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.
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.
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