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

Ghost of the Bayan Tree

The Ghost Herd of Tilkidara: A Tale of Shape-Shifting Spirits and the Banyan Tree

 

Some stories are so deeply woven into the fabric of a place, that they become a part of its very identity. These tales are shared across generations, whispered on full moon nights, and passed from elder to younger like a secret that can’t be ignored. And then there are those stories that leave you with an unsettling sense of something beyond the ordinary, a lingering feeling that things aren’t always as they seem.

 

One such tale lives on in the village of West Tilak, a place where ancient legends come alive, especially during the quiet, mysterious nights of the full moon. I learned this the hard way in 1985, an encounter that would forever change my understanding of the supernatural.

 

As I stepped out of my house, I heard the rhythmic thud of a football bouncing in the Tilak Bazar field. I thought the shopkeepers from Tilak Bazar were playing, and on my way, I decided I would join them.

 

I took the path through the paddy fields, passing by the southern side of my uncle Abdul Hannan’s house. He was from the same clan as me. As I crossed his boundary, the Tilak Bazar field came into view—but to my surprise, it was empty. No one was playing football. I wondered if the game had already ended.

 

As I neared my destination—Shahjir Bari of Muftir Chawk—just before entering the compound, I suddenly found myself surrounded by foxes. Their howls and screams pierced the night, echoing through the dense trees, whose branches were shrouded in pitch-black darkness. My torchlight was dim, its battery nearly drained, but I held it tightly in my hand, ready to defend myself if the foxes attacked.

 

At that moment, one of Turon Miah’s servants stepped out of the house on an errand. Hearing the eerie screams and howls of the foxes, he bellowed at them, sending them scattering into the night.

 

Relieved, I turned to him and said, “Thank you for saving me from those foxes.”

 

He chuckled and replied, “You’re a brave man. How come you didn’t shout at them yourself?”

 

I smiled and said, “I thought if I shouted, they might bite me. That’s why I kept quiet.

 

We had dinner later than usual, according to our village schedule, because we always waited for our elder brother to return from the pharmacy. Eating together was not just about the meal—it was our time to talk and socialise.

 

Because of this, I was late when I arrived at Shahjir Bari. All three of my friends were already there, waiting for me.

 

In the year 1985, during a holiday in my village of West Tilak, I found myself at the heart of one of these chilling legends, a ghostly encounter that would forever change my understanding of the supernatural.

 

It all began on a clear, beautiful full moon night. The air was crisp, and the skies were pristine as my friends, and I gathered for a night of card games. Black Maria was the game of choice—a card game that had become a favourite among my childhood friends, including Jamal Miah, Abdul Wadud, and Sanu Miah. As the evening wore on, laughter echoed through the Baithak Ghar, or Memaan Khana, of Abdul Wadud’s house, located in the Muftir Chawk of Shaharpara.

 

The players that night were my maternal nephew, Jamal Miah, Abdul Wadud (my uncle), and Sanu Miah (one of my cousins). All of us were of a similar age and had grown up together, sharing a bond that went beyond mere family ties. They all belonged to the Shahjir Gushti clan, descendants of the Shahjir Bari in Muftir Chawk of Shaharpara—except for Sanu Miah. Though his father was from the Shahjir Gushti, he was not a descendant by blood.

 

My own family, before moving to West Tilak, had lived in the School Bari of Shaharpara and belonged to the Baglar Gushti clan, descendants of the Baglar-Bari of Shaharpara proper.

 

After the game ended, Jamal and I decided to head home. As we made our way home, the quiet hum of the night surrounded us, the rhythmic chirping of crickets punctuated only by the soft rustling of the trees. The moon hung low, casting long, silver shadows across the fields. Jamal’s house was close, nestled comfortably near Abdul Wadud’s, but my journey stretched further—twice the distance, winding past the Muftir Chawk, across the southern fields, and through the open expanse leading to West Tilak football pitch. Beyond that lay a vast expanse of paddy field, and finally, my home.

 

As we crossed the canal of Shahjir Bari and took a left turn, Jamal led the way along the Gupat—a pathway used by animals during the dry season for grazing or ploughing the fields, and in the flood season, a waterway for boats and canoes. This narrow path ran along the southern bank of the canal, where dense Koroch(Pongamia pinnata) trees lined the edges. Their thick, intertwining branches formed a canopy so dense that it cast everything beneath into pitch-black darkness. We moved eastward, making our way toward home.

    

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and distant blooms. We walked in comfortable silence, our footsteps muffled against the dirt path. But just as we neared the edge of the fields, a strange sensation prickled at my skin—a shift in the air, subtle yet undeniable. The peaceful night suddenly felt heavier, as if the darkness itself was watching.

 

Then, from the shadowed depths of the trees, came a sound—faint, almost imperceptible, yet enough to send a chill down my spine. It was a peaceful night, and the moonlight illuminated the way. But our peaceful walk soon took an unsettling turn.

 

As we reached Shahjir Gushti’s field, the moonlit night bathed everything in a glow so bright it felt almost like daylight. To our right lay Shahjir Bari’s Bottiya—an open ground where the clan’s domestic animals gathered before setting off to graze in the pastures or the Haor 

(wetlands). During the dry season, this space doubled as a playground for the village children, while in the flood season, it was used to cultivate cattle fodder, such as water hyacinths and aquatic grasses.

 

Jamal and I noticed a herd of sheep grazing quietly in the field. Given that this area favoured goats over sheep, the sight struck us as unusual—especially at this hour. Our first thought was of the Chawk Tilakianfarmers, known for keeping large flocks. But something about these animals felt… unnatural. They looked pristine—too clean, too perfect. There was an almost otherworldly allure to them, their forms bathed in the silver glow of the full moon, their eyes reflecting something unnervingly intelligent. They weren’t moving like ordinary sheep. They neither grazed nor shifted positions as livestock naturally would. Instead, they stood there, unsettlingly still, as though aware of our presence.

 

The moment we spotted the flock, a wild idea took hold of us—we would each catch a sheep and ride it to the end of the football ground, a reckless test of skill and speed. But among them, one ram stood apart, exuding an almost regal presence, as though sculpted by some unseen force. It was unmistakably the leader of the herd—its stance commanding, its aura almost otherworldly. This was no ordinary ram. It was massive, its powerful frame adorned with enormous, curling bighorns wrapped in shimmering tinsel, a weary garland draped around its neck. Streaks of unnatural hues—pink, green, and other vivid shades—gleamed eerily under the moonlight, casting an unsettling glow. It stood still, watching us with an intensity that sent a chill through my spine. It looked less like an animal of flesh and blood and more like an emissary of something ancient and unknowable, a creature prepared for a sacred ritual—or perhaps a harbinger of something far beyond our understanding.

 

The sight was so strange and captivating that I felt an irresistible pull toward it. Without a second thought, I decided that I would ride this majestic, garlanded ram. I turned to Jamal, my eyes alight with mischief. “I’ll take the big one,” I declared, pointing at the imposing bighorn ram. “I’ll ride it all the way to the end of West Tilak’s football ground.” The words left my mouth with reckless confidence, but even as I spoke, a shiver of unease crept up my spine. The ram’s gaze met mine—calm, knowing, almost amused. As if it understood far more than it should.

 

Jamal and I both made our attempts to catch two of the sheep—one for Jamal to ride and the massive, ornately decorated ram for me. Our goal was to ride them to the far end of the West Tilak football pitch, just before reaching the West Bank of Tilkidara. Without a second thought, we sprang into action, adrenaline surging as we lunged at the sheep. But they were faster than we had anticipated, their hooves barely making a sound as they darted through the field. However, no matter how hard we tried, we kept missing them by mere inches. It was as though the sheep were mocking us, always staying just out of reach, their movements graceful and fluid, as if they were gliding effortlessly over the ground, barely making a sound—like shadows slipping between the trees.

 

Jamal and I launched ourselves into action, each aiming to catch a sheep—one for him to ride and the massive, ornately decorated ram for me. Our goal was to race them to the far end of the West Tilak football pitch, just before reaching the West Bank of Tilkidara. Adrenaline surged through us as we lunged at the animals, expecting a chaotic chase. But the moment our feet hit the ground, we realised we had underestimated them. The sheep were unnaturally fast, their hooves barely making a sound as they darted effortlessly through the field. No matter how hard we tried, we missed them by mere inches. It was as if they were toying with us, their movements too graceful, too precise. They didn’t bolt in panic like ordinary livestock—instead, they glided over the ground with an eerie fluidity, slipping through the night like shadows weaving between the trees.

 

Frustrated but exhilarated, we burst into laughter. “We’re young, strong, and footballers!” we reminded ourselves. “How can we possibly fail to catch a few sheep?” It made no sense. This should have been easy—just a playful chase, a stolen ride through the moonlit field. Yet, despite our speed and agility, the sheep remained untouchable, slipping through our grasp, like whispers on the wind. What had started as a game was beginning to feel… unnatural.

 

Determined, we changed our strategy. No more scattered attempts—we would catch the bighorn ram, the king of the flock. “Let’s go after the ram together,” Jamal said, his voice brimming with both excitement and urgency. I nodded, the thrill of the chase pulsing through me, and together, we locked our sights on the majestic creature. We pursued it with every ounce of cunning we had—feinting, cutting off its path, diving when it seemed within reach. But it was always a step ahead as if it could sense our intentions before we even moved. No matter how close we got, the ram remained untouchable—an elusive shadow in the night, leading us deeper into something we didn’t yet understand.

 

Yet we didn’t stop. The chase was exhilarating, filling us with reckless determination. We ran, laughing and shouting, convinced that the next attempt would surely be successful. We pursued the ram all the way to the northern edge of the field, near the canal known as Tilkidara, which wound its way through the southern side of the village. But as we neared the water’s edge, something shifted. The excitement in my chest wavered, giving way to a feeling I couldn’t quite place—something just beneath the surface of my awareness, waiting to reveal itself.

 

At that moment, the flock of sheep began to move across the canal, heading toward a massive banyan tree on the east bank—an ancient, gnarled giant that had stood for centuries, silently watching over the land. Jamal and I stopped dead in our tracks, frozen by an unshakable sense of unease. The air around us felt heavier, charged with something unseen. Then, one by one, the sheep reached the base of the tree and, impossibly, vanished into thin air.

 

In the blink of an eye, they were gone—swallowed by the night as if they had never existed. No sound, no trace, nothing. It was as if the earth itself had devoured them whole. We stood there, paralysed, breath caught in our throats. The ram, the entire flock—they had simply disappeared. And in that dreadful silence, a chilling realisation crept over us.

 

What we had been chasing were not ordinary sheep. They were something else—something far darker, something never meant to be touched by human hands. The sheep, one by one, seemed to dissolve into the shadows as they reached the banyan tree. In an instant, they were gone, invisible—claimed by the night, as if reality itself had swallowed them whole.

 

Jamal’s home was located just south of the West Tilak football ground. As we approached his house, he turned to me with a look of apprehension and said, “I’m not going to the shop tonight, where I usually sleep for the security of the store on the main dirt track road of Shaharpara & Tilak—not now.” The road, now known as Syedpur Road, stretched beyond the culvert bridge over Tilkidara, leading westward, where new houses were being built, including one for Jamal’s paternal uncle, Alais Miah of the Shahjir Gushti clan. His home stood just beyond the paddy fields, directly south of Jamal’s.

 

At that time, there were only two grocery shops in the area—one owned by Jamal and the other by Ala Miahof Chawk Tilak. Jamal often slept in his shop at night to ensure its safety, while Ala Miah’s store was another popular stop for the villagers.

 

Jamal turned to me, his face drained of colour, and whispered urgently, “Mama, don’t look back, whatever happens. Just go straight home.” It’s said that if a ghost calls you from behind or tries to attack, you must never answer or turn around.

 

Fear gripped me like an iron vice, tightening around my chest. We didn’t fully understand what we had just witnessed, but one thing was certain—it was no ordinary sight. The way the sheep had vanished into thin air, the unnatural stillness that followed—it all felt wrong as if the very fabric of reality had been disturbed.

 

Jamal, his voice trembling, urged me to walk quickly. And so, I did. But no matter how fast I moved, the feeling refused to leave me—a nagging, gut-wrenching certainty that something was following us. Something that had been playing with us all along.

 

I continued my walk home, alone through the vast, open fields, sweating profusely at the mere thought of the spirits of the banyan tree. The night felt unnerving still as if the world itself were holding its breath. The full moon above cast long, jagged shadows that seemed to shift with a life of their own, creeping closer with every step I took. Every gust of wind, every snap of a twig beneath my feet sent a jolt of panic through me. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I couldn’t shake the overwhelming sensation that I was being watched—hunted by something unseen, something far older than anything I could comprehend.

 

Only now, as the cold night pressed in around me, did the full weight of fear descend. The long walk home, once familiar and comforting, now felt like a passage through some haunted, forgotten realm. Unlike Jamal, whose house was close by, mine was farther away—across the open paddy fields of West Tilak, past the southern side of my uncle Abdul Hanan’s house. And with every step, the distance between me and safety seemed to stretch endlessly, as if the road itself was conspiring to keep me trapped in the grip of the unknown.

 

The next morning, I made my way to Jamal’s shop. As I approached, I spotted a group of 

Chawk Tilakianboys huddled together on the wooden bench outside on the veranda—the usual gathering spot for customers chatting away. After crossing the culvert bridge over Tilkidara, I walked into the shop and was greeted by the familiar faces of the local boys from Chawk Tilak. They burst into laughter, joking, “Jamal Bhai told us about the 30 or 40 sheep you two found in the Shahjir Bari’s Bottiya last night. It wasn’t our sheep.”

 

They went on to explain that they didn’t own that many sheep and that all their animals had been securely locked away for the night, safe from the predators that roamed the countryside. With a hint of unease, they added that strange occurrences weren’t uncommon in the area—especially on full moon nights.

 

Jamal, however, had a different story to tell. His voice was low, his expression grave.

 

“After I left last night, something strange happened at our house,” he said. “Our family servant—the one who works for us—was possessed by a spirit. This morning, we found him under the Banyan tree—the very place where the sheep vanished. His mouth was foaming, and he was lying among broken branches and fallen leaves as if something had thrown him there. It was clear that whatever force we encountered last night… had found him next.”

 

Jamal’s father, a Hafiz meaning memorises the whole Quran, managed to perform a ritual and cure the servant. During the exorcism, the exorcist seeks refuge in Allah (SWT) and recites Quranic verses. When they asked the servant how he had ended up under the Banyan tree, he couldn’t explain. He had no memory of how he had gotten there. Terrified, he abandoned his job and left the village, even leaving behind his half-month’s salary. The possession, Jamal said, was a direct result of the ghostly herd we had encountered.

 

Locals referred to these spectral flocks as Hozorpal—a term for a herd of ghosts that could take the form of various animals. These spirits, they said, roamed the land at night, appearing as flocks of sheep, herds of cattle, or even entire packs of wild creatures. Their purpose was not only to frighten but to disorient those who crossed their path. More ominously, these ghosts had the power to possess anyone who strayed too close—especially near the Banyan tree, a place whispered to be their sanctuary.

 

As I listened to the elders of the village, I realised that the Hozorpal was no isolated incident. This phenomenon had haunted Shaharpara for generations. In hushed voices, people spoke of spirits that could take the form of animals, wandering the countryside to mock and terrify the living. These were not mere ghosts. They were shapeshifters, beings of the night that blended seamlessly into the natural world—until they chose to reveal themselves.

 

My encounter with the Hozorpal remains one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I had chased them, laughed and played with them, utterly unaware of their true nature. But as I walked home that night, alone in the eerie silence of the village, I couldn’t shake the feeling that their presence still lingered—watching from the shadows.

 

The Banyan tree stood as a silent sentinel to the Hozorpal, a grim reminder of the ancient forces that dwell beyond human understanding. And when I left Shaharpara years later, I carried with me the unsettling knowledge that some spirits are not bound by the laws of the living. They roam freely, hidden in plain sight, waiting for the light of a full moon to reveal their presence once more.

 

Some stories are so deeply woven into the fabric of a place that they become part of its very identity. These tales are shared across generations, whispered on full moon nights, and passed from elder to younger like a secret that can’t be ignored.

 

And then there are those stories that leave you with an unsettling sense of something beyond the ordinary—a lingering feeling that things aren’t always as they seem. These are the stories that cling to the edges of your thoughts, like a shadow in the corner of your mind, persistent and unexplained. They remind you that some truths are too strange, too eerie to ever fully comprehend.

And yet… I had heard it.

 

As I stepped outside my house, the night had settled into an eerie stillness. It was long after the Isha prayer, which had begun after 7 PM, and just before 10 PM—the hour when spirits are said to roam freely under the cover of darkness. As I walked, a sound broke the silence—the rhythmic thud of a football bouncing across the Tilak Bazar field. It was unmistakable. Yet when the field came into view, there was nothing. No sign of a game. No shopkeepers indulging in a late-night match. The shopkeepers usually slept in their shops for security reasons, and though they might step out briefly at night, playing football at this hour was unheard of. By now, they would be fast asleep, resting before another long day.

 

A chill ran down my spine as I pressed forward toward Shahjir House. Just before I crossed into its compound, the silence was shattered by an otherworldly sound—a pack of foxes, or so I thought, their howls tearing through the night with an unnatural ferocity. The cries surrounded me, enclosing me in an invisible circle of unseen predators. Yet, something was profoundly wrong. These were not the sharp yips and barks of wild canines. Their voices were distorted, stretched beyond recognition, as though some unseen force had seized their howls and twisted them into a grotesque symphony of the unknown.

 

At that moment, every nerve in my body tensed, my senses sharpening, attuned to the unnatural presence that surrounded me. The night felt heavier, the air thick with an ominous weight, as if something ancient and malevolent lurked just beyond sight. I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat, bracing for whatever horror lay ahead. And then—suddenly—the sound ceased. It was as if the creatures had never been there at all, their presence erased in an instant, leaving behind only a haunting, suffocating silence.

 

In a sudden burst of action, Turon Miah—my maternal nephew—had his servant step from the shadows and unleash a fierce shout. The creatures scattered instantly. Yet, as they vanished, an unsettling absence followed. Not a rustle. Not a footstep. The canal bank was strewn with dry leaves from the Pongamia pinnata trees, yet not a single leaf crunched beneath their retreat. Only the lingering echo of those unnatural cries remained, hanging thick in the night air.

 

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ceased. The night fell into an eerie, suffocating silence. The air felt heavier, as though the world itself had paused, holding its breath. I strained my eyes, searching the shadows, but I hadn’t seen a single fox. Not even the faintest flicker of movement. A chilling realisation crept over me—had there ever been foxes at all? Or had I been listening to something else entirely? Something unseen. Something not of this world.

 

It was not the sight of the foxes that haunted me, but the disquieting resonance of their howls. It wasn’t until much later that I grasped the unsettling truth: those were no ordinary cries. They were the spectral calls of jinns—a ghostly chorus attempting to breach the veil between our world and something far darker. Their voices, disembodied and menacing, had washed over me in a chilling wave, leaving me both terrified and inexplicably exhilarated.

 

On that fateful night, I counted myself fortunate to have escaped their intangible clutches. Yet, the memory lingers—a stark reminder that in the quietest hours, the familiar can dissolve into the inexplicable. Sometimes, the true horrors of the night are not what we see, but what we hear—lurking in the silence between heartbeats.

 

This encounter has since become one of those whispered tales, passed down in hushed voices with wide-eyed wonder—a testament to the unseen forces that roam our world. So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself beneath a full moon, wandering through a lonely field, and hear a chorus of cries that seem too strange, too chilling to belong to any earthly creature, remember this: some ghosts are not of flesh and blood, but of something far more elusive—and far more terrifying.

Ghost in Bengal

The Ghosts Beneath the Full Moon: A Terrifying Encounter with Jinn at the Culvert Bridge

 

In the sweltering summer of 1993, I found myself back in my birthplace—West Tilak, a remote village in Shaharpara, Jagannathpur, Sunamganj, Bangladesh. This place, where the air is thick with humidity and time feels suspended, had a quiet, eerie charm. The electricity that modern cities take for granted had not yet reached our village, and so, the nights were a canvas painted only with the pale light of the moon and the flickering of distant stars. 

 

The heat inside the concrete-roofed houses was unbearable during the day, the walls absorbing the brutal sun’s rays and trapping the warmth inside. For those of us used to cooler climates, like me, sleep was a distant dream. The oppressive heat left me restless until the cool embrace of the night offered a respite. On such nights, when the air was thick with the smell of wet earth and vegetation, I’d often walk beneath the tall trees around the house or take a canoe ride on the still waters of the nearby fields to cool down before returning home to sleep.

 

One such night, I decided to take a walk with my younger cousin, Razik Miah, to catch the night breeze. The weather was perfectly calm, with a moderate temperature, and the night sky above us was ablaze with twinkling stars. The moonlight reflected off the floodwaters, giving the fields an ethereal, almost magical glow. It was as if the land itself had come alive under the moon’s gaze. 

 

We walked through Shaharpara Bazar and along the dirt tracks toward Novagaon, far beyond the boundaries of our village. The serenity of the landscape was almost surreal, and neither of us realised how far we’d strayed from home until it was well past midnight.

 

Before we entered Novagaon, we passed a tree—the Diospyros malabarica, known locally as the Gaab tree. I had heard countless stories about this tree—how it was said to be haunted, its dark, twisted branches stretching out like fingers, reaching for anyone who dared to venture too close at night. But tonight, I was more focused on the cool breeze and the tranquillity of the moment.

 

As we approached the first culvert bridge over Dorarair Khal, a canal that wound its way through the fields, something strange happened. We sat on the southern side of the bridge’s railing, just taking in the silence of the night. It was then that we saw them.

 

A group of dogs, emerging from the shadows of the Gaab tree, appeared on the dirt track. They moved in unison, like an army on a mission, their eyes fixed on us. They didn’t bark. They didn’t growl. They just marched silently toward us, lined up in rows, as if they were gathering for some unspoken purpose. The way they moved was unnerving. As they crossed the bridge, they sat down in front of us, almost as if they were an audience at some dark performance, staring at us with eyes that seemed to bore into our very souls.

 

There were about twelve dogs in total. Their fur was pristine, not a speck of dirt or mud on them—odd, considering we had just walked through mud and water to get here. Real dogs, especially wild ones, would have been filthy by now. We had crossed submerged parts of the dirt track and had to wade through water and thick muck. But these dogs—they were immaculate.

 

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Razik and I instinctively grasped each other’s hands, our eyes fixed on the group of dogs as we sat frozen on the bridge. I tried to reassure him, whispering, "Don’t worry, they’re just dogs. They can’t hurt us." But even as I spoke, a creeping unease began to take root. In my head I knew these are not dogs in fact these are the jinns. I wanted to show we were not scared of them and to encourage my cousin not be fear them. 

 

The dogs were watching us—really watching us—without any sign of fear. Their gaze was penetrating, almost intelligent, and there was something deeply unsettling about the way they sat in perfect formation, their eyes locked on ours. I could feel the cold sweat running down my back. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Razik’s voice trembled in the silence: "It’s almost midnight, and it’s the flood season. Why are there so many dogs together at this hour? They don’t even bark… look at their eyes. They’re creepy—demonic."

 

We continued to sit, terrified, afraid to make a sudden move. My grip tightened around the torchlight I held, the faint beam trembling in my hand. The dogs didn’t move. They didn’t make a sound. They just sat there, staring at us with those dreadful, evil eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. It felt as if those eyes were pulling me in, holding me hostage at that moment.

 

It was then that Razik spoke again, his voice barely a whisper: "These dogs didn’t come from any village house. We know there aren’t this many stray dogs around here. They would have been covered in mud if they were real dogs, and the wild dogs never come this close to people. Something is wrong with this."

 

We both knew it, deep down. These were not just stray dogs. They were something else—something far darker.

 

The dogs didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. They were so still, so composed, as if they were waiting for us to make a mistake. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Then, without warning, the dogs stood up, turned, and marched silently back the way they had come—toward the Gaab tree. Their departure was just as eerie as their arrival: quiet, deliberate, and unsettling.

 

We sat there, paralyzed with fear, the weight of what had just happened settling over us. It wasn’t until they had vanished into the darkness that we dared to breathe again. We stood up and ran—faster than I’ve ever run in my life—back toward home. But no matter how fast we ran, the feeling of their eyes, watching us from the darkness, stayed with me.

 

It wasn’t until later when we spoke to the elders of the village, that we learned the horrifying truth: what we had encountered on that bridge were not wild dogs, but jinn—shape-shifting spirits made of fire and air. The jinn are known to take on the forms of animals—dogs, serpents, even humans—but their true nature is always one of deception and malice. 

 

The Gaab tree, we were told, was a place where spirits gathered. It was said to be cursed, haunted by the restless souls of those who had died in battle—soldiers from a long-forgotten war, perhaps the battle of Vijayanagar. These spirits had been twisted over time; their forms corrupted by the power of the jinn.

 

The jinn are not simply ghosts. They are ancient beings, neither good nor evil, who can shape-shift at will. In their true form, they are terrifying—nearly impossible to comprehend. And on that moonlit night, Razik and I had come face-to-face with them.

 

I can’t say for sure what we saw that night. I still don’t understand why they chose to reveal themselves to us, or why they let us go. But one thing is certain: the jinn are real. And they are watching.

 

So, if you ever find yourself walking along a moonlit road, especially near a cursed tree or an ancient battle site, take care. For you may just find that the eyes watching you from the darkness are not those of a harmless animal, but something far older, far darker, and far more dangerous.

 

The jinn are always nearby. And sometimes, they choose to show themselves.

Tree of Shaitan in Bangladesh

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), which 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 Hapatirbon lies 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.