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In 2018, Nazmul was working at a private company in Kishoreganj. At home were his father Abdul Karim, his mother Rowshan...
22/02/2026

In 2018, Nazmul was working at a private company in Kishoreganj. At home were his father Abdul Karim, his mother Rowshan Ara, his younger sister Sumaiya, and his elder cousin Rakib. Their family was not financially well-off, but they were peaceful. They had no open enemies. However, there had been an old dispute over land with the neighboring family. Although the matter seemed small from the outside, resentment had been building quietly for a long time.
The beginning of the incident was very subtle.
One morning, while sweeping the yard, the mother noticed white powder scattered in a circle under the mango tree in the southern corner. Inside it were three red chilies, a broken egg, and black thread twisted in the center. At first, she thought someone had played a bad joke. The items were removed. But the next day, another bundle was found in the same place, tied with red cloth. When opened, it contained dried bird feathers, some hair, and dark soil with a strong foul smell.
From that day, the atmosphere of the house began to change.
Sumaiya, who was then preparing for her HSC exams, suddenly started behaving unusually. She could not sleep at night. She would sit up in the middle of the night. She would say, “Someone blows near my ear.” Sometimes she would say, “Someone calls my name, but when I turn around, no one is there.” At first, everyone thought it was mental stress. Exam pressure. But gradually, the matter took another turn.
Sumaiya often pressed her chest and said something heavy was sitting inside. She was taken to a doctor. ECG, blood tests — everything was normal. No problem was detected. But dark circles began to appear under her eyes, and her face grew pale.
One afternoon, she suddenly fainted in the kitchen. Her body became stiff. Her eyes fixed. No foam came from her mouth, but her lips trembled. A harsh sound came out of her throat — something no one in the family had ever heard before. It did not sound like her own voice.
After this condition, an elderly man from the village, known for some knowledge of spiritual healing, came to the house. He looked around silently. Then he took Nazmul’s father aside and said, “Search the four corners of the house. Something has been buried under the ground.”
That night, with torches in hand, four of them dug in the northern corner of the yard. About one and a half feet below, they found a small brass pot. Its mouth was tightly tied with red cloth. There were strange markings drawn on the cloth with black ink. Everyone’s hands were shaking. Still, they opened it.
A rotten smell came out from inside. There were pieces of dried cow bones, the dried severed head of a chicken, black hair, reddish clotted substance, and strange sticky soil. Inside the pot was a piece of paper with Sumaiya’s full name written on it and stuffed inside.
The mother screamed and burst into tears.
Seeing the pot, the elderly man said, “This is sealed black magic. It is meant to slowly destroy someone’s body or life force. The name, hair, and specific items have been buried together. As long as this remains underground, the effect will continue.”
Nazmul asked, “Is that certain?”
He replied, “I cannot say for certain. But the symptoms match.”
According to specific rules, the man advised that the pot should not be opened or broken, but burned in fire after reciting certain prayers. But the mistake happened right there.
Rakib, the cousin, did not believe in the matter. One afternoon, without telling anyone, he broke the pot and threw the contents into the pond. He thought, “All this is nonsense. It’s over.”
That very night, the situation took a turn. Sumaiya suddenly started screaming intensely. She said, “They have come. They are angry.” Her body began to shake. Her eyes turned reddish. She started pulling her own hair. A bruise appeared in the middle of her chest, as if pressure was coming from inside.
That same night, Rakib also fell strangely ill. His body became numb. His face twisted. His speech became slurred. The doctor said, “It could be a minor stroke.” But the reports did not clearly show anything significant.
The situation became so terrifying that the family was forced to go to a known Ruqyah reciter in a nearby sub-district. He came to the house and recited the Qur’an for several hours, gave water over which specific verses were recited, and sprinkled salt in the four corners of the house. He said, “The person who did this did not perform it completely according to the rules. And by breaking the pot, you disrupted the flow of the work. Now the effect is striking back and forth.”
For several weeks, treatment, prayers, and mental support continued together. Gradually, Sumaiya’s condition improved. Her chest pain lessened. Sleep returned. Rakib also recovered somewhat, although sometimes his fingers still feel numb.
Later, it was heard secretly that a relative from the neighboring house involved in the land dispute had supposedly brought a ta***ic practitioner from outside to perform the act. The intention was to frighten them, to break them mentally. But because the pot had been removed improperly, the effect could neither become permanent nor completely disappear; some of the impact had spread to both sides.
At the end of his letter, Nazmul wrote, “I do not deny science. But the events of 2018 taught our family that the darkness someone chooses to harm others eventually turns back toward themselves.
Whether black magic exists or not, when human jealousy, revenge, and greed mix with it, the impact becomes terrifyingly real in life.”
Today their family lives a normal life. But in the northern corner of the yard, where the pot was found, no one goes after evening even now. Nazmul says, “Perhaps the fear is in the mind, but the memories of those nights in 2018 are more real than reality for us.”
“Do you believe in black magic? Let us know in the comments.”





This story was sent by Siam Mir from Sharifpur, Jamalpur. Many may dismiss it as just a story. But those who know the ni...
11/02/2026

This story was sent by Siam Mir from Sharifpur, Jamalpur. Many may dismiss it as just a story. But those who know the nights of rural Bengal—especially the deep nights of winter—understand that some nights are simply not normal. That night in our lives was exactly like that.

The year was 2023. It was the night of Shab-e-Barat. My two friends and I had planned to pray together. But before the prayer, we couldn’t resist the temptation to take a quick walk around the nearby fair.

A village fair—soft lights, broken microphones crackling from the stalls, the low hum of people talking, and the warmth of steaming cups of tea in the cold winter air. Everything still felt normal at that point.

After returning from the fair, we offered our prayers. Biryani was served at the mosque. By the time we finished eating and stepped outside, it was around 1:00 AM. In Sharifpur village, that hour is unusual. Usually by 10:00 PM, the entire village falls silent. Because of the cold, the roads were empty—even the dogs had stopped barking.

The three of us thought it wasn’t too late yet. We decided to walk a bit, have some tea, then head home. But when we reached the tea stall we had planned to visit, it was closed. There were no lights around, only a faint glow from a distant lamp blurred by fog.

So we decided to sit somewhere nearby and chat for a while. But as soon as we reached the spot, a foul smell hit our noses. It was the kind of smell you can’t quite describe—like something had been rotting for a long time. At first, we ignored it. But the odor quickly became unbearable.

We turned on our phone flashlights and started searching around. About five minutes later, we saw something I still haven’t been able to forget.

Right beside the place where we had planned to sit lay a black cat. Lifeless. And its head… separated. The severed head was lying a short distance from the body. The cut was so clean, as if it had been done in a single strike with a sharp blade. But there are no train tracks nearby—the closest railway line is three to four kilometers away.

Now we knew where the smell was coming from. One of us immediately said, “We shouldn’t stay here. Let’s go home. Now.”

None of us disagreed. We left quickly. On the way back, we were lucky to find another tea stall open. We sat and had tea. But our mood

10/02/2026

Haunted People In Real Life | True Scary Creature Stories – The Terrifying Story of Yasin & Sukumar

Experience a spine-chilling true ghost story from Bangladesh. Witness the terrifying events of Yasin, Sukumar, and Brother Sakib in this real-life haunted incident. This story is based on actual events and will leave you questioning the unseen world around you.

🔹 Story Highlights:
- Real encounters with ancient jinns and black magic.
- A village protector jinn named Yasin.
- A terrifying demon named Sukumar causing havoc on a sacred day.
- Unbelievable events during Eid al-Adha and the struggle of Brother Sakib.

Subscribe for more true paranormal stories from around the world and don’t forget to hit the notification bell!

I know, after reading this, many will say, “Made up out of fear,” “Result of mental stress.”But only those who experienc...
09/02/2026

I know, after reading this, many will say, “Made up out of fear,” “Result of mental stress.”
But only those who experience these events truly understand the real face of fear.
It was the beginning of 2024. I had been married just six months. A new home, new dreams—altogether we rented a flat on the second floor of a three-story building in Adabor. At first glance, the flat seemed quite nice. Good light and ventilation, neighbors around, a tea shop downstairs, children playing. But one thing immediately caught my eye: even though people lived in the building, the two flats next to ours were empty.
I asked the owner, “Why does no one live here?” He smiled lightly and said, “Brother, no one lasts long here. But you will stay, you’ll see, everything will be fine.” While saying this, his eyes did not smile. That strange smile stuck in the corner of his lips still lingers in my mind. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, because the thing that concerned us most was the rent.
Those who live in Adabor know how unusually high rent can be. Yet this flat, including service charges, was only twelve thousand taka. It felt like some mistake. I asked the owner again, and he just said, “Brother, you are good people. That’s why I told you.”
I didn’t think further. Newly married, limited income, and the flat’s environment was also visually appealing. In daylight, the flat felt so normal that it seemed there was nothing to fear. That was the mistake. The first few days were calm. But when night fell, a heavy pressure would descend inside the flat. The air felt thick, as if it required extra effort to breathe. The walls looked strangely dark at night, and amidst the silence, it sometimes felt like someone was walking slowly inside the room. Not the sound of footsteps, but a sense of presence.
At first, I thought it was the sound from the flat above. But a cold wave ran through my chest as I remembered—the upper flat was empty. One night during the second week, my wife suddenly woke up and sat upright. Her body was shaking. Lowering her voice, she said, “Don’t you feel it? Someone is watching us.”
I still wanted to cling to reason. But at that exact moment, a clear, long sigh came from inside the wardrobe. No rustling of clothes, no brushing of anything—just the perfect breath of a human being.
I ran and opened the wardrobe door. There was nothing inside. Yet the smell lingered—damp, old-room smell, as if a place that had been closed for years was suddenly opened. After that, the nights were no longer ours.
When entering the bathroom, my reflection in the mirror didn’t quite match. Sometimes it felt like the eyes didn’t move along with mine. In the kitchen, in the middle of the night, the clatter of dishes could be heard, but when the light was turned on, everything stopped—not the sound, but as if someone was deliberately stopping.
The scariest change began to appear in my wife. She gradually stopped behaving like a normal person. Many times, she would get up late at night and stand by the window. Not looking outside, but staring at her own reflection in the glass. When called, she wouldn’t respond at first, then suddenly would look at me as if she didn’t recognize me at all.
In her sleep, she spoke. A language I had never heard, yet it sounded unnatural for human lips. One night, she suddenly sat up and stared at the wall, saying,
“No one has died here.”
I felt some relief. But the next words froze me.
“They are here.”
I asked in fear, “Who?”
She slowly turned to me. Her eyes showed no familiarity. Her lips moved, but the voice was deep, ancient, as if many people were speaking at once.
“Those who wanted to leave… but couldn’t.”
The third month was the last normal night of our lives.
It was 3:41 a.m. suddenly, the electricity in the entire flat went out. The fan stopped, the lights went off, and the clock hands froze, as if someone had stopped time itself. Then the sound began.
Outside the bedroom door, someone slowly tapped on the wall. The scratching of nails made it seem like someone was looking for a way in. Then something dense and dark started creeping under the door. It moved along the floor, but had no definite shape—only a presence.
My body froze. I couldn’t scream. At that moment, my wife stepped off the bed. Her feet didn’t touch the floor. Standing before me, she spoke in a voice that was no longer hers,
“Three months are complete. Now it is time to settle the account.”
I turned my gaze to the mirror.
Our reflections were gone. Standing there were couples one after another—exactly like us. But no one had eyes, their faces were distorted, and deep scars marked their throats. They whispered together,
“Change the fate.”
Suddenly, the door opened on its own. Cold, icy air entered from the corridor outside. At that moment, it felt like someone had made a decision.
With my last strength, I pulled my wife outside. As we descended the stairs, I looked back once.
I saw two figures standing inside the flat exactly like us. Not moving. Only staring.
That very night, we left the area. Later we learned that no one who had spent three months in that flat was ever found. Perhaps they could never leave.
Even today, in that flat in Adabor, lights turn on late at night. Laughter is heard. Neighbors say someone new has moved in. But in the morning, no one is ever seen opening that door. Because in that flat, people don’t just live… the flat keeps them.
“Would you be able to stay even one night?” “Read till the end and share your thoughts.”




07/02/2026

He Heard a Flute at 2 AM — What Happened Next Was Terrifying

Do not listen to this story at night.
In an old British-era bungalow in North Bengal, a man experienced something so terrifying that he still sleeps with the lights on today.
This is not a fictional horror story. It is a real paranormal encounter involving a mysterious flute melody that does more than reach the ears—it calls the soul.
One night, after hearing a flute playing outside his room, he made a single mistake: he answered the call. What followed was an encounter with something not human—something that chooses its victims through sound.
Locals believe these entities are ancient beings who appear when the air goes silent and the melody begins. Once they choose someone, they never truly leave.
⚠️ Watch till the end—but remember:
The day you answer the flute… there is no way back.

If you enjoy true horror stories, paranormal encounters, jinn stories, and unexplained events, subscribe and turn on notifications.










“Do not turn off the lights after reading this.”Before you read this, pause for a moment and imagine—what if your own si...
06/02/2026

“Do not turn off the lights after reading this.”
Before you read this, pause for a moment and imagine—
what if your own sister suddenly started speaking in a voice that is not hers…
and that voice knows the walls of your house?
This is not a fictional story.
The victim personally sent this to us, along with their real name and address.
In their words:
“What is happening can no longer be suppressed. Either we survive, or one day someone will disappear silently.”
The incident took place in a rural village of Thakurgaon district, in northern Bangladesh.
Their ancestral home is not a two-storey building, nor a grand landlord’s house.
Just a simple tin-roofed house, an earthen courtyard, with a jackfruit tree and a shimul tree nearby.
Yet now, no one can stay alone in that house at night.
Everything began with my younger sister, Rimi.
She was always quiet by nature—regular in prayers, never spoke harshly.
But since one Thursday night about six months ago, she has not been the same.
That night, I suddenly woke up and heard someone speaking in a very low voice inside our house.
At first, I thought my mother was talking to someone.
But the voice was strange—the same sentence was being repeated twice, in two different tones.
When I stepped into the courtyard, I saw Rimi sitting alone.
Her eyes were open, but she was staring into emptiness.
When I called her by name, she slowly turned her head toward me.
That was when I realized—it was not my sister.
Her pupils were unusually large.
Her voice was heavy, as if her throat had been torn apart.
She said,
“Don’t call her. She is sleeping. I am the one speaking.”
My body froze.
From that night onward, strange events began in our house.
Late at night, heavy footsteps echo inside the rooms—
but there are no feet.
Suddenly, wet footprints appear on the earthen floor,
yet no one knows where the water comes from.
The wardrobe doors open by themselves.
The most terrifying part is that Rimi never speaks in her own voice anymore.
Sometimes she laughs like a man.
Sometimes she speaks in a child’s voice, saying,
“I have been here for a very long time.”
One night, deep in the darkness, all the doors and windows slammed shut at once with a deafening sound.
The air went still.
There was no incense or candle in the house,
yet a strong burnt smell spread everywhere.
Rimi sat on the floor, raised her head, and said,
“This house is mine. You are guests.”
We called religious healers.
We called traditional healers.
Holy water, amulets—everything was tried.
But every time, the same words came from Rimi’s mouth:
“They cannot catch me. I am made of fire.”
The most horrifying incident happened last month.
At night, I saw someone sitting upside down in the corner of our ceiling.
The face was invisible.
Only the eyes were glowing.
And in Rimi’s voice, it said,
“I will take her away. Slowly.”
By morning, everything returns to normal.
Rimi remembers nothing.
But there are scratch marks on her body.
Sometimes burn marks appear under her feet,
as if she has been walking on fire.
The most terrifying truth is—
this torment is still ongoing.
Every Thursday night, something enters the house.
The doors do not open.
The windows do not open.
Yet it comes.
We know this is not the end of a story.
Because when jinns leave, they leave no sound—
only an empty house…
and a name that no one calls anymore.




05/02/2026

She Saw a Jinn at the Gate — Real Paranormal Incident | True Islamic Ghost Story

This is a true ghost story based on a real paranormal incident experienced in Bangladesh.
On a stormy night, a mysterious old woman appeared at the gate — moving from door to door with impossible speed. Her terrifying voice, mixed with a male tone, echoed through the dark as she kept shouting, “Open the door… open the door…”

This is a true jinn encounter (Islamic supernatural being) and one of the scariest real-life experiences shared by Mariam.
If you don’t believe in jinns, this story might change your mind.

COMMENT below if you have ever experienced something paranormal in your life.
Stay with us for more true ghost stories and real jinn encounters.

► Don’t forget to Like, Comment & Subscribe!










Part 1

05/02/2026

She Saw a Jinn at the Gate — Real Paranormal Incident | True Islamic Ghost Story

This is a true ghost story based on a real paranormal incident experienced in Bangladesh.
On a stormy night, a mysterious old woman appeared at the gate — moving from door to door with impossible speed. Her terrifying voice, mixed with a male tone, echoed through the dark as she kept shouting, “Open the door… open the door…”

This is a true jinn encounter (Islamic supernatural being) and one of the scariest real-life experiences shared by Mariam.
If you don’t believe in jinns, this story might change your mind.

COMMENT below if you have ever experienced something paranormal in your life.
Stay with us for more true ghost stories and real jinn encounters.

► Don’t forget to Like, Comment & Subscribe!










How long do jinn live?This question alone is enough to surprise many people.Humans live, on average, 60–70 years. But ac...
02/02/2026

How long do jinn live?
This question alone is enough to surprise many people.
Humans live, on average, 60–70 years. But according to Islamic belief, the lifespan of jinn is far longer than that of humans. Like us, they are born, they eat, and they reproduce—but they can live for hundreds of years.
Neither the Qur’an nor authentic Hadith mentions a specific number regarding their lifespan. However, many Islamic scholars believe that jinn can live for centuries, and some may even live for thousands of years.
And the most astonishing fact of all—
Iblis (Shaytan) is still alive, because he was granted time until the Day of Judgment.
Just think about it…
The jinn we often consider as mere stories or sources of fear
may have existed even before your great-grandfather was born.
And they still exist today. 😶‍🌫️
All knowledge belongs to Allah alone.
What we know is very little—and realizing how little we know is the greatest truth.
What do you think?
Share your thoughts in the comments 👇


An experience sent to us. Some journeys become memories, and some journeys change people for a lifetime. This experience...
01/02/2026

An experience sent to us. Some journeys become memories, and some journeys change people for a lifetime. This experience is exactly like that. The person who sent it still says—it was not a trip; it was an encounter with the mountain itself.
The incident took place several years ago, during winter. Four friends went deep into the remote areas of Bandarban. The plan was simple: hike during the day, set up a tent inside the forest at night, and return at dawn. During the daytime, the hills felt very calm. Tall trees on both sides of the path, the sound of waterfalls, light fog—everything together made the place feel safe.
Before evening, they strayed a little off the main trail, because that area was said to be especially beautiful. A local person had shown them the way. At the time, no one thought that the beauty of the hills is not always meant for humans. After sunset, they were no longer seen. Once darkness fell, the mountain began to change. The air no longer felt normal. The movement of leaves seemed no longer natural, as if it wasn’t happening by itself. A strange pressure surrounded them, as if someone was watching from very close—yet nothing could be seen.
They set up their tent. They tried to light a fire but failed. Wet wood. Wet ground. Suddenly, everything went silent. Even the crickets stopped. This kind of silence is extremely unnatural in the mountains.
The night did not slowly pass. The night collapsed.
As soon as they sat inside the tent, they realized the inside was no longer the same. There was air, yet it was impossible to breathe. With every breath, it felt as if someone was squeezing their lungs from within. The chest would not fill. The breath would not return. The fabric of the tent did not seem to move outward—instead, it slowly felt like it was pressing inward.
Someone tried to speak. The throat moved. No sound came out.
It felt as if there were no longer just four people sitting inside the tent. The number felt like it was changing. With eyes closed, it felt like someone else was there. With eyes open, no one could be seen. But the presence was undeniable. So close that bodies seemed to touch—yet when reached for, there was nothing.
Suddenly, a whisper was heard. Their own name. In a voice exactly like their own.
As soon as they jolted in fear, the sound stopped. But the pressure remained in the ears, as if someone was breathing directly into them. Someone felt a sudden cold air brush against their neck. Someone else felt as if fingers were slowly moving through their hair. The space inside the tent no longer felt stable. Sometimes it felt unnaturally large, with empty gaps between them. Other times, the walls felt like they were closing in. A hand landed on a shoulder. When pushed away—no one was there. Then the hand came again. This time, it was unnaturally cold. So cold it burned the skin.
Outside, the sound of leaves began.
Not rustling. Slow. Measured. One step. Pause. Another step.
As if someone was not walking—but counting.
When a flashlight was turned on, the fog swallowed the light. The beam did not travel outward. Instead, it bounced back and clung to the tent. It felt as if even the light did not want to leave.
At that moment, scratches appeared on the tent fabric. Not one.
One after another. The sound of nails. Very close. So close it felt like skin was on the other side of the fabric.
The scratches were neither fully from outside nor from inside—something in between. A hand pushed through the fabric. A light pressure. Then a pull. Something rolled near someone’s feet. When pushed away, there was nothing. But a cold mark remained.
Trying to scream made the throat freeze. The darkness inside the tent swallowed all sound.
Then the sound came drifting down from the mountain slope. A human voice. But not human.
Long. Drawn out. As if someone knew how to call—but had not done so for a very long time.
The closer the sound came, the heavier the body became. It felt like the blood was thickening. Even blinking became difficult.
One of them gathered the courage to open the tent flap and shine the light—and they all saw it.
Something was there inside the fog. Not standing. Floating. Its feet did not touch the ground. The body was unnaturally tall. The face could not be seen, yet the feeling of being stared at was so intense that no one could look away.
At that moment, time broke. Watches stopped working. No phone signal. No sense of direction. The mountain paths seemed to twist and change within the night itself.
Sitting inside the tent, they understood— one of them was no longer the same.
Around midnight, the scratching on the tent started again. One after another. Not from inside. Not from outside. It felt like hands moving through the fabric itself. Light pressure. Then a pull.
Near dawn, the silence finally broke. Distant birdsong. Sunlight.
They opened the tent. Where there had been four— there were now three.
No one screamed. Because in the mountains, screams do not return.
They ran down the slope. No one dared to look back.
Even today, when they hear the word “mountain,” they fall silent. Because they know— the mountain is not just a place. If it wishes, the mountain takes people. And if it wishes, it lets some go.
But never the same way as before.



This incident was sent to us by a reader. He was not a direct victim of the events himself. However, the person who narr...
31/01/2026

This incident was sent to us by a reader. He was not a direct victim of the events himself. However, the person who narrated the incidents to him firsthand was a colleague of Mr. Azad from his office. For a long time, while working together, Mr. Azad—mentally devastated—shared this terrifying experience from his life with that colleague. After overcoming much hesitation and fear, the colleague finally sent the incident to us. Although the events may sound like a story, for Mr. Azad, they were a brutal reality of his life.
Mr. Azad had gotten married just five months earlier. His home was in the Bhanga area of Faridpur. Due to his job, he lived in a mess in Mirpur 10, Dhaka. After marriage, he brought his wife to Dhaka to live with him. At that time, his mother was still alive. But suddenly, due to an illness, his mother passed away. After her death, the village house became completely empty. Mr. Azad’s wife was afraid to stay there alone, so he left her at her parents’ house for a few days.
After returning to Dhaka, Mr. Azad began searching for a new apartment. Due to work pressure, he did not have much personal time, so he took help from multiple brokers. Every day after office, he wandered through the alleys of Mirpur 10 looking at apartments. After seeing many places, one day he found an apartment in a four-story building located directly opposite Alok Hospital in Mirpur 10.
When he went to see the apartment, Mr. Azad immediately felt uncomfortable with the landlord’s behavior. The man had a very serious demeanor. He spoke very little. There was a kind of harsh emptiness in his eyes. The apartment itself was full of light and air. Two bedrooms. A small but tidy kitchen. Everything seemed fine. There were no issues with rent or advance payment. However, at the last moment, the landlord added one condition: the apartment could not be vacated before three months. Mr. Azad considered it normal and agreed.
A few days later, he moved into the new apartment with his wife. For the first few days, everything was completely normal. Nothing uncomfortable or unusual was noticed. But one night, Mr. Azad suddenly woke up and sat upright. Everything in the room was in place, yet the air felt heavy. Breathing became difficult. There was an unknown pressure inside his chest. He looked beside him and saw his wife in deep sleep. He tried to calm himself.
Another day, he returned home late from the office. That night, he noticed his wife was unusually quiet. After repeated questioning, she finally said that in the afternoon, she had heard knocking sounds coming from beneath the kitchen floor. It felt as if someone was hitting something from underneath.
A few days later, Mr. Azad woke up in the middle of the night screaming. He could clearly hear a voice in his ears. It was saying, “Leave this house while there is still time. Otherwise, you will not be able to leave with your life.” Terrified, he turned on the lights and searched the entire house. He found no one. At that time, his wife was at her parents’ home.
After that, the incidents became even more horrifying. One day, while cooking, his wife left meat in the kitchen and went to bring matches. When she returned, she saw that from one kilogram of beef, only four pieces remained. The rest of the meat had vanished. All the spices were scattered around the kitchen. The doors and windows were closed.
Another day, while washing his face in the bathroom, Mr. Azad closed his eyes and splashed water. When he looked into the mirror, he saw that the liquid on his face was not water—it was red like raw blood. His body froze in terror instantly. After a few moments, everything returned to normal.
The most terrifying incident occurred when his wife again went to her parents’ house. That night, Mr. Azad was alone. Late at night, his body suddenly became numb. It felt like paralysis had struck him. He could not move. Somehow, he recited verses and managed to control himself. Toward dawn, he opened his eyes and saw his wife standing facing the wall. When he called out, she turned around. Her face was distorted. Her eyes were red. In an unfamiliar voice, she said, “I warned you before to leave this house. Why are you still here? If you want to stay safe, leave now. Otherwise, you will not return with your life.”
Saying this, the figure lunged at him. He could not breathe. At that moment, the sound of the azan echoed from a distant mosque. Instantly, everything disappeared.
As morning came, Mr. Azad went to the landlord. The landlord tried to avoid the matter. When Mr. Azad threatened to go to the police, the landlord confessed. There had been a family dispute over forcibly occupying the land. The house had been built by force. Later, cousins together buried talismans inside the house. Animal bones. Blood-soaked cloth used for black magic.
He also said that no one had been able to stay in that house for more than two months. The previous tenant’s ninth-grade daughter had died by wrapping a scarf around her neck within one and a half months, without any apparent reason. Her mother had cried and said that the house was cursed. That very day, Mr. Azad left the house.
Since then, he has realized that some houses are not just walls and roofs. Some houses carry the weight of human wrongdoing and hatred.
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