Juta-Khuwa Bhoot: The Shoe-Eating Ghost of Assam You’ve Never Heard Of

It was a long and humid night at the old transport house in Sreemantapur, the kind where the sweat dries only to return, as men heaved cargo onto rumbling trucks. Among them was Hari, a lanky, quiet worker known for never missing a shift. He had a routine—load, whistle, tea, repeat. But that night, his routine broke.

The toilet inside the transport building was locked—again. So, with a shrug and a mumble, Hari stepped out barefoot, careful to avoid the gravel. The back alley behind the building, where the bamboo groves loomed and the air turned cool and strange, was always unnerving. But he had gone there before.

As he squatted near a bush, a sound sliced through the silence. It wasn’t a bark or a rustle—it was a crunch. Wet. Hollow. As if something was chewing on dry bone. Then came a low growl, guttural and odd, followed by the unmistakable smell of polish and leather burning in damp air.

“Dog?” Hari whispered, peeking toward the corner.

What he saw was no dog.

It crouched near the old stone wall—long-limbed, hunched, and dressed in what looked like shredded white cotton that moved like fog. Its mouth—wider than human—was biting into a leather boot with ferocity. Not eating, but savoring. And from the pile next to it, it had already feasted on at least three pairs. Some still had socks in them.

Hari blinked. And the figure turned.

Its eyes weren’t eyes. Just black holes that sucked the light. Then, with a motion so fast and unnatural it seemed to rewind time, the thing leapt up the bamboo tree—and vanished into the canopy like a hawk made of smoke.

Hari didn’t scream. He couldn’t.

He ran. Barefoot. His slippers—he couldn’t remember when he kicked them off—were gone.

By the time he reached his cycle, his feet were cut and bleeding, but his heart was louder than pain. He pedaled hard, shirt flapping like a flag of retreat.

They say the Juta-Khuwa Bhoot—the ghost that feeds on the scent of sweat-soaked shoes—was once a cobbler who died penniless, his soul cursed to roam, devouring what he once lovingly crafted.

Now, no one leaves their shoes outside at Sreemantapur.

Not even for a minute

*Inspirational story about a horror folklore creature famous in Assam, seems to have an affinity towards shoes.

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