The Bhoot Sadhu

The Curse of the Spectral Sadhu

Narrated by: Vikram Singh, Age 42, Jhansi, Uttar Pradesh

I still shudder when I think about it, though it’s been nearly ten years since that dreadful night. I’ve never told anyone the full story—not even my wife. But perhaps sharing it might ease the burden on my soul.

It was during the monsoon season when I ventured into the dense forests near Chitrakoot. I was a young journalist back then, chasing a story about the Naga Sadhus. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you? Fearsome ascetics who renounce the world and seek divine powers. But the one I was after was no ordinary Sadhu.

Villagers spoke of a “Bhoot Sadhu”—a spectral monk who haunted the woods. They said he wasn’t alive, nor was he entirely dead. He appeared to those who wandered too deep into the forest, his piercing eyes a portal to madness.

“Mat jaao, bhaiya,” (Don’t go, brother) warned an old man at the tea stall in the village. “Jo usse dekhta hai, uski zindagi barbaad ho jaati hai.” (Whoever sees him has their life destroyed.) I laughed off his words, attributing them to local superstition.

The forest was dense, its paths muddy and treacherous. By the time I reached a clearing, it was nearly dusk. The villagers had warned me not to be out after dark, but I was determined. I set up my camera and waited, the silence around me oppressive.

Then it started.

First, a cold breeze swept through the clearing, though the air had been humid all day. The trees seemed to whisper, their rustling leaves forming incomprehensible words. I tried to shake it off as nerves, but the sensation of being watched grew stronger.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. A shadow—tall, skeletal—gliding between the trees. My heart pounded as I turned my camera toward the figure, but the lens fogged up instantly.

And then I saw him.

He stood just beyond the clearing, his ash-covered body glowing faintly in the dim light. His eyes—oh, his eyes—were pools of darkness that seemed to pull me in. He raised a hand, and I swear I heard my name whispered in the wind.

“Vikram…”

I froze, unable to move as he stepped closer. His face was neither old nor young, human nor ghostly. He stared at me for what felt like an eternity before vanishing into the darkness.

The next few days were a blur. I returned to the village, shaken but alive. But the nightmares began almost immediately—visions of burning pyres, hollow eyes staring at me, and that voice, always calling my name.

Doctors said it was stress. My family thought I’d gone mad. But I knew better. I was cursed.

Even now, I wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his whisper echoing in my ears. I avoid forests and the stories they hold, but sometimes I feel his presence, watching from the shadows.

If you ever find yourself near Chitrakoot, heed my warning. Stay away from the forest, and never, ever seek the Spectral Sadhu. Some stories are better left untold.

Ending Note: Vikram Singh now resides in Jhansi, where he works as a shopkeeper, refusing to discuss his brief stint as a journalist. Locals say he’s a broken man, haunted by a past that no one truly understands.