Terror Of The Crazy Witch

Chapter 1: Monsoons in Baruipur

Baruipur in the 1970s was a place of simple living and hard work. Everyone called me Dada, a respectful term for an elder brother. I had reached my late thirties in those days, with a head of hair that was partly grey, partly black. I was not very tall, but I had a calm and wise presence. My eyes had seen many things in my life, and they reflected the stories I could tell.

With life flowing like a river, Baruipur had a rhythm to the changing seasons. And in the fall, that sound was very different. The incessant and short rains turned the land into a wonderful wetland. The green fields that reflected the terrifying clouds above were transformed into mirrors. The streets, once filled with the sounds of everyday life, now glowed with algae that seemed to hold their own secrets. 

This lovely town, where generations of my kin had dwelled, had molded my identity. My roots were inseparable from Baruipur’s history, deep and firm. I was not just Dada to my family; I was a repository of stories passed down through generations, tales that had woven themselves into the fabric of our family lore.

We felt both hope and fear as the monsoon season drew near. It was a time when rain came from the heavens, giving life, but also when storms and floods came, bringing destruction. The Ganges, our powerful ally, was a provider and a threat.

My nightly ritual, a pilgrimage of sorts, took me to - the library. It was a small, dimly lit haven of knowledge, where the scent of old books mingled with the mustiness of age. Every evening, after the chores of the day had settled, I pursued this journey to feed my endless curiosity for knowledge.

In those dusty shelves, I found solace. The words of authors long gone transported me to worlds far beyond Baruipur. I devoured literature with a hunger that bordered on obsession. My love for books had earned me a reputation among the townsfolk, who affectionately referred to me as the "Boipoka (Bookworm)"

However, the monsoon brought with it a different kind of challenge. The rains were relentless, and the streets of Baruipur became unpredictable, often turning into veritable rivers themselves. It was during these perilous times that my elder brother, a sturdy man with a heart of gold, insisted on accompanying me to the library.

My brother, known as Babu, was a pillar of strength and support. He had taken on the mantle of protecting me since our childhood, and he wasn't about to let the monsoon and its associated perils jeopardize my safety. We shared a bond forged in the crucible of our upbringing, a bond that transcended words.

We were raised in a family which had its roots in agriculture as far as our forefathers are concerned. We’d been raised by our parents with the teachings of diligence, and the worth of education. Our father was a farmer whose hands were calloused and which bore accounts of sweat and stress. He desired that we would have it easy or better than he did. That hope was founded on the idea of educating oneself.

I had excelled in my studies, thanks to my father's unwavering belief in my potential. I had completed my schooling in Baruipur, walking several miles to the modest local schoolhouse every day. Those were the formative years that had set the course for the rest of my life.

When finished my education I had gone to Kolkata for further studies. Baruipur was in stark contrast to the metropolis. I had gone there to join the world of academia where I could read books and pursue studies that earned me a degree with which I could find work in a Baruipur government office.

My occupation as a government clerk, though not glamorous, had provided stability and a sense of purpose. It was a job that allowed me to support my family and continue my pursuit of knowledge. But it was the library, with its musty books and timeless stories, a place where I felt most alive.

As the monsoon clouds gathered on the horizon, casting a somber hue over Baruipur, Babu and I prepared for another journey to the library. The rain drummed on the tin roof of our modest home, and the distant thunder served as a reminder of the perils that awaited us. We would navigate the traitorous waters of the monsoon, driven by my unquenchable thirst for knowledge and the love and protection of my brother.

The Ganges held secrets and mysteries beneath its murky depths. During the monsoon season, it became a world of both awe and dread, for hidden in its depths were the ancient hunters of the Ganges - the formidable alligators.

They were creatures of prehistoric lineage, representing the primitive might and primal beauty of the river. Their scales were dark gray to mottled green that blended perfectly with the silt-laden water of the river making them almost invisible until they would desire to show themselves.

Their eyes, beady and watchful, rested just above the water's surface, ever vigilant for any unsuspecting prey. Rows of serrated teeth adorned their massive jaws, ready to snap shut with deadly force. The ripple of water as they glided silently beneath the surface sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to venture near.

As the monsoon rains poured down, the Ganges swelled, providing ample hunting grounds for these ancient reptiles. The swirling currents concealed their movements as they prowled the flooded fields and submerged forests that now lay beneath the water's surface.

Their presence served as a warning sign of the wild land, which was still existing. Everybody in town would talk about his or her near miss, recalling the dreadful hiss of an alligator in hiding.

Chapter 2: The Dayni (Witch)

And it was on one such fateful night when the monsoon rain poured down continuously, and the rumours about her got louder like a distant thunder that came with the gathering storms. Huddled were the townsfolk in their abodes with a whispered voice as they spoke about her in fear.

The rumors painted a chilling portrait of the woman. They said she was a practitioner of dark magic, her powers derived from the ancient incantations passed down through generations. Her hair, long and ebony, flowed like a river of darkness, unrestrained by societal norms, mirroring the unruly chaos of the monsoon season. She was known to wander the streets, her form unclothed, her vulnerability a stark contrast to her malevolence.

It was whispered that she derived pleasure from causing harm to unsuspecting humans, relishing the terror in their eyes as they fell victim to her sinister whims. Once her victims lay lifeless, she would dance upon their bodies, her steps an eerie and macabre celebration of her dark deeds.

To the uneducated and superstitious, she was no ordinary woman but a malevolent spirit, a 'Dayni' inhabiting the corporeal realm. They believed her mental condition to be a curse, one that had severed her ties to humanity, leaving behind only the thirst for cruelty.

The image of this spectral figure was etched indelibly in my mind. Her face, pale and twisted, contorted into a smile that seemed more akin to a grimace of insanity. Her eyes, however, held a haunting glint of awareness, as though they could pierce the very soul of anyone who dared to meet her gaze.

One overcast evening, as I strolled through the village haat, my attention was seized by a hunched figure amidst the crowd. It was old Gopal. He was an old farmer who had lived a hard life, a life bound to the unforgiving cycle of the monsoons in Baruipur. His face was marked by the traces of many seasons, each crease a witness to the struggles he’d endured with nature.

As I approached Gopal, I saw a change in his eyes which were before young and lively and now sparkled with the vision of old age. He stared at me with a mixture of fear and desire, like a man on the verge of reliving his past.

"Ah, Dada," Gopal began in a raspy voice, his hands trembling as he lit his beedi. I nodded, my curiosity piqued. "Yes, Gopal, I've heard the tales of the witch, but I want to know what you've seen and experienced."

Gopal took a long drag from his beedi, the smoke curling upward like tendrils of forgotten stories. His voice, heavy with the weight of years gone by, began to weave a chilling tale. "It was a night I'll never forget," Gopal said, his voice a low rumble. "The monsoon was at its peak, and I had been toiling in my fields, battling the torrents that threatened to engulf my crops."

He paused, his eyes distant, as though he were transported back to that fateful night. "I was on my way back home, my clothes soaked and my body weary, when I heard something—a mournful wail that cut through the deluge."

Gopal's voice grew even quieter, drawing me further into his narrative. "I followed the sound, Dada, compelled by a force beyond my understanding. It led me deeper into the streets, each step heavier than the last."

As he narrated me his story, the noisy market square vanished and I felt the weight of the monsoon rain and the dark gloom of the night.

"At last," Gopal continued, "I found myself at the crossroads near the pakur tree. There, in the dim light of a flickering lantern, I saw her—a specter cloaked in darkness. She was no ordinary woman, Dada. Her hair, drenched by the rain, clung to her form like a shroud. Her eyes... they were pools of hatredness, reflecting the wickedness of the night."

Gopal's hands trembled, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "And then, to my horror, I saw it. She was dancing, Dada, dancing upon a lifeless body, her movements as grotesque as they were ethereal."

I felt a shiver run down my spine as Gopal described the macabre scene before him. "The corpse.....it was Palash. His life had been extinguished, and she, the dayni, reveled in her dark triumph. She turned her gaze toward me, Dada, and for a moment, I was ensnared by her malevolent spell." 'Join me,' she whispered, her voice a chilling echo that seemed to resonate from the very bowels of the Ganges."

"But I fought back, Dada. With every ounce of strength left in me, I broke free from her grasp and ran. I ran as though the very devil pursued me, not daring to look back. Yet, even as I fled, her laughter—unnatural and bone-chilling—pierced the night."

Palash was a beloved member of the Baruipur community, always greeting everyone with a smile and a laugh. He inherited his family’s farming tradition, working hard to grow crops and raise animals for his family’s livelihood. He had no grand ambitions, only a simple wish to provide his children with a good education and a better future. His eldest son, who was barely old enough to go to school when the disaster happened, was his pride and joy, his hope incarnate.

Palash’s life was cut short in a terrible and tragic way, leaving his family and community in grief. He was killed by the dayni. His death added to the enigma and fear of the dayni, making the nights even more unbearable.

Chapter 3: The Encounter

On a dark and stormy night, the rain poured down relentlessly, creating a mirror of the town on the wet pavement. The lanterns flickered in the wind, as the people rushed to their homes, hoping to avoid the wrath of the dayni. But that night, the dayni would prove to be more than just a scary tale. She would become a terrifying reality.

We were both returning from the library, which was situated on the opposite side of the river, our bags heavy with the weight of borrowed knowledge. The night was oppressive, the air thick with the scent of rain and the distant rumble of thunder. Babu, and I had just made our harrowing journey across the mighty river, our hearts still racing from the fear of lurking alligators that haunted its depths during the monsoon season.

We felt a surge of gratitude as we reached the river’s edge, where the soft earth welcomed our weary feet. The rain showed no signs of stopping, drenching us through and through, but we didn’t mind. We had survived the encounter with the alligators, and now, with the danger behind us, we continued our journey through the gloomy terrain.

Our footsteps were muffled by the waterlogged earth, and the world seemed to have been consumed by an impenetrable blackness. The only sounds were the patter of raindrops and the distant croak of frogs.

As we ventured deeper into the night, a faint noise reached our ears—the gentle patter of paws against wet ground. It was a sound incongruous with the silence that enveloped us.

I turned to Babu, and in a hushed voice, I said, "Did you hear that?"

Babu nodded, his eyes scanning the darkness. "It sounds like an animal, perhaps a stray dog."

The tension in the air was palpable as we strained to see through the obscurity. Suddenly, an unexpected touch sent a jolt of terror racing through my body. Something cold and damp brushed against my knee, and instinctively, I froze.

In the heart of the moment, my mind raced, my heartbeat quickened, and for an agonizing instant, I thought it was the cold, scaly tail of an alligator. Panic surged through me, but as my senses gradually caught up with my racing thoughts, I realized the truth. It wasn't the touch of an alligator; it was the warm, soft touch of a dog's tail.

Relief washed over me, and I chuckled nervously. "It's just a dog, Babu. We're safe."

Babu, too, exhaled a sigh of relief. "You're right, Dada. It's just a dog."

We observed the shadowy dog moving away from us and eventually vanishing into darkness.

So frightened were we that even when laughing off the fear minutes later, it was with uneasy laughter. Little did we know that this was just a start of a night filled with odd and terrifying incidents, which were engraved in our memories for evermore.

But as the night wore on, it grew unnaturally silent and oppressively gloomy as if there was an impending danger. It was a continuous downpour that made a strange melody with its dance of raindrops on the leaves and roof-tops. Turning with me, we both wanted to know what was behind it, what could not be accounted for.

We observed something unforgettable; an image to horrify us for good hidden in the dim light there. There was a female lying down absolutely naked on the ground with a long and entangled hair falling about her like a mantel of blackness. She was wet through and yet seemed unconscious of it; she chattered incessantly about some unseen ghosts who had suddenly come out to dance away the storm.

Her eyes were wild and wide and moved unnaturally all around; they did not focus on anything we could see. Seeing her shook me to the bone as she was at once otherworldly and uneasy.

Gradually, the woman turned her face toward us, showing a smile that froze fear in my bloodstream. It was a smile difficult to label, a frightening fusion of innocence and malice, as if she became embodied clashing ground between Light and darkness within herself.

In a soft, haunting voice, she began to speak to us in the melodic tones of Bhojpuri, her words carrying an otherworldly cadence. "What's in that bag?" she inquired, her voice a mere whisper in the rain-soaked night.

I replied, my voice curt and cautious, "None of your business."

But she was undeterred, her gaze, her voice growing more insistent with each repetition. "There are books, I can see... I can see..." She repeated the words like a chant, her words taking on an hypnotic quality.

Suddenly, with a strange and unsettling agility, she leaped toward us, her movements defying the laws of nature. Her feet barely seemed to touch the ground as she took three to four inexplicable jumps, closing the distance between us with alarming speed. My heart pounded in my chest as she drew near, her intentions veiled in mystery.

"Can I kill you?" she asked, her tone shifting from curiosity to menacing intent. Her eyes bore into mine, searching for something I could not comprehend.

I struggled to find words, my voice trembling with fear as I attempted to reason with her. "Go to your home," I implored, desperation seeping into my tone.

But she paid no heed to my pleas, only repeating her cries of "Home! Home!" Her voice rose to a chilling crescendo, each utterance echoing through the night like a haunting lament, sending a palpable chill down our spines.

At that instant it became evident that we had no explanation for what was happening since every attempt at explaining it was superfluous. We found ourselves entangled in the grip of a nightmare turned surreal; the night had trapped us.

Babu and I exchanged fearful glances, uncertainty and dread etched into our features. The woman's erratic behavior left us with no choice but to take drastic action to protect ourselves from the looming threat.

In the grip of fear and desperation, I reached for a stone lying nearby, my fingers trembling as I grasped it tightly. With a swift and decisive motion, I hurled the stone towards her head, praying that it would incapacitate her long enough for us to escape the sinister clutches of the night.

It hit the poor woman’s head with sickening precision and the lady collapsed in a heap, unconscious, and motionless. It provided only temporary relief as it was like an ephemeral release into an unimaginable horror within which we found ourselves entangled.

Babu and I didn’t hesitate to run away from that creepy place, our hearts racing, and our lungs gasping. But the night had more surprises in store for us, and the unexplainable terrors were not over yet.

We ran for what appeared to be an endless period of time with deep and rough breathing before being trapped in a nightmare we encountered. This, indeed proved to be an act of escapism by a mind unwilling to grasp the reality of the horrors of it all.

Exhausted and drenched to the bone, we eventually came to a halt, gasping for breath. The oppressive weight of fear still clung to us, a constant reminder of the inexplicable encounter that had befallen us.

Just when we believed we had finally outpaced the inexplicable horrors of that night, an even greater terror awaited us. The woman, against all reason and logic, reappeared before us, as if mocking the laws of reality.

I gasped, unable to comprehend the nightmarish reality unfolding before my eyes. "It's...it's impossible," I stammered.

Babu, his face drained of color, clenched his fists in helpless frustration. "How can she be here? It's as if she's...everywhere!"

The woman, a malevolent specter in the darkness, held a stone in her hand, its jagged edges glistening with an ominous intent. Fear coursed through my veins as I realized the dire situation we were in. She was ready to strike, and this time, there might be no escape.

In a desperate bid to diffuse the tension and confront the inexplicable, I grasped at a memory from the depths of my thoughts—a memory of my brother's habits. He had always carried cigarettes, and there was a specific reason I remembered this now.

I turned to Babu, my voice urgent and trembling. "Take out the pouch of cigarettes, quick!"

Babu and I saw that his hands were shaking with fear, did not hesitate for an instant. He pulled out a pouch from his pocket trying hard to light a cigarette. As it ignited and the smoke ascended into the humid night, the sharp smell permeated the air around us.

Confused, the woman’s once steely gaze now dimmed by another kind of smoke and appearing to stumble, lost her belligerent resolve. She whispered ‘I want to smoke’ and it was nearly gone in the night.

Without hesitation, Babu extended the cigarette toward her, and she accepted it, her fingers trembling as she brought it to her lips. She took slow, deliberate drags, the intoxicating effect of the tobacco gradually overtaking her. Her demeanor shifted from aggression to drowsiness, her eyes losing focus as a drowsy stupor enveloped her.

As the woman dozed off, the stone slipped from her grasp, falling silently to the ground. It was a surreal and unsettling sight, like a twisted lullaby that had put a malevolent force to sleep.

Babu and I knew that this was our chance to escape the clutches of this nightmarish entity. With silent, frantic urgency, we turned and fled once more, our footsteps echoing through the night.

We ran, never daring to look back, the relentless rain now feeling like a torrent of relief washing away the horrors of that cursed night. Every step brought us closer to the safety of our home, and we prayed that this time, the inexplicable would not follow us.

Weeks later, there were disturbing gossips around the village we originated from. They said that we had escaped the bewitching influence of a woman who had driven us mad earlier and who had now brutally perished. What we dreaded is now true; the same old sentinel of Ganges has taken her life away.

Yet, even in death, she bore an abnormal smile upon her lifeless face—a chilling reminder of the inexplicable horrors that had transpired on that cursed night.