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.