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

The rain was relentless the day they moved back. Arjun had vowed never to return to the old house on Dey Lane—a crumbling two-story with ivy choking its stone walls, and windows that creaked even without the wind. But life had turned, and with a toddler in tow, fleeing city chaos, the family needed refuge. Two-year-old Veer took to the place oddly fast. By the second night, he was giggling in corners. “Baba, Nandini Mausi plays hide and seek!” Arjun froze. Nandini. A name buried like glass in memory—his childhood friend, the girl with short brown hair and muddy feet, who vanished the night of the village fair. A night soaked in panic, sirens, and whispered prayers. He was thirteen. No one ever found her. "The Paperboat Girl" A boy played in silence, where laughter once echoed. She taught him to fold dreams— paperboats, afloat on muddy puddles. Water slipped through the cracks, just like her promises. He waited. One boat. Two. Until the puddles dried. She never cam...

   The snow hadn't fully melted in their village when it happened. Azaan still echoed through the bare walnut trees of Kunan, but for Abdul Rahim, the world had gone silent since that February night in 1991. His daughter, Inaya, was only seventeen. Bright. Spirited. She used to fold her dupatta over her hair like her mother did and laughed while chasing hens in the backyard. That morning, she had helped her Ammi make noon chai and told her father she had dreamt of rain. She never mentioned the soldiers.     When the men were locked inside the cowshed, and the women left vulnerable in their own homes, something in Abdul Rahim broke. He kicked the wooden door till his feet bled, screamed like a madman. But the snow muffled everything.   By dawn, silence replaced what was once their life. Inaya’s bruises spoke stories she never could. Her voice was never heard again.   The villagers buried their shame quietly. No police came. No justice followed. B...

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...

     In the winter of 1949, the snow in rural Connecticut didn’t fall—it settled. Like dust on forgotten things. My grandfather used to say that the dead slept better when the ground was too frozen to dig. And that year, the cold came early and stayed with a vengeance. Back then, when a person passed in winter, the cemetery didn’t bury them right away. Hydraulic machines weren’t around, so graves were dug by hand. And once the frost sunk its teeth into the soil, that was the end of any digging until spring. The bodies would be stored in a stone vault near the woods at the edge of the cemetery—rows of silent guests waiting for their final appointment with the earth. The vault needed guarding. Not from wolves or the cold, but from the living. Body snatchers still roamed then—doctors in need of cadavers, occultists with strange ideas, and other shadows you didn’t speak of in polite company. The town hired a night watchman. A man named Red Clemens. Red was a veter...

In the bustling chaos of Delhi, a struggling couple—Jyoti and Ankit—bought a second-hand fridge late at night from a shady tent-shop. No receipt, no questions, just Rs. 11,000 cash. The seller’s chilling words: “No returns. And be careful.” From the moment the fridge entered their home, things turned strange. Their calm neighborhood dog barked furiously. Their pet cat was found dead—eyes bulging, tongue out. Food began to vanish mysteriously, especially meat. At night, strange chewing sounds echoed from the kitchen. Jyoti had a nightmare—of a headless girl staring into the fridge. Soon, Jyoti’s brother-in-law Aarav visited. One night, he screamed. He claimed the fridge handed him a lighter… and inside it, a blood-soaked head had whispered, “Where are your manners?” The final horror? The fridge grew legs. Walked. Dragged itself across the kitchen. Inside—rotting limbs. A woman’s severed head. Calling for their daughter. Read the full story in the upcoming book series of ...

Narrated by my school friend from Carmel Convent School, Rourkela - Sonal Ekka, this story will be published in my coming soon "Bhoota Gappa" series, so this story is on just for tonight, as I launch the trailer of Part 3 of "Bhoota Gappa" JustUtter Horror Series. This incident happened to my Dadi (grandmother), years ago, in our village near Rajgangpur. One evening, she had gone to visit a friend in a neighboring part of the village. It was already a bit late by the time she was returning. In our village, there's an old belief: never shout or say goodbye loudly after dusk. Especially phrases like “I’ll come visit you again” or “Let’s meet again soon”—it’s said that spirits listen, and they accept the invitation. As she left, her friend, being casual and cheerful, shouted after her: “I’ll come visit you next time at your place!” And my grandmother, smiling, replied back: “Yes, do come!” That night, everything seemed normal. There was no electricity back then, on...

   "Where curses were cast… and one soul was spared.." “Beta,” the old man said, his eyes never leaving the old well, “you’ve heard tales that we vanished out of fear. But that’s only part of the truth. We didn’t run. We cursed.” The girl clutched her shawl tighter. The red moon loomed overhead like a silent omen. “Salim Singh,” he whispered, “was no man. He was a leech—power-hungry, wicked, obsessed with the chief’s daughter. When we refused to hand her over, he threatened to return with swords and soldiers.” That’s when the village elders made a decision. “We’d rather burn than bow.” The Brahmins gathered that night. They drew circles in the dirt, chanted forgotten names, and opened something no man should ever open. A dark portal, fed by their fury, their heartbreak, their rage. “And we trapped him in it,” the old man said, voice cracking. “His body twisted. His face melted into shadow. But he didn’t go down alone…” The magic backfired. The land itself began to...