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 crouche...
This site comprises of "2minhorrorstories", true experiences of horror, supernatural, dark magic experienced by individuals like you and me, in and around rural areas. Short Stories narrated by your grandparents, your parents, your uncle, your distant cousin, your hostel warden, your building's security guard, your childhood friends, while standing in the parking lot, while covered in warm quilt during a cold winter night, or while drinking warm tea standing in the corner of the market street.