaze flickered for a moment, but he didn't move. He remained standing, his eyes still fixed on me, his presence heavy and suffocating.

When the guy I was with reached me, I quickly moved toward him, and we walked away from the tantric, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he was still watching us. I wanted to look back, but I knew better. Something told me that doing so would invite trouble. We continued on our way, and I felt a strange weight lift off me the further we got from that corner of the temple.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn't help but replay the entire incident over and over in my mind. Why had I felt such dread? Why had I been unable to move? It wasn't just his gaze that unsettled me—it was something deeper, something more dangerous lurking beneath the surface. I couldn't explain it, but I knew that my instincts had been right.

The tantric had wanted something from me, though I couldn't figure out what it was. It wasn't just a casual glance, nor was it a simple encounter. It was as if he was testing my boundaries, seeing if I would break, if I would give in to whatever strange pull he had over me.

I later learned that many tantras practiced in places like Kamakhya involved powers and rituals that bridged the gap between the physical and spiritual worlds. The tantric I had encountered might have been part of that world—a world that was more complicated and dangerous than I had ever imagined. But even though I wanted to dismiss the encounter as just an odd moment, the feeling of unease remained.

That day at Kamakhya changed me. It made me more aware of the energies around me, how some things and some people are capable of bending reality, of making the world seem strange and unfamiliar. I will never forget that tantric man and the unsettling feeling he left me with, reminding me that some forces should never be underestimated.

 The Haunting of Apartment 301

Apartment 301 had always been a peculiar place, known to many who had lived there as an unsettling part of the old building. It wasn't just the creaking floorboards, the sagging wallpaper, or the dim light that seemed to permanently linger in the hallway. No, there was something far more disturbing—something intangible, yet palpable. It was as if the walls of the apartment absorbed the grief of its past inhabitants.

When I first moved in during the fall of 2022, I didn't think much of the rumors. I was new to the city, and I needed a place to live. The rent was affordable, and the building, though aged, seemed sturdy enough. The apartment had a certain charm. It was modest—small living room, tiny kitchen, and a bedroom that felt perpetually cold, no matter the weather. The previous tenant had left behind some old furniture: a worn-out sofa, a chipped coffee table, and a photograph of a young woman standing in front of a house that looked like it had been abandoned for years.

I tried to push away the uneasy feeling I had the moment I set foot in the apartment. It was nothing more than my imagination running wild, or so I told myself. But as the days went by, I couldn't ignore the strange occurrences that began to unfold.

At first, it was just small things—objects being out of place, faint whispers in the dark, things I could chalk up to an old building settling, or perhaps my own tired mind playing tricks on me. But the whispers grew louder, clearer. They weren't just murmurs anymore. At night, I would hear voices—quiet at first, almost imperceptible, but growing louder with each passing night. I couldn't make out the words, but it was as if someone was speaking just beyond the walls.

And then came the dreams.

The dreams were the same every night, as though I was reliving the same moment over and over again. A woman, pale and gaunt, stood at the edge of a cliff, looking into the abyss. Her dark hair flowed around her face like a shroud, and her hollow eyes seemed to stare into my very soul. I never understood the dreams at first, but they were always the same. The woman—who I now recognized as the one in the photograph—would turn to me, her face expressionless, her eyes filled with an unbearable sadness. Then she would look away, back toward the cliff, as though waiting for something, or someone.

I woke up every night from these dreams feeling a deep sense of sorrow and dread, but I never questioned them. Until the night I woke up to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open.

I thought it was just another bad dream. But when I opened my eyes, I saw her standing at the foot of my bed. The woman from my dreams—no longer a shadow in the distance, but right in front of me. Her face was pale, almost lifeless, and her long hair hung like a curtain around her face. Her hollow eyes fixed on me, and for a moment, I couldn't move. I was frozen in place, trapped by the overwhelming presence of grief and sorrow that filled the room.

Her lips parted, and a voice, soft and mournful, echoed in the air. "I couldn't escape him. I couldn't escape the pain."

The words felt like a punch to my chest. I could feel her pain, her anguish, pressing against me. It was suffocating, as though the room itself was closing in around me.

I wanted to scream, to run, but I couldn't move. I was paralyzed by fear and something else—something deeper, something that resonated with my very soul. I couldn't understand what was happening, but I knew this wasn't a dream anymore. This was real.

She raised her hand slowly, pointing toward the window, as if directing my attention somewhere. I tried to speak, to ask her what she wanted, but the words wouldn't come. And then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. I blinked, and she vanished, leaving behind only the cold, oppressive air.

I lay in bed, wide awake, my heart racing, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Was it a hallucination? A nightmare? Or was something far more sinister at play?

The following morning, I went to the building manager, hoping for answers. His expression grew grim when I mentioned Apartment 301. He hesitated for a long time before speaking, as if weighing his words carefully.

"There was a girl who lived there a few years ago," he said, his voice low. "Her name was Priya. She was young, vibrant, and in love. But her boyfriend broke up with her. She took it hard, too hard. She didn't have anyone else, and one night, she took her own life in that very apartment."

The manager paused, clearly uncomfortable with the memory. "They found her in the apartment. She was gone. But the apartment—it's never really been the same since. People say they still feel her presence. Some of them hear whispers. Others have seen her in the window."

I was speechless. The woman I had been seeing in my dreams—the one who had appeared at the foot of my bed—was Priya. Her spirit, so tormented by her loss, had been trapped in that apartment, unable to find peace.

The haunting escalated in the days that followed. The whispers grew louder. The sounds of footsteps echoed through the apartment late at night when I was alone, pacing back and forth in the hallway. The temperature dropped suddenly, and I would feel an overwhelming pressure in the air, as though someone—or something—was watching me.

One evening, I returned home to find the lights flickering, the air heavy with an unnatural chill. I felt it before I even entered the apartment—a presence, thick and oppressive. The door to my bedroom was ajar, and I could see her standing in the corner, her eyes locked onto me.

I knew then that Priya's spirit wasn't at rest. She was angry. She was trapped, and she wanted someone to hear her pain. Her grief had consumed her, and now it was consuming me.

I tried everything I could to get rid of her—prayers, candles, even hiring a local priest to bless the apartment. But nothing worked. The spirit of Priya, so full of sorrow and rage, wouldn't leave.

The final straw came one night when I woke up to find a message written on the bathroom mirror in condensation: "I am still here."

The letters were jagged, almost as though Priya had written them with her fingers in the mist. I knew then that I couldn't stay any longer. I packed my bags in the middle of the night, leaving everything behind.

As I walked out the door for the last time, I felt a cold wind rush past me, and I heard it—the faint whisper of her voice in my ear: "I couldn't escape him. I couldn't escape the pain."

I never went back to Apartment 301. I moved to another place in the city, far away from the tragic spirit of Priya. But the memory of her—the look in her eyes, the sorrow that consumed her—haunts me still. Some spirits don't rest, no matter how much we try to forget. And Priya was one of them. Trapped in her grief, forever searching for peace.

Years later, the building was torn down. But even now, if you stand in the spot where Apartment 301 once stood, you can feel it—the weight of Priya's sorrow, the tragic energy that lingers in the air, refusing to let go.

Some spirits never leave. They haunt the places they once called home, forever searching for the peace they never found in life.