31/10/2024
#ভূতেরগল্প #আতঙ্ক #ভয়ঙ্কররাত্রি #বাংলাভূতেরগল্প #রহস্যময় #ভূতেরআড্ডা #ডরানিয়েগল্ #डरावनीकहानी #भूतिया #भूतप्रेत #डरकेकिस्से #डरावनीरात #खौफनाक #डरावनीकहानियाँ
The Midnight Ride Through Gauripur
As I stepped off the bus at Gauripur Junction, I was taken aback. Every shop was closed, and not a single soul was in sight. Glancing at my watch, I realized it was nearly 11:30 at night. Missing my train had been unfortunate enough, but I’d let a few buses go by to avoid the jostling crowds, never imagining it would get so late. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so shocked if I hadn’t dozed off most of the way.
It’s about a half-hour cycle ride from Gauripur Junction to my village, past a few small hamlets and a vast, desolate field. I started down the narrow, brick road to Sitaganj, which splits into two paths, one of which leads to my village. After a while, I stopped in front of a small house with a metal door and a sign above it, "Bicycle Parking Available." It was the home of the elderly Paresh Sen, who kept bicycles and motorcycles safe for people traveling between the village and the city, charging just five rupees per bike and ten per motorcycle.
I knocked a few times on the metal door, but no one responded. The cold night air was biting, making me shiver. Wrapping my scarf tighter, I knocked again, calling out, "Uncle… please open up, I need my bike." Still no response. My phone was dead, and I was starting to get irritated when I noticed a hunched figure emerging from the darkness on the other side of the door, holding a faintly glowing hurricane lantern. As the person came closer, I recognized Paresh Sen, and a sense of relief washed over me.
Raising the lantern, he squinted at my face and, with a wavering voice, asked, "Oh, it’s you! Out this late, eh?" Not offering any details, I nodded and followed him inside. He was bundled up in a thick black shawl, wearing a monkey cap, rugged black boots, and his usual thick-framed glasses. Moments later, I mounted my bike and pedaled out as he shut the door behind me.
Despite the chill, I kept riding, slipping on my gloves. After about fifteen or twenty minutes, I noticed the air growing even colder, as if the night was tightening its grip. The houses and trees around me seemed to watch with silent curiosity, as if they were conspiring against me. A chill crept down my spine, and I felt my legs growing heavier with each pedal stroke. It was as if I were dragging a great weight behind me, making it harder and harder to move forward.
Suddenly, I felt an icy hand clutch my left shoulder. I let out a terrified scream, toppled off the bike, and fell to the ground. Standing shakily, I shouted, "Who are you? What do you want from me?" But there was no answer, only silence. Again, I yelled, "Who are you? Why are you doing this?" A moment later, I heard a soft, hollow voice near my ear, "What does it matter who I am? Just keep riding… faster. I won’t harm you if you do, but otherwise… ha ha ha… you’re done."
Chilled to the bone by its cold breath and a putrid stench, I scrambled back onto the bike and tried pedaling again. But once more, it felt like I was dragging an invisible mountain. Just then, I felt that same freezing grip on my left shoulder and the right side of my stomach. The unseen entity was pressing down on me, paralyzing my muscles, and my bike suddenly sped forward on its own.
At some point, we reached a three-way fork in the road, and I recognized it as Sitaganj Junction. Turning left would mean just another ten to fifteen minutes to reach the deserted field, beyond which lay my village. But as I neared that field, memories of the haunted cremation ground came flooding back — all those tales of ghostly revelries held on nights like this one.
Villagers said that during the new moon, spirits in the cremation ground would mislead travelers, forcing them to lose their way for amusement and even sn**ch food or offerings they carried. Until an hour ago, I’d dismissed these stories as nonsense, but here I was, living proof of something unexplainable. The once-familiar path felt foreign, bathed in a faint, eerie glow from the tall banyan and peepal trees lining the way. It was as if the cremation ground was waiting, dressed for a sinister gathering.
Finally, we reached the edge of the field, and as if to bid me farewell, the spirit shoved me hard. I toppled off my bike and landed flat in the soft grass of the field, looking up just in time to see the apparition clinging to a banyan tree branch, vanishing into the darkness. Instantly, a wave of violent noise surged through the trees, and it seemed as though hundreds of spirits were wreaking havoc in the shadows. The ground beneath me cracked open with fissures, and the earth shuddered with an unnatural force.
Shaking and barely able to stand, I managed to make my way home. Once inside, I checked my temperature—it was 105 degrees Fahrenheit. The next morning, I woke feeling perfectly fine, as if nothing had happened, though my bike now had bent parts.
On my way to the market, I stopped again at the path near the cremation ground, hoping to make sense of the previous night. But everything looked as it always had. The trees stood tall, branches hanging still in the daylight. As I rode away, I glanced back one last time and thought I saw the grass, trees, and the iron chimney of the crematorium grinning at me, as if they’d enjoyed a private joke.
