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 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, has 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 mud. 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 were not dogs; in fact, these are the jinns. I wanted to show we were not scared of them and to encourage my cousin not to 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 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, paralysed 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 spelt 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 ourselves 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 Mossabbir, 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, Mossabbir regretfully informed us, “I cannot send my family servant to drop you 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, Mossabbir 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 realised 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 a " danga " in Bengali—boats hollowed from a single tree trunk. These ancient crafts were once common in our region, but over time, they have been replaced by bow-shaped boats, which have 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.

Brick Lane

Ex-terrestrial Light

A Night of Mystery and the Ex-Terrestrial Light: An Unforgettable Experience

 

On a crisp, moonlit night in February 1993, I found myself walking toward a musical gathering in the tranquil countryside of Bangladesh. The air was still, charged with a quiet anticipation, and the path we tread was clear under the full moon’s silvery light. It was around 10 PM, and we made our way through Gupat or Gobat (Cattle tracks served as pathways for livestock heading to pasturelands for grazing, accommodated bullock carts during the dry season, and transformed into waterways for boats during the flood months), from Narainpur to Buraiya. There was no need for torches as the moonlight illuminated the road ahead.

 

Our journey led us past Abu Khali, the cobbler’s house and along the canal banks, where unpaved roads stretched between the humble dwellings of farmers. Though rough and untamed, the path was deeply familiar, drawing me back to the roots of my family. This very land once belonged to my ancestors, who laboured upon its fertile soil—first with plough cows and buffaloes and later with the power of a tractor. Yet, our legacy in this village was not merely one of ownership but of enduring kinship and unwavering ties to the community.

 

As we neared the cobbler’s house, I was accompanied by my maternal nephew, Mukit from Paschim Bari in Narainpur, who belongs to the respected Sheikh Bari clan, alongside the late Choto Miah of the esteemed Shahjir family; Amir Uddin of Syedpur, who had married into the distinguished Chowdhury Bari of Narainpur; and the late Salim of Narainpur, who served as Mukit's bodyguard. It was Mukit who had meticulously arranged this musical gathering in my honour, ensuring that it would be a joyous occasion—one filled with melody, celebration, and cherished camaraderie.

 

When we reached Abu Khali, the cobbler, noticing our presence, asked Mukit where we were heading. "Buraiya," came the reply. It was then that I realised that they had kept the destination a surprise. I asked Mukit, "What’s my connection there?" After all, Buraiya was a place well-known to my family, and the people there were familiar with our history.

 

The Shaharpara School Bari—the "schoolhouse"—had once owned a substantial portion of land in Buraiya, the very land upon which we now walked. I was reminded of the land's history, how it had been passed down through generations, from my ancestors who had cultivated it with plough cows and later tractors. Some of the land had been purchased from Nondho Babu of Patkura, the zamindar of the area. My family had also been involved in a difficult period of local unrest in 1978, after the death of my younger uncle, Mohammad Abdur Rouf Kamali. 

 

My elder cousin, Ashraf Hussain Kamali, fired two successive rounds of pellet ammunition, injuring four policemen of Jagannathpur and one bandit from Chunarughat of Habiganj. Wounded and overpowered, they had no choice but to surrender. The cartridges used were designed for bird hunting, meant to injure rather than kill. Alongside my paternal cousin Ashraf, Alta Hussain Kamali was also present at the scene. He was both my maternal cousin through my aunt and my paternal relative, as we shared the same great-grandfather—Shah Hajir Mohammad, the only son of Shah Mohammad Fazil. 

 

As the sound of gunfire echoed through the night, villagers and people from the nearby Shaharpara Bazar rushed to the scene. The injured men were taken hostage by the enraged crowd, who administered basic first aid while deciding their fate.

 

At that time, under the martial law of President Ziaur Rahman, banditry was rampant, often orchestrated in collusion with corrupt policemen. This was the first instance where such criminals were caught red-handed just past midnight. The villagers, long tormented by the police-bandit alliance, were so consumed with fury that some even proposed forcing them to drink their own urine as a lesson in humiliation. When reinforcements arrived, the police attempted to reclaim their wounded men, but the villagers refused to hand them over.

 

The situation grew more complicated when it was revealed that the gun used belonged to my uncle, Abdur Rouf Kamali, though it had been fired by his elder son, Ashraf Hussain Kamali. My uncle passed away on the 2nd of February 1978, and a Shinni (a traditional feast) was planned to commemorate the 40th day of his passing. However, unforeseen events completely overshadowed the occasion. Mohammad Abdur Rouf Kamali (10 August 1913- 2 February 1978) was a former chairman of Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad during the end of East Pakistan rule.

 

Eventually, with the intervention of mediators and influential bureaucrats, the police managed to retrieve their men. However, as an immediate repercussion, they confiscated the gun from my uncle’s residence. In an attempt to shield Ashraf Hussain Kamali—who was a British citizen and the family’s primary financial supporter—the family strategically shifted responsibility onto Rafique Hussain Kamali (Manik), the second son of the chairman. Although he had not fired the weapon, a case was filed against him instead. The fear was that if Ashraf were prosecuted, the border authorities would revoke his travel rights, and the government might seize his passport pending trial.

This is how the story surrounding Rafiqul Hussain Kamali became widely known. In reality, the police records listed him as the third accused. His nickname, Manik, was used only by his respected father during his lifetime. Later, he was driven into internal exile, living in different parts of his own country before leaving for abroad. He travelled extensively through India, Burma (now Myanmar), Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia. Among these countries, he spent the longest period in Malaysia, while his time in Indonesia consisted of shorter visits. He eventually settled in Sweden, where he became widely known as Manique and was granted permanent residence.

 

According to the police records, the accused were:

 

1. Altaf Hussain Kamali
2. Ashraf Hussain Kamali
3. Rafiqul Hussain Kamali (Manik)

Enraged by their humiliation, the police harboured a deep-seated grudge against School Bari (the family homestead) and the people of Shaharpara. A campaign of harassment ensued, forcing villagers into hiding at the homes of relatives. Meanwhile, amid the turmoil, peasant families seized the opportunity to move into Buraiya, claiming land for settlement. My father, my uncle, and my paternal aunt—the mother of Altaf Hussain Kamali and Al-Haq Hussain Kamaly—had constructed three raised housing foundation areas near their paddy fields in the west to accommodate cattle, buffaloes, and farmworkers. These raised grounds were soon occupied by landless peasants who settled there permanently.

 

Recognising their hardship, my family later decided not to claim ownership of the land, including the adjacent paddy fields. Today, their descendants continue to live there peacefully. The esteemed School Bari family of Rasulpur Mouza, Greater Shaharpara, and West Tilak Master Bari never sought to reclaim the land, understanding that these peasant families had nowhere else to go. It was an unspoken act of generosity—one that ensured their survival and granted them the dignity of a home.

But as I walked that night, I couldn’t help but reflect on the past, on the pride my family once had in their land, now far removed from the present moment. Mukit, perhaps sensing my thoughts, responded to my question about my identity in Buraiya with a simple reply, "You must be from Nayabandar, working in Chittagong, here for vacation." It was an odd feeling, hiding the true extent of my connection to the land and people around me.

 

Suddenly, as we were in the middle of the paddy fields of Pifrabon, something extraordinary happened. A mysterious light appeared on the unpaved road beside the canal, tracing my every movement. It was the size of a standard tube light, glowing faintly yet distinctly while maintaining its unusual shape—resembling an inverted capital “U” lying on the ground. The rounded part of the “U” was positioned at the top, while the open gap faced downward, mirroring an upside-down letter “U.” The light only illuminated the tube itself, casting no glow beyond its confines. This was no trick of moonlight reflecting off my clothing, nor was it a mere illusion. It was real—an otherworldly light, moving with uncanny precision, as if guided by an unseen force.

 

I wasn’t sure if anyone else could see it, but Mukit’s voice broke the silence: ‘Stop. The light is following us.’ We all paused, and Mukit asked each companion to move accordingly. As everyone did, the light stayed with us. When I resumed walking cautiously, everyone noticed that the light moved with me—perfectly in sync, as if connected by some invisible force. When I jumped, it jumped; when I ran, it ran with me; when I stretched my arms or legs, it mimicked me, keeping me at its core. Whether I moved faster or slower, it did the same, perfectly in sync with every shift. It was as if the light had taken the shape of a U, glowing white on the ground beneath me—an ethereal presence that was both wondrous and unnerving.

 

I tried to touch it, but no matter how close I came, I couldn’t. The light remained just inches beyond my reach, precise in its movements, staying focused on me as though it had a mind of its own. Mukit and the others attempted to approach, but as they did, the light fell upon their bodies, the size of a normal tube light, otherwise remaining on the ground, keeping me at its centre. The light seemed to originate from a celestial body, for when Mukit and his guard neared me, it cast itself upon them. I thought of my grave and felt trapped in a two-dimensional cage of light, but it didn’t feel threatening—only mysterious. 

 

It held me in the centre—

not with hands, not with force,

but with an invisible tether that bound it to my being.

With each step I took, it mirrored me—flawlessly, eerily—

as though it were reading my breath,

echoing my very pulse.

It made no sound, cast no shadow,

yet its presence was undeniable—

a silent sentinel of light,

gliding beside me as if it had known me long before that night.

Seamless. Sentient. Unbound by anything earthly.

It didn’t simply follow me—

it claimed me,

without words,

without permission,

without leaving a trace.

Time seemed to stretch as I stood in the midst of this strange, otherworldly light. The light continued to follow my every move, its shape a rounded arch, like the top of a double door. I was surrounded by it, yet unable to touch it—an experience both captivating and disorienting. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished. We were nearing our destination, the party in Buraiya, and in the blink of an eye, the light was gone. No fading, no trace—it simply ceased to exist. The extraterrestrial light stayed with me for more than ten minutes, and I enjoyed its presence without fear, knowing that I was surrounded by my companions.

 

The rest of the evening passed without incident, but that encounter with the extraterrestrial light lingered in my mind, unanswered and mysterious. Was it a visitation from another world? A natural phenomenon? Or something far more profound, an experience beyond our understanding? Even now, as the years pass, the memory of that night continues to puzzle and fascinate me.

 

Some mysteries, I have come to realise, are meant to remain unsolved. The ex-terrestrial light that followed me that night serves as a reminder that there are forces in the universe beyond our comprehension—mysteries that exist not only beyond our understanding but also beyond the very limits of our perception. 

 

The villagers often spoke of encounters with such lights near the fields, where they worked long hours before returning home in the moonlight. Some believed these lights were spirits watching over their land, their lineage.

 

But why me? Why on that night?

 

Had my ancestors from School Bari of Shaharpara or Master Bari of West Tilak returned in some unknown form? Had the land itself—once cultivated by my family—responded to my presence, revealing a glimpse of something beyond human sight?

 

Or was it, perhaps, a test?

 

Many folktales speak of travellers encountering supernatural lights that react to their emotions—those who panic may be lost forever, while those who remain calm might receive hidden knowledge or, at the very least, be left unharmed. I had not run. I had not feared it. I had observed it, and it had mirrored me, then disappeared.

 

Even today, when I think of that moment, I feel a strange connection—not just to that mysterious light, but to the countless generations before me who may have witnessed the same phenomenon in silence, accepting it as part of the great unknown.

Eyewitness Parallels: Historical Accounts of Mysterious Moving Lights

 

What I experienced that night was not unique. Throughout history and across cultures, others have witnessed similar phenomena—lights that moved in impossible ways, lights that seemed to possess intelligence.

 

1. The "Companion Light" of Bengal (1905)  

In a remote village in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), a farmer named Hafizuddin Ahmed recounted seeing a glowing arch-like light on a dirt path at midnight as he returned from his fields. The light moved with him, staying precisely in the centre of his movements. His fellow villagers called it "Shondhya Dhor"—the Twilight Companion, a spirit that guided or tested travellers.

 

2. The Moving Light of Rendlesham Forest (1980) 

During the famous Rendlesham Forest UFO incident, U.S. Air Force personnel encountered a floating metallic light that reacted to their movements. One soldier, Jim Penniston, reported that the light mimicked his steps and even pulsed in response to his breathing. His account closely mirrors my experience with the U-shaped light that followed me with absolute precision.

3. Extraterrestrial or Paranormal Connection

Many UFO or extraterrestrial light sightings report structured, metallic-looking glowing objects—sometimes forming U-shaped or arch-like patterns on the ground. This closely mirrors my own experience, as I observed similar U-shaped or arch-like patterns on the ground and found myself precisely in the centre of them. Whenever I moved, the pattern seemed to move with me, continuously keeping me in the middle.

 

4. The Mexican Desert Incident (1954)  

A traveller crossing the desert near Chihuahua, Mexico, saw an arch of light materialise around him. When he walked, it moved; when he ran, it ran. He described it as “a tunnel of light that seemed to carry me with it, as if I had become weightless.” He later discovered strange burn marks on the ground where the light had been.

5.⁠ ⁠The Djinn’s Arch (Middle Eastern Mythology)

In Islamic and Middle Eastern traditions, Djinn are often believed to be beings made of smokeless fire, capable of influencing the world in ways unseen by humans. The glowing U-shaped or arch-like lights are sometimes seen as physical manifestations of their presence, serving as gateways or portals. These lights might be viewed as temporary bridges between different realms or dimensions, allowing the Djinn to travel or communicate. Such lights are often described as fleeting, appearing just long enough to suggest a powerful and mysterious force at work.

 

6.⁠ ⁠The Sky Ladder (Native American & Mesoamerican Mythology)

In Native American and Mesoamerican belief systems, celestial bridges made of light are often seen as pathways connecting the spiritual and physical worlds. These glowing archways or ladders are symbolic of access to higher realms or divine beings, often appearing in moments of spiritual significance or preparation for a vision quest. These lights are typically seen before important journeys or contact with ancestors, gods, or celestial beings, marking them as sacred and transformative experiences.

 

Scientific or Supernatural? Possible Theories

 

Could the U-shaped light that followed me be explained by science? Or was it something beyond human comprehension?

 

1. A Natural Electromagnetic Anomaly?  

Some researchers speculate that such lights could be the result of geophysical energy fields reacting to human bioelectric activity. Certain locations, particularly near underground metal deposits or tectonic faults, are known to emit plasma-like energy fields. Could this have been an interaction between my body’s electrical signals and a natural energy formation?

 

2. A Conscious Entity?  

The way the light moved with me, adjusting to my actions, suggests it wasn’t a random energy field. It reacted too precisely, almost as though it possessed intelligence—or was at least programmed to behave in a particular manner. Could it have been a presence, an unknown force observing or testing me?

 

3. An Interdimensional Glitch?  

Some theorists propose that such lights are glimpses into alternate dimensions or parallel realities. What if the U-shaped glow was a temporary overlap between two realms, with me unknowingly trapped at its centre?

 

The Moment It Vanished

 

And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

 

As we neared our destination—Buraiya village, where the musical gathering awaited us—the U-shaped light disappeared in the blink of an eye. No fading. No gradual dissipation. One second, it was there—moving with me, surrounding me—and the next, it ceased to exist.

 

Had I stepped out of its influence?  

Had it been watching me, waiting for a sign?  

Had I unknowingly passed some kind of cosmic test?

 

To this day, I don’t know.

 

Final Thoughts: A Mystery That Remains Unsolved

 

This U-shaped light that moved with me defied all logic and explanation. It was not merely a passive phenomenon—it engaged with me, responding to my movements in a manner no ordinary occurrence should.

 

I have carried this mystery with me for years. I have searched for answers in folklore, science, and the paranormal, yet the truth remains elusive.

 

Perhaps some things are simply not meant to be explained.

 

Perhaps this experience was a glimpse into something beyond our understanding—something waiting just beyond the veil of reality.

 

And perhaps, one day, the U-shaped light will return.

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