JustUtter 2Min Horror Stories: A Horror 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...

     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 forgotten summer of 2001, the village of Mangalajodi held its breath every nightfall. A towering banyan tree, known only as "the cursed root," loomed at the village's edge. Locals whispered that a possessed girl, a child of unholy rage, had once slaughtered 21 souls beneath its shade, just days before Dussehra. Since then, no sane being dared near it after sunset. Except for one — Mr. Raghunath Pradhan, the newly transferred physics teacher at the village school. Skeptical of village superstitions, Raghunath believed only in the laws of nature. One evening, after a late extra class for his senior students, he decided to cut across the fields, past the haunted tree, to save time. As he neared the Mangalajodi Tree, the air thickened. His flashlight flickered. A low humming filled his ears, growing louder with every step. Suddenly, a shriek — bone-chilling and blood-curdling — tore through the night. Frozen, Raghunath watched in horror as a figure emerged from the hol...