The ghost took on the face of my nieghbour

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.

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.

Story of Cripple Jinn

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.

Jinn at 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 pressing 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 in London

The McDonald’s Man: A Poltergeist in Bethnal Green

 

A Chilling Encounter in East London

 

It was December 1989, and the chill of winter had settled over East London. The city, always alive with movement, seemed quieter near the Bethnal Green Overground Station rail line. That night, I found myself as a guest at my friend Kasan Ali’s flat on Three Colts Lane, Bethnal Green, E1. His family was away on holiday in Sylhet, Bangladesh, and he had invited me over for the night—partly for company and partly so we could watch the Godzilla TV series together.

 

At the time, I had recently moved into my first flat on Princelet Street, London E1. It was furnished, except for one essential item—I had no television. The offer to stay at Ali’s place was appealing, and I gladly accepted.

 

Little did I know that this night would mark my first unsettling encounter with the McDonald’s Man—a restless poltergeist that haunted Ali’s flat.

 

The Night of the Storm

 

After our TV session and some late-night conversations, I was exhausted and ready for bed. I left my trousers in the living room before heading to the spare bedroom. Before I could retire for the night, Ali made an odd request.

 

“Give me all your money,” he said.

 

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but he insisted.

 

“A lodger staying here might take it,” he warned.

 

At the time, I had just become unemployed and was signing on for the dole for the first time in my life. I only had ten pounds in the back pocket of my Waxman trousers, so I shrugged it off, not too worried.

 

Ali locked the main door with a multi-lock—a key the lodger did not possess—before showing me to my room. It was a double bedroom with large windows on either side. I climbed into bed, pulled the duvet over my head to keep warm, and Ali switched off the lights before bidding me goodnight.

 

The moment the door closed behind him; the chaos began.

 

A deafening howl of wind surrounded the room as if a cyclone had materialised inside the four walls. Windows slammed violently against the walls, banging open and shut with an unnatural force. The sound of a hurricane tore through the space, growing louder and louder.

 

Then, came the footsteps.

 

At first, they were slow, deliberate, and heavy, echoing through the room. Then, a long pause. Seconds later, I heard the same thundering steps in the hallway outside. The storm inside the room raged on, the howling wind mingling with the terrifying stillness between the phantom footsteps.

 

I lay completely still, paralysed by fear, unwilling to lift the duvet and look. I knew what this was—poltergeist activity. Something not of this world was making its presence known, and I had no intention of acknowledging it.

 

I forced myself to sleep.

 

The Missing Money & The McDonald’s Man

 

Morning came, and I woke up in the living room, still wearing my trousers. Groggy and disoriented, I reached into my back pocket—my ten pounds were missing.

 

Before I could process this, Ali called from his room.

 

“Did you come into my room last night?” he asked.

 

“No,” I replied.

 

His voice was uneasy.

 

“Then how did I get this letter from Maizbhandari?”

 

Ali was a disciple of Syed Shafiul Bashar Maizbhandari, a spiritual figure in Chittagong, Bangladesh. A letter from Maizbhandari had mysteriously appeared in his room overnight—despite the multi-lock on the main door and the lodger being absent.

 

Ali then smiled knowingly.

 

“It’s the McDonald’s Man,” he said.

 

I stared at him, puzzled.

 

“Who is the McDonald’s Man?” I asked.

 

Ali chuckled. “He’s, my polygamy.”

 

I was even more confused. “Your what?”

 

“He likes to eat at McDonald’s. I find McDonald’s bags in the flat all the time—sometimes in the bin, sometimes in the room. My lodger doesn’t eat at McDonald’s, and neither do I. So, it must be him.”

 

Ali explained that this spirit shared his home, slamming doors, stomping through the passage, and occasionally cleaning the bathtub.

 

“He doesn’t harm me,” Ali assured me. “We live together like two people married to the same person—sometimes I clean the bath for him, sometimes he cleans it for me.”

 

I laughed. “Well, your McDonald’s Man stole my ten pounds. He owes me!”

 

The Poltergeist Flush

 

As we talked in the kitchen that morning, I sat on the worktop facing the passage. Ali stood nearby, both of us deep in conversation about the previous night’s events.

 

Then, suddenly, we heard the toilet flush.

 

I froze.

 

Ali and I were the only people in the flat. The lodger was away. The bathroom had a tiny window, far too small for a person to enter.

 

I rushed to the toilet.

 

The flush chain was still moving. Water poured into the bowl in continuous motion, as if someone had just pulled the chain and walked away.

 

I looked back at Ali.

 

“See?” he grinned. “The McDonald’s Man is harmless.”

 

The Phantom Typhoon in My Flat

 

That evening, I met with my friends for our usual music session at my flat. As I recounted the eerie events from Ali’s flat, one of my friends, Nazim Uddin, laughed.

 

“You should ask the McDonald’s Man to give you music!” he joked. “He already took ten pounds from you—maybe he’ll play the tabla for you too!”

 

Everyone burst into laughter.

 

That night, after my friends left, I followed my usual routine—ventilating the house by leaving a window slightly open in the kitchen and living room for fresh air circulation.

 

Then, as I lay in bed, it happened again.

 

The howling storm returned, coming through the living room window. It moved into the passage, swirling just outside my bedroom door.

 

The same cyclone sound, the same hurricane-like force—but this time, it did not enter my room.

 

I took a deep breath, and, in my mind, I addressed it.

 

“Hey, McDonald’s Man. Keep the ten pounds. I don’t want it back. Just leave me alone.”

 

At that very moment, the storm stopped.

 

I closed my eyes and slept peacefully.

 

The Ghost Who Never Left

 

Years passed, but I never forgot my encounter with the McDonald’s Man.

 

In January 2020, I visited Ali again and asked about the ghost.

 

“He’s still here,” Ali said casually. “Still slamming doors, stomping around. But he never harms me or my family.”

 

Ali had been living in that flat for over thirty years. His children were born and raised there. Some of them had even married and started their own families in the same home.

 

Through it all, the McDonald’s Man remained—a ghostly tenant trapped in time, haunting the flat on Three Colts Lane, forever craving McDonald’s.

 

Have you ever encountered a ghost who stole your money and flushed your toilet? Tell me your stories