Chapter 2 Haunted Road

This is a tale from a winter afternoon. Uncle Rudradev shared an incident from his adulthood when he was studying his higher secondary and he had to walk miles to reach the railway station to board the first train to the city.

In those days, cycles, carts were the main mode of travel, even traveling by trains to major cities required walking for miles to the railway station.

While returning, he would usually take a shortcut through a small wood against a graveyard, the road was usually lonely in broad daylight and remained abandoned at night, not even an animal would pass through it.

Rumors were, that spirits from the graveyard lingered on the road.

It was shrouded in mist, the silence broken only by the wind whispering through the branches of the huge trees,that creeked,the screech of the night owls created a never chilling effect in anyone passing by the woods. Locals called it the "Purana Gauosthan"a place where bodies of those who died were buried.

That fateful day,uncle missed the afternoon train,there was only two trains to return to the village,one in the afternoon another in the evening after 6 PM. He reached the station at around 7PM at night. Those days,lanterns, heavy torches were the only source of light in the villages.

But uncle was carrying none, since it was summer and the dusk was not embraced by the darkness of the night,uncle decided to take the shortcut through the woods.

As dusk settled, a sense of dread permeated the air. The silence was replaced by faint whispers unknown. The evening cool air filled the environment with freshness, but Uncle could feel his heart pounding in his ribs.

The silence mixed with the whispers of the air among the leaves seemed creepy.

Uncle hold on to his faith and strength and kept walking. The dried leaves rubbing across his feet.

When suddenly in the far end of the wood,a shadowy figure emerged from the mist, its form shifting and changing. Fear gnawed at uncle's resolve, but he clung on to his faith. He began chanting the holy Mantras, the words resonating with power.

The figure recoiled, its form, dissolving into the mist. The whispers ceased, replaced by an eerie silence all of a sudden.

He knew he had been in the presence of something evil, but his faith had protected him that day.

Without much ado, uncle almost ran towards the village holding on to a single breath, reciting the verses from the holy book.

This story still nudges me, what was that mysterious thing without form?