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, in 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 Tilakian farmers, 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 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.
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.
“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 he 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 didn’t see 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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment