3 True Horror Stories – India (readers’ submission)
I received three chilling contributions from readers who shared their eerie experiences—ones that completely changed their perception of the unseen. You’ll want to read these, but trust me, not alone
Koravai Village, Tamil Nadu, India
Contributor: Lakshmi Venkatesan, Koravai Village, Tamil Nadu
Koravai Village, nestled among the sun-baked plains of Tamil Nadu, is a picturesque spot that boasts lush greenery, serene backwaters, and an unshakable sense of timelessness. However, hidden beneath its idyllic facade lies a tale of sorrow and mystery, centered around an ancient banyan tree that villagers swear is haunted.
I had grown up hearing tales of this tree from my grandmother. She would say, “Never go near the banyan tree after sundown, child. It doesn’t like visitors.” It was a common belief in our community that the tree was cursed, a portal to the restless spirit of a widow whose tragic end bound her to this world. As children, we dismissed these stories as superstitions of the old.
But everything changed for me on that chilly November evening.
The Beginning of the Ordeal
I had attended a relative’s wedding in the nearby town of Vandavasi and decided to return home late in the evening. The main highway was clogged with traffic, and in a moment of impatience, I decided to take the village’s less-traveled dirt road that passed by the banyan tree. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, and the journey seemed pleasant enough at first.
As I neared the outskirts of Koravai, the landscape turned quiet—unnervingly so. The usual buzz of cicadas was absent, and the soft rustle of leaves that I found comforting suddenly felt ominous. I dismissed the odd silence, attributing it to exhaustion.
Then, just as I approached the banyan tree, my bike sputtered and came to an abrupt stop. I frowned and tried restarting it, but it refused to cooperate. I looked around, hoping to spot a villager or anyone nearby, but the road was deserted.
The First Sign
As I tried to fix the bike, a faint sound reached my ears—a low, mournful wail. At first, I thought it was the wind, but the sound grew louder and more distinct. It was a human voice, crying softly, laden with heartbreak. I felt a chill run down my spine.
I turned toward the banyan tree and froze. Emerging from its gnarled roots was a figure draped in white, its form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The figure’s long hair obscured its face, but its movements were unnatural—jerky and almost floating. My first instinct was to call out, but my voice caught in my throat.
The figure moved closer, its sobs growing louder. I could now see that it was a woman, her face pale and gaunt, eyes sunken with sorrow. She extended a hand toward me, as though pleading for help.
The Widow’s Tale
I later learned from the village elders that the widow’s story was one of unbearable tragedy. Her husband, a kind and honest farmer, had been falsely accused of theft by the local landlords, who sought to seize his fertile land. He was beaten to death in public, an act that left the entire village shaken but powerless against the wealthy landlords. The widow, consumed by grief and despair, took her own life by hanging herself from the banyan tree.
Since then, her spirit has been seen wandering near the tree, especially on nights when the moon is full. Many villagers believe she’s trapped, unable to find peace until justice is served. Some say she protects the vulnerable, while others claim she punishes those who tread near the tree with ill intentions.
The Turning Point
As the figure drew closer, the air around me grew cold, and an oppressive heaviness settled on my chest. I wanted to flee, but my legs felt rooted to the spot. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my shawl—a sharp, deliberate pull that sent my heart racing. Spinning around, I saw no one, but the sound of anklets echoed in the still air, circling me.
Desperation took over, and I frantically tried restarting my bike. With trembling hands, I turned the key, muttering prayers under my breath. The bike roared to life, and without a second glance, I sped away. The cries of the widow faded behind me, but I felt her presence lingering, her sorrow etched into my very soul.
The Aftermath
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing her cries, feeling the icy grip of her presence. When I shared my experience with my family the next morning, they were horrified. My grandmother performed a cleansing ritual, burning neem leaves and sprinkling holy water around our home.
The villagers told me similar tales of travelers encountering the widow near the tree. Some reported feeling a cold hand brush against their shoulder, while others spoke of their vehicles stalling inexplicably near the site.
Over time, I came to accept that the widow’s spirit was not inherently malevolent. She was a soul burdened by injustice, her grief so immense that it transcended death. I still avoid the banyan tree, but I feel a strange sense of compassion for her—a woman whose only crime was loving too deeply in a world that was unkind.
A Warning to Visitors
Today, the banyan tree stands as both a landmark and a cautionary tale. While some thrill-seekers visit it to experience the paranormal, most villagers steer clear, respecting the sorrowful spirit that lingers there.
If you ever find yourself in Koravai, heed this advice: stay away from the banyan tree after dark. The widow watches, and while she may not harm you, her grief will leave a mark you’ll never forge
Dhanushkodi: The Ghost Town of Tamil Nadu
Contributor: Ravi Murugan, Chennai, Tamil Nadu
Dhanushkodi, at the southern tip of India, is a place where nature’s fury erased human settlement. Known as the “Ghost Town,” it is both eerie and fascinating, drawing adventurers, spiritual seekers, and paranormal enthusiasts alike. My journey to Dhanushkodi last November, driven by sheer curiosity, turned into a chilling experience I will never forget.
The Call of the Ghost Town
I had read countless accounts of Dhanushkodi’s tragic history—the cyclone of 1964 that flattened the town, claiming hundreds of lives. What intrigued me most were the ghost stories linked to its desolation. Locals often spoke of strange lights, phantom trains, and the sound of waves carrying whispers.
Determined to uncover the truth, I convinced a few friends to join me for a midnight exploration of the town. Equipped with torches, cameras, and a mix of skepticism and excitement, we set off from Rameswaram toward the long, deserted stretch that leads to Dhanushkodi.
The Journey to the Unknown
The drive was unsettling. The road was narrow, with the Bay of Bengal on one side and the Indian Ocean on the other. The roar of waves seemed louder than usual, as if the sea was warning us. We passed a few abandoned structures that once formed part of the bustling town—a railway station, a church, and remnants of homes—all now reduced to ruins.
As we got closer, the headlights of our car illuminated strange shadows. Were they just tricks of light, or something more? We joked to lighten the mood, but a growing unease settled over us.
The Phantom Train
Parking near the remains of the railway station, we stepped out into the stillness. The air was heavy, thick with a salty tang that seemed almost oppressive. As we moved closer to the station, a faint sound reached our ears—a rhythmic clatter, like a train approaching.
We froze. There hadn’t been a train to Dhanushkodi in decades. But the sound grew louder, accompanied by what could only be described as distant, disembodied voices. My friends exchanged nervous glances, and we collectively decided to retreat to the safety of the car.
Just as we turned, we saw it—a faint, ghostly outline of a train gliding along the now non-existent tracks. It vanished before our eyes, leaving behind an uncanny silence.
The Spirits of the Cyclone
Shaken but determined, we decided to explore further. The ruined church was our next stop. Its skeletal frame stood against the moonlight, casting long, jagged shadows. Inside, we found broken pews and shards of glass scattered on the ground.
Suddenly, the temperature dropped. I felt a chill despite the humid night, and a strange heaviness pressed against my chest. That’s when we heard it—a soft, sorrowful humming. It wasn’t coming from any of us.
We turned toward the sound, and there, in the faint glow of our torches, we saw them. Shadows—human-like but translucent—moving around the church ruins. Some seemed to sit on the pews, while others walked as though attending a service. Their movements were slow, almost mechanical, and their faces were blurred, like smudged reflections in a mirror.
A Flight for Safety
One of my friends screamed, breaking the spell. The shadows turned toward us in unison, and that’s all it took for us to bolt out of the church. As we ran back to the car, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the shadows dissolve into the darkness, their humming fading into the night.
The drive back to Rameswaram was tense. None of us spoke, our minds racing to process what we had witnessed. The skeptics among us had no explanations, and for the rest of us, it was clear—we had encountered the spirits of Dhanushkodi, still reliving their final moments.
The Aftermath
Since that night, I’ve often thought about those shadows and the phantom train. Were they echoes of the past, residual energy from a tragedy so immense it left a permanent scar on the land? Or were they spirits trapped in limbo, unable to move on?
Locals I spoke to afterward confirmed that our experiences were not unique. Many have reported hearing the train, seeing shadowy figures, or feeling an unexplained sense of sorrow while visiting Dhanushkodi. Some even claim to have seen ghostly children playing among the ruins, their laughter tinged with sadness.
A Haunting Legacy
Dhanushkodi remains a place of haunting beauty—a stark reminder of nature’s power and the fragility of human life. Despite its tragic past, it draws visitors from all over the world, each hoping to glimpse its secrets.
If you plan to visit, let me offer this advice: respect the land and the spirits that linger there. You may not see or hear anything unusual, but if you do, remember that you’re walking through a space where life and death collided in a way that left an indelible mark on both.
Kerala – The Tragedy of the Bonacaud Bungalow
Contributor: Ayaan Mathew, Trivandrum, Kerala
For as long as I can remember, I had scoffed at the idea of ghosts and hauntings. Stories about haunted houses were just folklore, something designed to keep children in line, or so I believed. That was, until I stayed at the Bonacaud Bungalow in Trivandrum.
The bungalow, hidden away in the misty hills of the Western Ghats, was a relic of a bygone colonial era. The mansion, with its decaying walls and creaking floorboards, was both beautiful and foreboding. It was the kind of place that you could imagine stories unfolding in—romantic, tragic, and even sinister. The locals had long whispered about the tragic fate of the family who once lived there—a mother, father, and young child who had met an untimely death under circumstances that were never fully explained.
Rumor had it that the family had died under strange circumstances, some claiming it was an accident, others believing it was a murder. Their spirits, so the story went, were trapped in the house, forever wandering its empty halls. With its broken windows, crumbling architecture, and eerie silence, the house felt like the perfect setting for a ghost story.
The First Night: Silence and Solitude
The first night in the bungalow was oddly calm. I had heard the stories, of course—who hadn’t? But I was determined to experience the place for myself, dismissing it all as superstition. The place had a certain charm to it, despite its obvious signs of neglect. I spent the evening exploring the grounds, admiring the view of the surrounding forest and the faint sounds of wildlife echoing through the trees. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the air grew cool, yet the stillness of the house was unsettling.
That night, as I settled into bed, I had a sense of unease—a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. But I shook it off, convincing myself that it was just my imagination. The sheets rustled as I turned over, trying to find a comfortable position, but I couldn’t sleep. The quiet was deafening. There were no sounds of life, no rustling leaves, no animal calls—just an eerie silence that pressed against my ears.
The Second Night: A Haunting Awakening
It was on the second night that everything changed. Around midnight, I awoke to the soft, almost imperceptible sound of a child’s laughter. But this was no innocent, joyful sound. No, it was hollow, distant, distorted—like an old recording being played backward. The laughter echoed through the empty hallways, each chuckle a reminder of the tragedy that had once taken place in that very house.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, straining my ears to catch the faint sound. I was no longer certain if I had dreamed it or if something real was happening. I stood up, feeling the weight of the cold air surrounding me. My breath, visible in the chilly night air, was the only sign that I was alive in the midst of the oppressive stillness.
The laughter was now replaced by whispers, but they weren’t any clearer. They were too soft to understand, like a group of voices murmuring just out of reach. It was as if they were coming from behind the walls, from the very bones of the house itself. I hesitated, but my curiosity got the better of me. I stepped out of my room, my bare feet brushing against the cold wooden floor, and walked down the dark corridor.
As I moved toward the source of the whispers, the temperature dropped, and the air around me grew heavier. It was as if the house itself was breathing—slow, labored breaths that matched the rising unease in my chest. The whispers began to grow louder, more urgent, as though they were beckoning me to come closer. The floorboards creaked underfoot, each step an agonizingly loud sound in the otherwise silent house.
The Unseen Shadow
When I reached the end of the corridor, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, at the far end of the hall, a shadow moved. It was slow, deliberate, and chilling. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but as I stared, the shadow became more defined—a dark figure that seemed to glide across the floor rather than walk. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, its shape just a blur in the dim light of the hallway.
I couldn’t make out any details—no face, no form, just the darkness that moved and swayed. My heart raced, and I felt the overwhelming urge to turn and flee. But something held me there, something in the air that froze me in place. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.
And then, as if sensing my presence, the figure stopped. For a brief moment, there was complete silence. And then, the laughter returned.
It was louder this time, clearer. The laughter of a child, but distorted, as if in agony. It was then that I realized—there was no child. The laughter wasn’t coming from anyone in the house. It was the house itself, haunted by the voices of those who had once lived—and died—there.
The Legend of the Bonacaud Family
I later spoke to a few of the locals, who were hesitant at first but eventually spoke of the house’s grim history. The Bonacaud family, as they had told me, had once lived in the bungalow. The father was a wealthy landowner who had built the mansion with great pride. But his wealth, it seemed, was his undoing.
The family’s demise came swiftly. One night, the house was consumed by tragedy. The mother, father, and their young child were found dead in the house under mysterious circumstances. Some said it was an accident, a fire that claimed their lives, while others believed foul play was involved, though no one could ever prove it. The result was the same—three lost lives, and the house, forever cursed.
Locals say the spirits of the family still linger in the house, unable to move on. The mother’s mournful whispers, the child’s unsettling laughter, and the shadow of the father’s figure are said to appear, especially on nights when the moon is full. Some believe the family is still seeking justice, trapped in the house by a cruel twist of fate.
A Lingering Presence
I left Bonacaud Bungalow the next morning, but the experience stayed with me. The whispers, the laughter, and the shadow—those moments are burned into my memory. The house, despite its beauty, was not a place of peace. It was a place of sorrow, a place haunted by memories of lives cut short.
To this day, I cannot explain what happened that night. Was it a figment of my imagination, or had I truly encountered something from the other side? The locals still speak of Bonacaud Bungalow in hushed tones, warning anyone who dares to venture near the place. The family’s tragic end is still felt, their presence lingering in the walls, the whispers echoing through the halls.
