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

A Writing initiative that will force you to write without fail. An exercise initiative that will let you take a "writing prompt" and write a complete memory, story or poetry. You get a chance to become JustUtter's writer of the week and get published.  In the land where AI is writing at a faster pace, I still want you guys to compete and write emotionally upheavaling experiences that make the human mass still wanted in this society of isolated circles. "Let's build relationships with strangers, because known folks just don't want to get deeper anymore..." Here is what you need to do, just follow thia framework and write on the given prompts, send it to "misrapratiksha@gmail.com" or DM me "@thoughtswithinnocence" or "JustUtter". Prompts : Read More Of My Writings: Innocent Thoughts: Friendly Addiction Innoce...

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 ...

The storm raged, a relentless battering against the cheap motel that held me captive. My early flight loomed, a cruel promise of dawn I desperately needed the tempest to fulfill. Only then could I stomach the prospect of the greasy spoon down the highway. A sharp rap at my door shattered the tense silence. I flung it open, but the hallway remained empty, swallowed by the storm’s roar. Then, another knock, this time at the window. The rain lashed against the glass, a distorted lens obscuring the source. Through the watery veil, I discerned something pale and thin – a finger, perhaps, pressed against the pane, the rest of the figure a blurred, indistinct mass. Abruptly, the rain ceased, leaving a suffocating stillness in its wake. Driven by a morbid curiosity, I threw on my raincoat and ventured into the hallway. There, crimson droplets marred the faded carpet, a gruesome trail as if some limb had been severed by a brutal, clean cut. I saw the front desk clerk, her face conto...

A bone-chilling draft snaked through the rented flat in Delhi, a stark contrast to the stifling summer heat. The only relief came from the balcony, a narrow concrete ledge overlooking a sight that sent shivers down my spine – a dilapidated house shrouded in an unnatural darkness. It had been abandoned for years, a skeletal silhouette against the dying embers of the city's twilight. One night, returning from a particularly grueling business meeting, I glanced at the house as if compelled by an unseen force. My breath caught in my throat. A young girl, no older than fifteen, stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, her white dress billowing in the non-existent breeze. Panic clawed at my throat. This deserted house, this spectral figure – it couldn't be real. "Who's there?" I croaked, my voice hoarse in the oppressive silence. "What are you doing there?" The words tumbled out, desperate and disjointed. But before I could finish my question, a ...