Trapped in My Own Prank

The Man Who Wasn’t There: A Midnight Encounter in West Tilak

 

Hey there, folks. Let me take you on a journey—a story that has haunted me for years. It’s a tale of mystery, fear, and something far darker than what we can comprehend. I want to tell you about the night I met someone who wasn't there. A shadow wearing a familiar face, a ghost in the moonlight, and a presence that still sends chills down my spine to this very day. Buckle up, because this story takes us deep into the heart of the unknown.

 

On certain nights during the dry season of 1985, the moon did more than merely illuminate—it transformed the very essence of the world beneath it. Its ethereal glow cast an eerie, almost spectral sheen over the landscape, warping the familiar into something strange and unrecognisable. It was on such a night that I made my way home from Shaharpara, traversing the heart of Kunabon, crossing the West Tilak football pitch, and threading my path through the vast expanse of paddy fields in West Tilak.

 

The air was crisp, laced with the damp scent of earth, and the world around me stretched into an infinite, all-consuming silence. The village lay in deep slumber, yet the hush that enveloped me felt oppressive—thick with an unspoken presence lurking just beyond perception. The only sounds that punctuated the quiet were the whispering rustle of rice straws swaying in the night breeze and the steady rhythm of my footsteps pressing against the earth.

 

As I approached my home, just before reaching the main entrance on my right from where I stood to the west, my eyes caught a shadowy figure standing at the southeastern corner of my property, near a dense cluster of rattan palms. He faced south, the tangled mass of rattan looming behind him to the north, his presence unnervingly still against the moonlit backdrop.

 

It was my neighbour, Kadir—Bhai “Bhai” meaning brother in Bengali.

 

In his hands, he cradled a bamboo flute, its polished surface catching the moonlight with a spectral gleam. Beside him, a small fire smouldered, its embers pulsing like the breath of some unseen force, while flickering flames cast restless, shifting shadows across his face. He was wrapped in a silvery Pashmina Kashmiri woollen shawl, which shimmered under the moon’s ethereal glow, clinging tightly to his form as though shielding himself from an invisible chill. His gaze remained fixed upon the fire, lost in depths beyond mortal reach, while his fingers absently traced the flute’s contours as if attuned to a melody only he could hear.

 

Kadir Bhai was no stranger to the night; an amateur flautist, he often played long into the late
hours, filling the darkness with the mournful strains of his music. Yet, on this night, something about him felt profoundly… wrong. An unnatural stillness clung to his posture, an eerie detachment that sent a whisper of unease through me. The familiar presence of my neighbour seemed distant, his essence veiled, as though he stood on the threshold of another world—neither here nor there, neither wholly man nor wholly shadow.

 

A mischievous thought crossed my mind—a harmless prank.

 

It was the perfect opportunity to scare him. As I had planned, I would take on the role of a ghost, intending to frighten him out of his wits. A mischievous grin tugged at my lips as I pulled my shirt over my face, obscuring my identity in the dim moonlight. With deliberate stealth, I switched on my torchlight, its cold beam cutting through the darkness like a blade. Step by step, I crept toward him, anticipation thrumming in my chest, eager to shatter his eerie stillness with a sudden, blinding flash.

 

But then, something strange happened.

 

Kadir Bhai did not react.

 

No startled jump. No flinch. Nothing.

 

Instead, he simply turned to the north—and, without hesitation, walked straight into the dense tangle of rattan palms. No startle, no hesitation—just a slow, deliberate movement, as though he were being pulled by an unseen force.

 

The firelight flickered behind him, casting his retreating form into an eerie silhouette before he disappeared into the shadows. A chill prickled down my spine. The night, once filled with the hum of insects and the rustling of leaves, now felt unnaturally silent.

 

Something was terribly wrong.

 

The Impossible Path

 

A shiver crawled up my spine.

 

I knew this land. Behind the rattan grove lay only a narrow, dead-end space—a small canal and an old toilet nestled beside the bank of our front pond. No one could navigate that tangled thicket so effortlessly; the rattan palms, thick with merciless thorns, interwove to form an almost impenetrable barrier.

 

And yet, Kadir Bhai moved as if the undergrowth were nothing more than a figment of my imagination, gliding through the dense jungle with an ease that defied logic. His movements were impossibly smooth, unnaturally fluid.

 

Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

 

A chill snaked through my bones.

 

This wasn’t right. Something was profoundly amiss.

 

I called out, my voice quivering against the heavy silence.

“Kadir Bhai! Kadir Bhai! Where are you going?”

 

Only the whisper of the wind through the leaves answered my plea.

 

I shouted again, louder this time, my heart hammering in my chest—still, no response.

 

The prank I had set out to play no longer felt playful. The very air around me had shifted—thick, heavy, laden with an unshakable dread that pressed down upon my chest like a living weight. A cold shiver cascaded down my spine as my pulse thundered in my ears, each beat drumming a frantic rhythm of fear. Without a second thought, I turned and bolted toward the Bangla Ghor courtyard, my feet barely touching the ground, desperate to escape the suffocating unease that clung to me like unseen, spectral hands.

 

But when I reached the courtyard—breathless, my limbs trembling—my blood ran cold.

 

The Man in the Courtyard

 

Seeing Kadir’s brother made my blood run cold. I stood a short distance from the wide pathway—or perhaps the driveway—that stretched through the centre of the front yard, leading from the vast pond to the grand entrance of the main estate, where all the large houses stood.

 

He was there, in the middle of the courtyard, waiting for me—as if no time had passed.

 

It was humanly impossible for him to have arrived before me. The path through the rattan palms was far longer than mine, winding through dense, thorny vines. I had just seen him vanish into the grove mere seconds ago.

 

Hadn’t I?

 

A creeping horror coiled in my chest, tightening with each passing moment. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, strangled by an overwhelming sense of dread. Every instinct screamed at me to run—to put as much distance as possible between myself and the thing standing before me.

 

Because deep down, I knew.

 

That was not Kadir Bhai.

 

Yet the night around us remained unnervingly still. My heart pounded in my chest. My breath hitched.

 

Something had been lurking in the darkness, drawing me in. And I had barely escaped.

 

The realisation crashed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me breathless.

 

This was no ordinary man.

 

It was the ghost.

 

A chill gripped my soul as I gasped, my voice barely above a whisper.

 

Before I could even ask, what do you want from me? he spoke first.

 

“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you for so long—I was about to leave. Where were you in the hour of the late night?”

 

His voice was warm, casual—just as it had always been. Soothing. Familiar. Unassuming.

 

Oh Lord of the Universe, Sustainer of all worlds, I bow in gratitude—thank You for saving me.

 

The words echoed in my mind as I stared at the real Kadir Brother.

 

He was here standing in front of Bangla Ghor, where I slept at night. Just as he so often did for our late evening chats. His presence was steady, unwavering. His expression was calm, familiar. He stood in the courtyard, bathed in the pale glow of the night, an ordinary man in an all-too-familiar place.

 

And yet, my soul refused to be at ease.

 

Because I knew—the figure I had seen moments ago was not him.

 

The flute was gone. The shawl had vanished.

 

But the smile remained.

 

A slow, creeping terror took hold of me. The prank I had played on my neighbour—meant to be harmless mischief—had unwittingly drawn something far darker into my world.

 

Something that should not be here.

 

A phantom, unbound by the laws of the living, had been watching me all along. Not just watching. Studying. Waiting.

 

This entity, untethered by the rules of time and space, had slipped through the veil—donning Kadir Bhai’s face like a mask, a guise meant to deceive and ensnare. Its presence had carried an aura of unspeakable dread, a distortion itself.

 

At that moment, I understood with bone-deep certainty: I had come face to face with something ancient. Something that did not belong in this world.

 

And I had barely escaped its grasp.

 

I stood frozen, my mind spiralling between the real and the unreal, haunted by the truth:

 

Something had reached out from the shadows, wearing the face of my neighbour.

 

And deep in my bones, I knew—it was not done with me yet.

 

The Jungle That Awakens at Night

 

The rattan palm (Calamus genus) is no ordinary plant. By day, its thorn-covered vines are harvested and put to practical use. But as night falls, the jungle transforms.

 

Superstitions whisper that these vines awaken in the darkness, shedding their mundane nature to 

become something else—something sentient.

 

Something that watches.

 

Something that waits.

 

Something that mimics.

 

Something that lures.

 

A spectral sentinel lurking in the shadows, the rattan grove has long been feared—a place where the living dares do not tread after dusk. And now, standing in the courtyard, staring into the eerily familiar face of my neighbour, I understood why.

 

No human could have done what I had just witnessed.

 

The realisation sank deep into my bones.

 

I had seen something that was not Kadir Brother.

 

Something that had worn his face.

 

The Morning After

 

At sunrise, I forced myself to return to the place where I had seen the fire burning the night
before. My feet felt heavy as if the weight of the night still clung to them.

 

But when I arrived, there was nothing.

 

No ashes. No smouldering embers. Not even the faintest trace of burnt grass.

 

The ground was undisturbed, untouched, as though nothing had ever been there at all.

 

Had I imagined it? Had my mind woven shadows where there had been none?

 

No.

 

I knew what I had seen.

 

I knew what had seen me.

 

And I knew, deep in my soul, that something had tried to lead me into the unknown. Something that had taken the form of a man I thought I knew, drawing me toward the darkness—toward the place where reality blurs and the night holds sway.

 

I may never fully understand what happened that night, but one truth is clear: it wasn’t Kadir Bhai. It was something else, something far older and more sinister, wearing his face. As the sun rose over West Tilak, I understood that I had come too close to something that was never meant to be seen.

 

The Haunting Question

 

I never spoke to Kadir Bhai about that night. Never mentioned the fire, the shawl, or the way I had watched him slip into the impenetrable rattan palms as though the thorns and tangled vines did not exist.

 

What would he have said?

 

Would he have laughed it off? Would he have denied ever being there?

 

Or would he have simply smiled—that same eerie smile I had glimpsed in the courtyard—and asked me the same chilling question?

 

“Where were you?”

 

Even now, the memory lingers, a shadow trailing my every step. The thought of that dark figure, wearing the face of someone I trusted, still sends a shiver down my spine. And I wonder—how many times has it done this before?

 

How many times has it worn the face of a friend, a neighbour, or a loved one?

 

How many unsuspecting souls has it lured into the darkness, pretending to be someone they know?

 

And how many never returned?

 

I have never told anyone about that night, but it haunts me still. Even now, I avoid that patch of rattan palms once the sun sets. I don’t know what it was I saw in the shadows, but I know one thing for certain: it was not Kadir Bhai. And I have never been the same since that moonlit night in West Tilak.

 

I often wonder if the figure I encountered that night still lingers in the rattan groves, waiting, watching, searching for its next victim. Perhaps one day, someone else will hear the soft, hypnotic strains of a flute drifting through the night air and, like me, will be drawn toward the figure that isn’t quite real.

 

And if they do—if they follow that spectral presence into the dark—I fear they may never return.

 

And if they do… I do not wish to know what they become.

The 750-Year-Old Crippled Jinn of Shaharpara

The Possessed Man of West Tilak: A Battle with the Unseen

 

It was an ordinary afternoon in 1980. We were playing football on the open field of West Tilak, the sun casting long shadows over the dusty pitch. The game was intense, our laughter echoing through the air—until we saw them.

 

A group of four men approached from the west, carrying another man on their shoulders. At first, we thought he was injured—perhaps hurt while working, maybe by their renowned hoe, which had cut his leg. But as they came closer, we saw something far more disturbing.

 

The man they carried was thin and wiry, but he thrashed wildly, twisting and writhing with unnatural strength. He kicked, screamed, and at times, nearly slipped free from their grip. His eyes rolled back, his body convulsing as if something unseen was trying to control him.

 

We stopped our game, our curiosity turning to unease.

 

“What happened to him?” we asked.

 

One of the men, panting from the effort of holding him down, wiped the sweat from his brow.

 

“He’s possessed,” he said grimly.

 

A Strange Strength

 

The possessed man, though younger and skinnier than those carrying him, was unbelievably strong. Several times, he broke free, sprinting wildly across the field. Each time, the men lunged after him, tackling him to the ground, their faces tense with both fear and frustration.

 

These men were labourers from Noakhali, seasonal workers who came to the area during the dry months to dig canals and ponds. Some were even college students, working for extra money. Others were professionals, renowned across the country for their skill in carving reservoirs and raising roads from the earth.

 

They lived near the Tilkidara culvert bridge, on the west bank of the canal. Their temporary shelters—small, triangular huts made of rice straw—stood clustered by the roadside. At night, they slept on the bare ground, using layers of straw, mats, and blankets stitched from old, torn cloth.

 

As they struggled to restrain the possessed man, he suddenly twisted free again—this time, running straight toward the large pond near their huts. Before they could stop him, he plunged into the water.

 

A Battle in the Water

 

The pond was covered with thick water hyacinths, their tangled roots making movement difficult. One of the workers—a man who claimed to be his cousin—jumped in after him.

 

We watched, breathless, as he fought against the possessed man’s unnatural strength. It was as if an invisible force was dragging him deeper, resisting every attempt to pull him out. But with the help of the others, they finally dragged him to shore, panting, exhausted.

 

At that moment, one of the workers decided.

 

“We need the Imam,” he said. And without another word, he ran toward Narainpur Mosque, a short distance away.

 

The Ghost Speaks

 

As soon as the worker left, the possessed man let out a chilling laugh.

 

“The Imam is useless!” he spat. “He cannot do anything to me.”

 

His voice was different now—deeper, rougher, almost mocking.

 

“I will not leave him,” the voice sneered. “He belongs to me now.”

 

His words sent a shiver through us. And then he did something even more disturbing.

 

Without being able to see the mosque—blocked by trees, shops, and a small field—he somehow knew exactly where the worker was.

 

As soon as the man approached the mosque, the possessed man’s expression changed.

 

“No!” he cried. “Don’t bring him here!”

 

His arrogance vanished, replaced by fear. He began to beg—pleading with the unseen presence approaching.

 

When the Imam finally arrived, walking calmly toward the hut, the man let out a furious scream.

 

“Go away! You can’t stop me!”

 

The Exorcism Begins

 

The Imam said nothing at first. He simply took the tip of his umbrella and drew a circle around the possessed man in the dirt.

 

“Step out of the circle,” the Imam ordered.

 

For the first time, the possessed man fell silent. He did not move.

 

The Imam began to recite verses from the Quran, performing Ruqiya, the sacred Islamic exorcism.

 

Then, he asked the entity:

 

“Why are you possessing him?”

 

The voice that answered was not human.

 

“He defiled my shadow,” it growled. “At dawn, he relieved himself on the ground where I rested—under the Tilkidara culvert bridge.”

 

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

 

The spirit suddenly spoke, pointing to someone in the crowd, “Don’t laugh. I know what you did.” One by one, he began pointing at people, exposing their hidden transgressions. It was as if he could see into their very souls, revealing the wrongs they had committed in secret. A wave of discomfort swept through the gathering. Those whom the spirit had called out paled, their expressions shifting from shock to fear. Without hesitation, they slipped away, eager to escape the spirit’s unnerving revelations.

 

The Imam, noticing the growing panic in the crowd, spoke firmly, “Stop revealing their secrets and listen to me.”

 

The Imam frowned. “He did not see you there. What were you doing under the bridge?”

 

“I live there,” the voice hissed. “I am crippled. My leg is broken—I cannot move properly. I am seven hundred and fifty years old.”

 

Someone in the crowd dared to ask, “Have you seen Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)?”

 

The spirit responded, “Yes. And I respect his descendants.”

A hush fell over the gathering.

 

Then, with a sorrowful tone, the spirit continued, “My family once lived here, but they have left. They now dwell in Hatbilla, near the Seven Beels.”

 

In Bengali, “Sat” means seven, and “Hat” also means seven in certain local dialects.

 

The Seven Beels—interconnected swamps—had long been shrouded in mystery. Over time, the water had eroded the banks, merging them into a single, vast expanse.

 

“There is a tree there,” the spirit added. “That is where my family resides now.”

 

A heavy silence settled over the crowd as the weight of the spirit’s words lingered in the air.

 

The Imam nodded. “Then go to them. You have no right to stay here.”

 

A Terrifying Bargain

 

The entity laughed. “I will not go for free.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“A cow,” it said.

 

The Imam scoffed. “A cow? That is too much. Ask for something else.”

 

“A goat,” it insisted.

 

“No.”

 

“A rooster.”

 

“No.”

 

The spirit hesitated, then said, “120 koi fish.”

 

The Imam paused, then made his own offer. “Four koi fish. No more.”

 

A tense silence filled the air.

 

Then, the voice whispered, “Agreed.”

 

But before leaving, it made one final demand.

 

“I will give proof of my departure,” it said. “Watch that mango tree over there.”

 

We all turned. The tree stood fifteen feet tall, its branches reaching toward the evening sky.

 

“If I leave,” the spirit continued, “I will break its crown.”

 

The Final Sign

 

The Imam nodded. “Then go.”

 

At that moment, in front of more than thirty witnesses, the topmost branch of the mango tree snapped clean off.

 

The branch crashed to the ground, leaves scattering in the fading sunlight.

 

A stunned silence followed. Even as children, we had heard stories of such things—but to see it with our own eyes was something else entirely.

The possessed man collapsed, unconscious. When he awoke, he was weak, confused, and had no memory of what had happened.

 

The entity was gone.

 

But that broken tree remained. A silent witness to the battle between the seen and the unseen.

 

And to this day, I have never forgotten it.

A Jinn Knock on My Door

The Midnight Scratching: A Ghostly Encounter That Haunts to This Day

 

There are nights, that feel like any other, and then there are nights when reality slips just a little bit—when the veil between the world we know and the unknown grows thin. That night, almost midnight, was one of those nights.

 

After an evening spent in the warmth of my family’s company in our larger, more central home, the laughter and love we shared felt like a soft cocoon protecting us from the world. But as the clock crept closer to the witching hour, I retreated to my room—the Bangla Ghor, a space that had always been both sanctuary and enigma. The night outside was calm, cool, and clear. The full moon hung high, casting a soft glow that seemed to make the world feel just a little bit more... otherworldly.

 

As I lay in bed, surrendering to the pull of sleep, an eerie scratching sound suddenly pierced the night. It came from the eastern door of my room, beyond which lay a veranda. To the right, about eight feet away, stretched a passage leading from the main house courtyard to the front pond in the east and the house’s main entrance. Beyond the veranda, a garden sprawled before reaching the large front pond and the main gateway.

 

This room had two doors and two verandas—one to the east and another to the west. At first, the sound was soft—resembling the familiar noise of a cow rubbing its belly against my wooden door, something I had grown accustomed to over the years. But this time, there was something different. Something unnatural. The sound carried an edge of unease, sending a prickle of dread down my spine and making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

 

We had once kept cows, but sometime after 1978, we gave up farming and no longer raised livestock. Still, my neighbour’s cattle often wandered near our home. Nothing unusual. No cause for concern.

 

I climbed out of bed and opened the door, half-expecting to see the silhouette of the cow just standing on the veranda. But there was nothing. No cow. No rustling. Just an unsettling silence that stretched into the dark, cool night.

 

I closed the door behind me, shaking my head, trying to dismiss the eerie feeling that had begun creeping up my spine. But as I slid back into bed, trying to brush it off as my tired mind played tricks, it came again.

 

The scratching was louder this time, sharper—no longer the dull rubbing of an animal. It was unmistakable: human nails scraping across wood. A chill crawled up my spine as my heart began to race. Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. And it was getting louder.

 

Summoning every ounce of courage, I grabbed my torch and stepped into the night, the eerie scratching still echoing in my ears. Taking a deep breath, I flung the door open—only to be met with emptiness. My eyes darted across the surroundings, scanning every shadow, but there was nothing. No footsteps. No rustling in the darkness. Only the full moon cast its cold, spectral light, and the suffocating silence pressed in from all sides.

 

I returned to my room, but the scratching resumed almost immediately, this time more forceful—as if it was mocking me. A growing sense of dread took over me. What was this? The house was old, yes. But I had lived there for some time and never experienced anything like this. With trembling hands, I grabbed a bamboo stick—one that had seen many childhood games when my mother, and one that had been used to coax me out of hiding when I’d sneak away inside the roll-up mattress. A silly comfort from my past. 

 

In olden-day Bangladeshi villages, mattresses were always rolled up on one side of the bed during the day to keep them free from dust, only to be laid out again at night. As a child, I would often slip inside a tightly rolled cotton-stuffed mattress, hiding away while my mother searched for me after sunset.

 

She would call my name, but I wouldn’t answer. Yet she always knew where I was. With a bamboo stick in hand, she would start tapping the mattress until, at last, I emerged. This became an almost daily ritual during the winter months—it was so warm inside, and I was always looking for a way to escape my evening study sessions and schoolwork.

 

The night air was thick with a suffocating stillness, the kind that presses in on your chest and makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. The beam of my torch flickered erratically, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance—no, shift—as if the darkness itself had a will. I searched, eyes darting from one corner to another. But there was nothing.

 

No animals. No footsteps. No explanation for the sounds that had haunted my every step.

 

Finally, my heart heavy with unanswered questions and growing unease, I retreated back into my room. This time, as I closed the door behind me, I felt it—the silence. But not the peaceful kind of silence I was used to. No. This was different. It was suffocating. It pressed down on me, filled with a terrible sense of being watched by unseen eyes.

 

I lay in bed, my heart still racing, the scratches echoing in my mind like a persistent ghost, replaying itself over and over. The silence wasn’t quiet. It was pregnant with something... else.

 

Looking back now, I know that what I felt that night was not of this world. Each time I opened the door, the space beyond was empty—no movement, no sound. Yet, the scratching persisted, like nails dragging across the wood of a coffin. It was relentless, mocking my every attempt to find its source.

 

Behind our back garden lay a serene pond, bordered by dense bamboo groves stretching from the southwest to the northern banks. We had planned to drain the pond to catch fish, using a traditional manual method. For this, we relied on the Quin (or Don)—a locally known water-lifting device.

 

The Quin is a manually operated, boat-shaped wooden trough, closed at one end and open at the other. The closed end is secured with a rope to a long bamboo pole, which acts as a lever pivoted on a sturdy post. A counterweight—typically a large stone or a ball of dried mud—is attached to the shorter end of the lever.

 

To operate it, the open end of the trough is positioned at the discharge point. The operator, using the weight of one foot, presses it down, submerging the trough into the water. As the counterweight shifts, the water-filled trough is lifted, emptying its contents automatically.

 

The Quin was set in the northwest corner of the pond. The plan was to continue working from morning until late into the night. But as darkness settled, the man stationed there saw something that sent him fleeing in terror. He bolted straight through the middle of the pond to the east, where a ghat—a series of steps leading down to the water—offered an escape. Shaken and breathless, he claimed to have heard strange, unnatural sounds. Then, to his horror, he saw the bamboo groves bending as if they were about to collapse on him.

 

The southwest corner of the house had always felt haunted, shrouded by the dense bamboo groves that loomed ominously in the dark. From a distance, I searched the area with my torchlight, its beam slicing through the thick shadows. But I found nothing. Yet, something was there. A presence. A poltergeist, perhaps. It unsettled me in ways I couldn’t explain.

 

I still don’t know what I encountered that night. I’ve often wondered whether it was the restless spirit of the ghost herd, the shapeshifting creatures said to haunt the lands near Tilkidara—or if it was something far older. Something that had been waiting, watching, for far longer than I could ever comprehend.

 

Whatever it was, it left a mark on me. A memory that I cannot shake, even now. A sensation of being watched. Of something lurking just beyond the veil. 

 

I was fortunate enough to escape its grasp that night. But every time the moon is full, and the world grows still, I can’t help but wonder if that ghostly scratching will return. Waiting. Watching. Reminding me of that moment when the veil between life and death was almost too thin to bear.

 

And if you ever find yourself alone in the silence of a quiet room, the moon casting long shadows on the walls, and you hear it—the unmistakable sound of scratching—don’t open the door. Because sometimes, what waits on the other side is far better left unseen.

Ghost of Bangladesh

The Ghostly Longboat of Shaharpara: A Journey That Haunts the Living

 

Some stories are so chilling, so surreal, that they refuse to be forgotten. They seep into the very fabric of your mind, like shadows creeping through the cracks of reality. The story of the ghostly longboat of Shaharpara, Bangladesh, is one such tale—a story that keeps the village awake at night, haunted by a spirit that refuses to rest. If you dare to listen, you might just hear its eerie journey through the floodwaters—and feel the cold shiver of its touch.

 

The Abandoned School of Shaharpara: A Hollow Memory

 

In the historical village of Shaharpara, nestled in the Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad of Jagannathpur Upazila in the Sunamganj District, there once stood a school. It wasn’t just any school—it was the primary model school. A one-storey building with four classrooms, one of which was partitioned into two, the school was alive with children’s laughter, the clatter of wooden benches, and the rhythmic hum of teachers’ lessons.

 

But like all things in life, the school was eventually left behind, abandoned. The place that once thrived with youthful energy became a hollow shell, devoid of furniture, wooden windows, doors, or any trace of life. By the early ’90s, it had deteriorated into little more than a decaying structure. The old primary school had been transformed into a high school in the early ’80s, but when a new primary school was built to the west and a new high school erected nearby, the once vibrant building succumbed to neglect and ruin.

 

What happened to the school after that? It was left to rot in silence. The village moved on. But the school… the school never forgot.

 

A Midnight Walk Into Darkness

 

In 1993, during the midst of the flood season when the rains began to retreat and the land soaked in its heavyweight, I found myself walking home along the main dirt road of Shaharpara—a now-paved road that runs through the village, past the desolate remains of the abandoned high school. It was around midnight, the moon hanging full and heavy in the sky, casting its silver glow over the land. The air was still, the kind of stillness that made everything feel too quiet. No sounds of voices, no distant chatter—just the echo of my footsteps in the night.

 

The school was on my left, an empty shell of a building. I had walked past it countless times, but tonight… tonight was different. Tonight, I saw something that would forever change the way I viewed the supernatural.

 

The Longboat of Terror

 

Beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient jujube tree (Boroi Gach), my gaze settled on something intriguing—a longboat anchored nearby. But this was no ordinary boat. It was a traditional Fatami Nauw, an imposing vessel once relied upon by locals to ferry heavy loads—goods, livestock, and all manner of animal feed, including water hyacinth. Its dark, hulking form lay in eerie stillness, steeped in quiet mystery as if holding the secrets of many journeys’ past.

 

As I drew closer, I noticed something that made my heart race. The boat was loaded—loaded with school furniture. Benches, tables, and chairs—all the furniture that had once filled the abandoned school. How could they have gotten there? Where had they come from? Who had brought them?

 

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what stood on the boat.

 

A figure—a ghostly apparition—stood at the northern fore of the boat, a place unanchored to the ground, while the southern fore remained firmly tethered. A man? No, not quite. The figure transcended humanity, beyond flesh and bone. It was unnatural, a silhouette, holding a long bamboo rowing stick in hand, standing motionless, staring southward at me, while I faced north, exactly opposite. The ghostly figure lingered at the edge of the harboured boat, its presence unnerving, as if waiting for something—or someone.

 

My breath caught in my throat. I was alone. No one was around. The boat should have been still—no one was there to push it, and neither was the ghost steering the boat with the bamboo pole. But still, the figure stood. Unmoving. In stillness.

 

The Ghost’s Silent Task

 

The scene was like something out of a nightmare, and yet, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I was awake. And I couldn’t look away. The boat, despite being laden with heavy school furniture, remained stuck under the jujube tree. The main dirt road of Shaharpara was blocking its path south, and it had nowhere to go but back to the northern direction.

 

The figure stood there, waiting. Silent. Eternal.

 

My heart pounded in my chest, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I wanted to scream. To turn and run. But I was rooted to the spot, paralysed by the overwhelming sense of terror that gripped me.

 

The ghost didn’t speak, didn’t move. It seemed locked in time, carrying out an unfinished task—something that could never be completed. Why? What was it waiting for? Why had the school furniture been loaded onto the boat? Why was the ghost there, standing at the helm, unable to move forward or back? What was its purpose?

 

Was the ghost waiting for another ghost to come and unload the furniture that had long been missing from the school, or was it waiting for another spirit to come and turn the boat in the northern direction, toward the west Tilak football pitch or Shahjir Bari Bottiya—the empty ground where children play in the dry season and where livestock gather before going to pastureland? Had the furniture somehow been meant to leave the school but was trapped, forever caught in a limbo of unfinished business?

 

The Local Legend: A Journey of Unfinished Business

Over the years, I learned from the villagers that this was not a one-time occurrence. The ghost of Shaharpara had appeared to many others before me, and to many after me. Locals spoke of ghostly voices and strange lights flickering inside the abandoned school. Some even reported hearing strange noises—echoes of the past, unwilling to fade.

 

The most chilling part of it all was the belief that the ghost was tethered to the furniture it carried. The school furniture, the benches, the desks, the chairs—these were not just objects. They were symbols of an unfinished journey, a task that had never been completed. The ghost, some said, was that of a teacher, whose life had been tragically cut short, or perhaps it was the spirit of a student, interrupted by an untimely death.

 

Some even whispered that the spirit was bound to the school itself, cursed to carry out an eternal task. The furniture was never meant to be abandoned. The school, though it seemed forgotten by all, still held a presence, and still required something—some act to be completed, some closure to be achieved. And until that was done, the ghost would remain, forever trying to finish what it had started.

 

The Spirit of Revenge or Vengeance?

 

Many cultures around the world speak of restless spirits—souls who cannot move on until they have avenged a wrong, completed a task, or fulfilled a mission. Could this ghost be seeking revenge? Was it trying to avenge the abandonment of the school, the death of a teacher or student, or perhaps the destruction of a once-thriving institution?

 

The villagers’ tales suggest that the ghost didn’t just haunt. It roamed. It travelled. During the flood season, it embarked on a journey, crossing the canals and waterways, carrying the school furniture in its boat. And in the dry season, strange voices would drift on the wind—voices that didn’t belong to anyone alive.

A Restless Spirit, Forever Bound

 

I have never forgotten that night. The moonlight, the boat, the ghost. The figure on the boat never moved. It was frozen in time, just as the school was. Stuck. Trapped. Bound to the past. I could only guess what it was waiting for, but I knew one thing for sure: the ghost of Shaharpara would never find peace.

 

Maybe, just maybe, when the last piece of school furniture is finally returned to the abandoned building, the spirit will rest. But until then, the ghostly longboat of Shaharpara will continue its eternal journey—a journey of revenge, of unfinished business, and of a spirit that can never let go.

 

And if you ever find yourself walking the road past that old school, with the moon high above and the chill of the night settling in, beware. For you may just see the ghost of Shaharpara, standing silently on its boat, waiting to complete its final voyage. 

Tree of Shaitan

The Mysterious Shaitan Nir Gach: A Paranormal Tale from Bangladesh’s Heartlands

 

The Shaitan—also known as Shaytan or Satan—is a name whispered in fear, an entity said to lead lost souls astray in the dead of night. Some claim it lurks in the shadows, preying on the weary and unsuspecting. Others believe it manifests in the form of spectral apparitions, unsettling those who dare to tread its haunted paths.

 

One such ominous presence is tied to an ancient tree—the Shaitan Nir Gach (Tree of Shaitan)—a solitary guardian standing amidst the vast paddy fields of Daulahbon and Hapatirbon, between Shaharpara and Kurikiyar in Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad, Jagannathpur, Sunamganj, Sylhet, Bangladesh.

 

The name Daulahbon carries historical weight, with “Daulah” meaning “prince” in Bengali and “bon” translating to “field.” Meanwhile, the name Hapatirbon is believed to have an even deeper significance, rooted in the legacy of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA). It is said to derive from four syllables, each holding a profound meaning:

            •           Ha – A local adaptation of “Shah,” the first name of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA).

            •           Pa – Signifying the footsteps of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA).

            •           Tir – Referring to the shore of the River Ratna, where Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) first set foot.

            •           Bon – Meaning “grass” in Bengali, which grows in the fields. Locally, “bon” is also used to mean “field,” denoting the surrounding landscape.

 

Over time, this revered location evolved into what is now known as Shaharpara, a name deeply steeped in spiritual and historical significance.

 

This tree, known in Bengali as Hijol Gach, belongs to the species Barringtonia acutangula, a freshwater mangrove that thrives in wetlands across South Asia and Northern Australasia, from Afghanistan to the Philippines, and even in parts of Australia. With its gnarled branches and haunting silhouette, the Hijol Gach—also called itchytree or mango-pine—has long been steeped in folklore, feared as a resting place for dark forces.

 

Villagers tell tales of travellers losing their way near this tree at night, wandering in circles until 

Fajr, the first light of dawn. Some claim to hear whispers carried by the wind, while others have sworn, they glimpsed shadowy figures lurking beneath its branches. But the true horror of the 

Shaitan Nir Gach is not just in its legend—it is in the chilling encounters of those who have crossed its path.

 

What happened to us on that fateful night in 1993 was no mere superstition. It was a reality that still haunts me to this day.

 

The Shaitan or Shaytan also spelled Satan, is said to be the entity that led us astray on a night when we found ourselves daunted by spectral apparitions. The infamous Shaitan Nir Gach 

(Tree of Shaitan) stands between Shaharpara and Kurikiyar in Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad, Jagannathpur, Sunamganj, Sylhet, Bangladesh. It is the sole tree in the vast expanse of Duwalabon (also spelt Dowalabone or Daulahbon) and Hapatirbon, both of which are paddy fields.

 

During the flood season, the tree becomes encircled by water, while in the dry months, 

swamps form in both Daulahbon and Hapatirbon. This lone sentinel, standing defiantly amidst the fields, has long been whispered about in local folklore. The villagers refer to it as the Tree of Shaitan, a place believed to be an asylum for dark forces.

 

Renowned for its eerie presence in all seasons, the tree is said to mislead travellers at night, causing them to lose their way and wander aimlessly through the fields until the break of Fajr 

(the Muslim morning prayer), which occurs just five minutes before sunrise. One such bewildering event took place in 1993, on a moonlit night with moderate weather, marking the end of the flood season in Bangladesh.

 

Flooding is a common occurrence in the country, especially between June and September, as nearly 80% of Bangladesh’s land consists of floodplains. It was on such a night that my paternal nephew, Khosru Hossain Kamaly, and I found we entangled in an unsettling ordeal. Khosru and I were close in age—I was precisely one year and twelve days older than him, our birthdays separated by that exact difference.

 

That night, we were returning home from Sylhet on a late bus. Upon disembarking at Bhober Bazar near Mega Khali Nauka Ghat (a boat harbour or boat wharf), we realised, to our dismay, that we had missed the last ferry. Ordinarily, we would take a ferry from there to our village,

West Tilak (also spelt Tilok), is a part of greater Shaharpara.

 

The harbour was eerily empty—there was neither a boat nor a canoe in sight. Anxiety crept in as we deliberated our next move. Then, I remembered a childhood friend from East London, Abdul Mossabir, who lived not far from Mega Khali Nauka Ghat, towards the western side. Hoping for assistance, we made our way to his home, seeking a boatman who could take us across.

 

Upon hearing our plight, Mossabir regretfully informed us, “I cannot send my family servant to drop your home. The journey is long, and it is already quite late. All the servants are fast asleep, and they must rise at dawn to work in the paddy fields, planting Boro rice. This is a crucial time, as the season is coming to an end, and their presence in the fields is urgently required by the head of our family.”

 

However, not wanting to leave us stranded, Mossabir arranged for one of his village men to escort us home using his family’s traditional canoe. This boat, primarily used for transporting

water hyacinth (Eichhornia), known in Bengali as Kusurifena and locally as Fena, was a 

weighty, longboat built in the distinctive Jagannathpurian style, referred to as Fatami Nauw—a vessel measuring approximately 33 feet in length.

 

“The boat is sturdy and well-suited for the journey,” Mossabir assured us. “The boatman will take you across and then return with the canoe.”

 

The boat was moored some distance away, further to the southwest, but to reach it, we had to pass through Shaharpara on foot. The path ahead was treacherous—muddy, slippery, and laced with stagnant water. Yet, with no other alternative, we set forth on our journey into the night, unaware of the unsettling experience that awaited us.

 

The route to Shaharpara is straightforward, though the distance from where the boat is anchored is considerable. The journey would take over an hour by boat. Once we reached

Shaharpara, we would then head east toward West Tilak, a journey of less than an hour through Hapatirbon, which lies to the north of Shaharpara.

 

Hapatirbon and Daulahbon are connected, forming the eerie territory of the roaming Shaitan, whose presence is believed to dwell in the infamous Tree of Shaitan. To the west of

Hapatirbone lies in the village of Syedpur, and immediately to its east is Shaharpara. After the harvest, both paddy fields remain submerged in water, turning them into ideal fishing grounds.

 

As the floodwaters receded, the land became fertile, preparing for the next Boro rice plantation. When we reached the middle of Hapatirbon, we could see Shaharpara ahead, just south of our boat. Khosru instructed the boatman, “Once we get closer to the village, turn left toward

Daulahbon—that’s the way to West Tilak.”

 

Then, something unusual happened.

 

Suddenly, from the vast emptiness of the flooded field, a peculiar, unusually flat, and small boat—no more than nine feet long—appeared in front of us. It seemed to materialise out of nowhere. In its centre stood an old-fashioned pressure kerosene lamp, yet its glow was strangely dim, far weaker than expected.

 

The figures aboard the boat were difficult to discern, appearing only as dark silhouettes—two short, shadowy figures standing at opposite ends. One of them was rowing with a bamboo pole, while the other was spearfishing with an old-fashioned pronged pole spear. The spear-wielding figure moved with unsettling precision, continuously striking at fish with swift, deliberate motions. We could hear the splashes and piercing sounds as clearly as if they were right beside us.

 

Their boat wasn’t far from ours, yet their faces remained hidden. They faced forward, never turning toward us. Their movements were unmistakably human, yet something about them felt deeply unnatural.

 

As we watched, unease creeping over us, we realized that their boat wasn’t merely passing by—it was deliberately crisscrossing in front of us, obstructing our path. They continued to fish, undisturbed, as if unaware of our presence, yet their closeness suggested otherwise.

 

It was the peak of the fishing season—a time when villagers across the region ventured out at night, using pronged fishing spears, fire torches, and kerosene lamps to hunt in the shallow floodwaters. But something about these figures was different.

 

Before leaving, Mossabir had handed us a battery-powered torch, one of five he owned. But as fate would have it, the battery was almost dead, barely emitting any light. We tried to illuminate the mysterious boat, but the weak glow failed to reveal anything more than shifting shadows. Even the moonlight, bright though it was, did little to clarify what we were seeing.

 

And then it happened.

 

As their boat weaved closer, we finally caught a side view of their faces—or rather, what 

should have been their faces. But there was nothing there. No features. No eyes. Just shadowy voids.

 

It was then that we understood—these were not human fishermen. They were ghosts.

 

The boatman, now visibly unsettled, had been watching the suspicious boat crisscross in front of us. Finally, he turned to us and said, “Could you kindly ask them what they’re doing? They keep blocking our path, and it’s distracting me.”

 

I raised my voice and called out to them, “Who are you?” But there was no response.

 

A long silence followed, and I yelled again—yet still, no answer.

 

However, the shadowy figure with the pole spear continued his relentless spearfishing, striking the water with an unnatural rhythm, as though he were catching a fish with every thrust. This wasn’t a conventional way of fishing—something felt terribly wrong.

 

Our doubts began to turn into certainty. It was impossible to catch fish one after another in this manner. The moment you spear one fish, the others scatter, forcing a brief pause before the next attempt. But this figure never stopped—he kept stabbing the water over and over as if the laws of nature did not apply to him.

 

Adding to the unease, we could hear strange murmuring sounds coming from their boat. It was a conversation of sorts, but the words were indecipherable, spoken in a language unlike anything we had ever heard.

 

At this point, we began to understand the true nature of what we were witnessing.

 

Perhaps this was the beginning of poltergeist activity.

 

Suddenly, many things made sense—the dim, ineffective lamp, the unusual flat shape of their boat, and its ancient design. It was a monoxylon—a dugout canoe, carved from a single, hollowed-out tree trunk, likely hundreds of years old.

 

And why was the lamp placed in the lower-middle part of the boat instead of at the Golui

(fore), the proper position for illuminating fish?

 

Then, the final confirmation came.

 

The spearfishing figure’s refusal to acknowledge us—his complete disregard for my questions.

 

Khosru, now visibly shaken, whispered, “Sasaji (Uncle), is this the Shaitan from the infamous Shaitan Nir Gach of Daulahbon?”

 

The Tree of Shaitan—renowned for leading travellers astray in the dead of night, forcing them to wander the fields until Fajr.

 

At that moment, despite the fear gripping us, I forced a laugh and decided to confront whatever this was. I raised my voice and shouted,

 

“Hey, you stupid Shaitan! Why are you playing games with us? We are locals—we know our way home! Now get lost and stop wasting our time!”

 

The boatman gasped in horror.

 

“Please, don’t mock them!” he pleaded. “They are not human. They are ghosts… and they love to eat fish!”

 

I turned to him and reassured him, “Do not be afraid. These spirits cannot harm us physically. There are three of us in this boat. Stay calm, and just keep rowing steadily.”

 

We had heard many tales of this Shaitan, notorious for leading people astray at night. But now, we were experiencing it firsthand.

 

Then the boatman spoke again, his voice trembling.

 

“Look around… it’s late. Do you see any other fishing boats? Any lamps in Hapatirbon?”

 

We turned in all directions—and to our shock, there was nothing.

 

Not a single light. Not a single boat.

 

Even Shaharpara, which had been clearly visible just moments ago, had vanished.

 

Our village should have been directly south of our boat, yet now, all we could see was an endless expanse of water.

 

The realisation hit us like a cold wave—we were trapped.

 

At that moment, the atmosphere changed.

 

A deep, guttural rumbling filled the air, a sound unlike anything we had ever heard. The water

churned violently, and the noise grew louder—an overwhelming, unnatural turbulence that sent a chill through our bones.

 

We were no longer just lost—we were surrounded.

 

The dugout canoe was still crisscrossing in front of us, blocking our path.

 

Panic was taking hold.

 

Khasru, his voice now shaking, pleaded with the unseen forces.

 

“Mamu (Maternal Uncle) … we have heard so much about you. We accept your presence. Please… let us go home safely.”

 

The boatman sighed in resignation.

“Tonight… we will not reach home. We will be wandering these paddy fields all night. That 

is for certain.”

 

Khosru muttered under his breath, “These Shaitans cannot harm us directly. All they can do is

make us lose our way… and force us to wander until dawn.”

 

And at that moment, we realised—we were at their mercy.

 

At this point, I raised my voice and declared firmly,

 

“Hey, Shaitans! We are going to Shaharpara, and we are the descendants of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)! Leave us alone right now!”

 

The moment those words left my mouth, something extraordinary happened—Shaharpara reappeared before our eyes.

 

Just moments ago, the village had been completely obscured, as though swallowed by the darkness. But now, it stood clearly to the east of our boat.

 

The boatman gasped in shock. “Shaharpara was to the south earlier! But now, we’re on its west

side! These Shaitans nearly led us astray, pushing us toward Syedpur instead!”

 

Relieved but still shaken, the boatman admitted, “I’m not going home alone tonight. It’s too eerie, and I’m already terrified by those Shaitans’ horrendous tricks. I need a place to stay—I’ll sleep at your house, even if it’s on the veranda, until morning.”

 

I reassured him, “Don’t worry, we have enough space for you to stay. But my concern is the

boat. It was given to us with trust—it’s my friend’s family boat, and it’s also expensive.”

 

Since we had taken a different route through Shaharpara instead of Daulahbon, the boat would not reach our home directly. Instead, it would end up in Tilkidara, forcing us to 

terminate the journey there and then walk through the dirt track road of West Tilak to our home in Master Bari.

 

The boatman, still rattled, responded, “I don’t care! I’m too shaken up to go back home alone.”

 

I thought for a moment and then said, “There’s only one place to park the boat—under the Tilkidara culvert bridge. But do you have a chain and lock for security?”

 

He shook his head. “No.”

 

“What if someone steals the boat?” I asked.

 

The boatman sighed. “I’ll come back at Fajr after the Azan. It’s not far off now. I just hope no one steals it in the meantime.”

 

The Legend of the Dugout Canoe

 

We had heard many old stories passed down through generations—stories of abundant fish in the area during the flood season when people didn’t even need nets to catch them.

Centuries ago, the Bengalis of the delta region navigated these waters using dugout canoes, known as Donga in Bengali—boats hollowed from a single tree trunk. These ancient crafts were once common in our region, but over time, they had been replaced by bow-shaped boats, which had been in use for many centuries now.

 

And yet, those Shaitans—the two shadowy figures in the dugout canoe—were still using the 

ancient monoxylon.

 

This could only mean one thing—they were old. Very old.

 

Perhaps they had been here for centuries, haunting these waters since the medieval period, their dugout canoes a relic of a bygone era.

 

The Power of a Saint’s Name

 

And then, I remembered something.

 

When I had invoked the name of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)—also known as Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafa (RA)—those Shaitans vanished instantly.

 

Just like that.

 

Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) was a great Sufi saint, a disciple of Hazrat Shah Jalal (RA)—the 

patron saint of Sylhet, who had arrived in the early 14th century.

 

I am a descendant of Shah Jamaluddin Qureshi, the second and most beloved son of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) from Baglar Bari in Shaharpara proper.

 

The Shaitan Nir Gach, the Tree of Shaitan, had long been infamous as the asylum of these restless spirits. For generations, people from Daulahbon and Hapatibon have reported getting lost at night, wandering aimlessly until Fajr, unable to find their way home.

 

And now, we have become part of that legend.

 

We had witnessed the paranormal—the Shaitans of Daulahbon had tried to mislead us, but by the grace of our ancestors, we had found our way back.