JustUtter 2Min Horror Stories: A Horror Book Series "Bhoota Gappa"

ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ଜଟାନୀରେ ଥିବା ମୋ ବନ୍ଧୁଙ୍କ ଘରୁ ଫେରିବା ସମଯ଼ରେ ମୁଁ ରାସ୍ତା ହରାଇଥିଲି। ମୁଁ ମୋ ସାଇକେଲ୍ ଚଳାଇ ଏକ କମ୍ ରକ୍ଷଣାବେକ୍ଷଣ, କାଦୁଅ ରାସ୍ତା ନେଇଥିଲି। ମୁଁ ଦୂରରେ ଏକ ପୁରୁଣା, ଲମ୍ବା ବଟବୃକ୍ଷ ଦେଖିପାରିଲି। ଯେତେବେଳେ ମୁଁ ପାଖରେ ପହଞ୍ଚିଲି, ମୁଁ ଦେଖିଲି ଯେ ଏକ ଖାଲି ଲୁପ୍ ସହିତ ଏକ ଦଉଡ଼ି ଝୁଲୁଛି, ଜୋରରେ ଝୁଲୁଛି ଯେପରି କେହି ଏହାକୁ ନିକଟରେ ବ୍ଯ଼ବହାର କରୁଛନ୍ତି | ଗଛର ଶାଖାଗୁଡ଼ିକ ବହୁତ ମୋଟା ଏବଂ ବୁଦାଳିଆ ଥିଲା | ସୂର୍ଯ୍ଯ଼ାସ୍ତ ପାଖେଇ ଆସୁଥିବା ବେଳେ ଅନ୍ଧାର ମୋ ଆଖିରେ କୌଶଳ ଖେଳିଲା। ମୁଁ ବେଳେବେଳେ ଭାବୁଥିଲି ଯେ ମୁଁ ଶାଖାଗୁଡ଼ିକରେ ମୁହଁ ଦେଖୁଛି, କିନ୍ତୁ ସେଗୁଡ଼ିକୁ ଆଲୋକ ଦ୍ୱାରା ସୃଷ୍ଟି ହୋଇଥିବା ଭ୍ରମ ବୋଲି ପ୍ରତ୍ଯ଼ାଖ୍ଯ଼ାନ କଲି। ହଠାତ୍, ମୁଁ ଅନୁଭବ କଲି ଯେ କେହି ମୋତେ ପଛରୁ ଧରୁଛି। ମୁଁ କାହାକୁ ଦେଖିପାରିଲି ନାହିଁ, କିନ୍ତୁ ଅନୁଭବଟି ବାସ୍ତବ ଥିଲା। ମୁଁ ପବିତ୍ର ମନ୍ତ୍ର ଜପ କରିବା ଆରମ୍ଭ କଲି ଏବଂ ଗତି ବଢ଼େଇଲି। ଯେତେବେଳେ ମୁଁ ପଛକୁ ଚାହିଁଲି, ମୁଁ ଦେଖିଲି କେହି ଜଣେ ଦଉଡ଼ିରେ ଝୁଲୁଛନ୍ତି, ସେମାନଙ୍କର କେଶ ସାଧାରଣ ଅପେକ୍ଷା ଲମ୍ବା, ସିଧାସଳଖ ମୋ ଆଡ଼କୁ ଚାହିଁ ରହିଛନ୍ତି। ଭଯ଼ଭୀତ ହୋଇ ମୁଁ ନିଯ଼ନ୍ତ୍ରଣ ହରାଇ ଦୌଡ଼ିବା ଆରମ୍ଭ କଲି। ମୁଁ ଦେଖିଲି ଜଣେ ବ୍ଯ଼କ୍ତି ଏକ କଳା ଶାଲ ଓଢ଼ୀକୀରି ଠିଆ ହୋଇ ମୋତେ ହାଥ ହଲେଇକି ଡାକୁଚୀ, ଜେମେତି ମୁଁ ପାଖକୁ ଗଲି ଅନୁଭବ କଲି ...

It was the witching hour, 1:00 am, in Raghurajpur, a village famed for the art of pattachitra, when my grandma, along with a fellow villager, embarked on a bone-chilling journey. Their destination: the Kali Puja nearby, but their path, a shortcut through the jungle, was shrouded in an inky blackness, pierced only by their flickering oil lamp. The air hung heavy, thick with the cloying scent of decay and the unsettling silence broken only by the occasional rustle in the unseen undergrowth. Looming ahead, a dilapidated palace, a skeletal silhouette against the starless sky, whispered of a bygone era of opulence. It was here, amidst the crumbling grandeur, that they spotted a flicker of light in the distance. Relief washed over them – perhaps other devotees on their way to the puja. But as they drew closer, a surge of primal terror coursed through their veins. The light emanated not from a fellow pilgrim, but from a creature of nightmare. A monstrous entity, a giant fireball with no eyes,...

The train from Shillong to Kolkata was agonizingly late. Our two families, eight souls in total, including me at thirteen, were crammed into a single taxi at midnight. The driver, a greasy, sweating figure, insisted I move closer. Then, his hand clamped over mine, forcing it onto his damp, fleshy thigh. A slick, repulsive substance oozed beneath my fingers. Bile rose in my throat. I was being violated, exposed in front of my own family, trapped in the suffocating confines of the taxi. As soon as the taxi lurched to a halt, I scrambled into the backseat, my body shaking uncontrollably. Sleep offered no escape. A shadow of shame clung to me, a constant, sickening presence. Then, a ghastly blue light pulsed from the electrical outlet in the room where I lay, shivering beneath a thin sheet. My legs turned to ice. The driver's voice, thick and leering, slithered through the air. I stumbled to the door and opened it. He stood bathed in the eerie blue glow, his eyes fixed on me, a predato...

  When you want to worship, even a mere stone is enough. When you don't even know why to worship, even the holiest temples look like mighty caves with mouths opened to devour the scars of religion. There is a temple called the "Bhootnath Temple" in Guwahati, Assam, India. This temple has special significance for devotees who believe in the power of Lord Shiva to protect and ward off evil spirits. One such monk was called "Narayan." He was a purely devoted soul who spent countless hours inside the temple, praying to Lord Shiva. He used to conduct several religious practices for devotees coming from near and far to receive the Lord's blessings. One day, Narayan was returning home from his daily rituals at the temple when he encountered an unusual sight: a shadow in the form of Lord Shiva following him in the dead of night. After this, he fell severely ill and passed away within a month. With the monk's sudden demise, the temple became lonelier than usual. ...

  In Odisha, and I believe maximum villages or rural cities in India, in the 90s era, when power outages used to be a usual norm. Anytime there was a storm, or a rainy day, in the evenings, the houses had no light, just a candle or an oil lamp amidst a group of family members with kids trying to mimic studying, while they are all distracted by all the insects flying to and fro the candle light. They start asking a question or a two to the elders, after which, storytime is officially triggered. The eldest of the house, starts telling a story of when they were a kid, and were accompanied by a friend or traveling by themselves. The story genre usually was horror, as kids used to be excited as well as curious of things that still remain unexplained. That's when "Bhoota Gappa", or a "Ghost Story", came into existence, where people shared their experiences, in which they encountered something or someone that they couldn't explain but somewhere in their minds it st...

ମୁଁ ଟ୍ରେନ୍ ଷ୍ଟେସନକୁ ଦୌଡ଼ି ଯାଇ ଶେଷ ଲୋକାଲ୍ କୁ ମୋ ଘରକୁ ସକାଳ 2:00 ରେ ଫେରିଲି, ଗ୍ରାହକଙ୍କ ସହ ଏକ ବୈଠକ ବୃଦ୍ଧି ପାଇଥିଲା। ଏହା ପ୍ରାଯ଼ତଃ ଏକ ଖାଲି ଟ୍ରେନ୍ ଥିଲା, ମୋ ଭଳି କିଛି ଯାତ୍ରୀ ବିଳମ୍ବିତ ରାତି ସିଫ୍ଟରୁ ଫେରୁଛନ୍ତି। ମୁମ୍ବାଇର ସବୁଠାରୁ ଭଲ ଅଂଶ ହେଉଛି ଏହା ଅତ୍ଯ଼ନ୍ତ ବିରଳ ଯେ ଆପଣ ସମସ୍ତେ ଏକୁଟିଆ ରହିବେ | ମୁଁ ମୋ ଷ୍ଟେସନକୁ ବାହାରିଲି, ଏବଂ ମୋ ଆପାର୍ଟମେଣ୍ଟ 15-20 ମିନିଟର ପାଦରେ ଥିବାରୁ ଚାଲିବାକୁ ଯୋଜନା କରୁଥିଲି। ବର୍ତ୍ତମାନ ଏହି ସମଯ଼ରେ ଷ୍ଟେସନଟି ପ୍ରାଯ଼ତଃ ଖାଲି ଥିଲା, ମୁଁ ବାହାରକୁ ପାଦ ପକେଇବା ମାତ୍ରେ, ମୁଁ ଏକ ଦୂରର ଚିତ୍କାର ଶୁଣିଲି, ଯାହା ମୋତେ ଚକିତ କରିଦେଇଥିଲା, କାରଣ ଏହା ଏକାସାଙ୍ଗରେ ଏକାଧିକ ମହିଳା ଚିତ୍କାର କରୁଥିବା ପରି ଅନୁଭବ କଲା, ମୁଁ ମୋର ସାହସ ସଂଗ୍ରହ କଲି ଏବଂ ଧୀରେ ଧୀରେ ଚାଲିଗଲି | ପ୍ରତିଦିନ ଷ୍ଟେସନରେ ମୁଁ ରାଧା ନାମକ ମୋର ଟ୍ରାନ୍ସଜେଣ୍ଡର ବନ୍ଧୁଙ୍କୁ ଭେଟିଥିଲି, ସେ ମୁମ୍ବାଇରେ ବର୍ଷା ସମଯ଼ରେ ମୋତେ ସାହାଯ୍ଯ଼ କରିଛନ୍ତି, ବିଦ୍ଯ଼ୁତ୍ ବିଭ୍ରାଟ, ମୁଁ ଯେତେବେଳେ ନୂଆ ଥିଲି ସେତେବେଳେ ଟିକେଟ୍ କାଉଣ୍ଟରକୁ ମୋର ରାସ୍ତା ଖୋଜିବାକୁ ଚେଷ୍ଟା କରୁଥିଲି, ଏବଂ ଏହା ଆମ ମଧ୍ଯ଼ରେ ଏକ ସଂଲଗ୍ନତା ସୃଷ୍ଟି କରିଥିଲା, ସେ ଆସି ମୋତେ ଏକ ଉଷ୍ମ ହସ ସହିତ ସ୍ୱାଗତ କରୁଥିଲେ, ଏବଂ ମୁଁ କାମ କରିବାକୁ ଯେତେ ବିଳମ୍ବ ହେଉନା କାହିଁକି, ମୁଁ ତାଙ୍କୁ 10 ଟଙ୍କାର ନୋ...

A creeping dread clings to me, a shadow not my own, a phantom limb of a forgotten past. It’s not simply following; it’s burrowing into me. I feel its phantom nails raking across my skin, a constant, agonizing itch that no amount of scratching can relieve. It shoves, not with force, but with insidious pressure, a relentless push against my sanity. It’s as if it’s trying to bore through me, to create hollow spaces inside where only its presence can reside. The pain is a constant, gnawing companion. When I try to speak, to beg for understanding, a searing lance of agony pierces my eye, blinding me momentarily. Then comes the whispering campaign, the insidious lies it weaves about me, twisting my past into a monstrous caricature. It whispers that I once pushed someone, a single act twisted into a lifetime of malice. Now, this… thing has returned to repay the debt, to push back, to pinch and torment until I’m a broken husk. It doesn’t just follow; it invades. It drowns me in my ...