The Cursed Monastery

So, there’s this really old, spooky monastery built right on top of Taung Kalat, a rocky volcanic plug near Mount Popa. If you’ve ever been there, you know how isolated it feels. The place is stunning during the day, but at night, it’s a whole different vibe. People around there say it’s cursed, that the spirits of some ancient nats and a mad monk still haunt the place.

One night, me and a few friends were on a road trip, and we decided to check out Taung Kalat. The weather was fine at first, but by the time we got close, a massive storm rolled in out of nowhere. The wind was howling, and rain started pouring down like it was never going to stop. We couldn’t drive back in that weather, and there’s not exactly a lot of options for shelter up there. That’s when one of my friends—typical Aung—suggested we spend the night in the monastery. I know, bad idea, right? But we were desperate, so we thought, “Why not? It’s just a night.”

As we made our way up the steps, the air got thick, like it was hard to breathe. You could feel something watching you, like there were eyes in the shadows. The monastery itself was almost abandoned—crumbling walls, faded murals, and old statues with cracked faces. It felt like time had forgotten the place.

We settled in the main hall, right where the Buddha statue was. The place was dark and eerie, with only our flashlights cutting through the gloom. We were trying to lighten the mood, cracking jokes and pretending we weren’t scared, but we all felt it—something was off.

Then, out of nowhere, we heard this low, haunting chanting. It was deep and drawn out, like someone was reciting an old prayer in a language I couldn’t understand. At first, we thought it was the wind, but the sound was too rhythmic, too deliberate. We were the only ones there—or at least we thought we were.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I grabbed my flashlight and decided to follow the sound. My friends were like, “Are you mad?” but I couldn’t help myself. I went down this narrow hallway, the walls damp and covered in mold. The chanting grew louder the further I went, leading me to this small room tucked away at the back of the monastery. The door was half rotten, barely hanging on its hinges. I pushed it open.

The room was filled with old scrolls stacked on decaying shelves. Dust was everywhere, and the air was thick with the smell of something rotten. The chanting stopped as soon as I stepped inside, like someone hit pause on a tape. The room went dead silent, but the silence wasn’t comforting—it was terrifying. I could feel the temperature drop instantly. My breath came out in visible puffs, and my hands started trembling.

I reached out and grabbed one of the scrolls. The moment I touched it, a blast of cold air hit me like I’d stepped into a freezer. The door slammed shut behind me, and I was trapped. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge, like someone was holding it shut from the outside. Panic set in. I banged on the door, screaming for help, but my voice felt like it was swallowed by the walls. All I could hear was this faint whispering, like a hundred voices speaking in a language I couldn’t understand.

Time felt distorted in there. I have no idea how long I was stuck. My friends finally heard me and rushed over. They broke the door down, and when they got inside, the room was completely empty except for that one scroll lying in the middle of the floor. But the really creepy part? The scroll was covered in fresh blood. We all just stared at it, too scared to even move.

None of us said a word. We grabbed our stuff and ran down those steps as fast as we could, not caring about the storm anymore. It was like the mountain itself was pushing us away. When we got back to our car, the storm suddenly calmed down, but we didn’t stick around to see if it would come back. We just drove off in complete silence.

I still can’t explain what happened that night. I’ve heard stories about Taung Kalat being a sacred place, where the spirits of nats and monks dwell, but this was something darker. People say the mad monk’s spirit is still trapped there, repeating whatever sinister rituals he was performing in life. Maybe that scroll was part of it—I don’t know. All I know is, whatever was in that room wasn’t meant for the living.

Now, whenever I pass by Mount Popa or hear about Taung Kalat, I get this uneasy feeling in my chest. They say some places are better left alone, and I truly believe that. If you ever find yourself near there and get the idea to explore that monastery, take my advice—don’t. Some things are better left untouched.

Contributor: Liam Johnson, Yangon, Myanmar