 |
| Bhanvra Gaon's entrance |
They say some places are better left forgotten. Hidden deep within the Sahyadri ranges in India was a village that didn’t appear on any map. Locals referred to it as “Bhanvra Gaon,” a name whispered only during eclipses and storms. I was foolish enough to search for it.
As a travel blogger chasing the thrill of mystery, I ignored the warnings. The idea of discovering a haunted village was irresistible. Legends spoke of villagers who vanished overnight and trees that bled when cut. I dismissed these as folklore—until I saw it myself.
I started my trek with Ravi, a seasoned guide familiar with forest trails. The air thickened as we moved deeper, and birdsong gave way to eerie silence. The trees were ancient and tangled, casting long shadows even at noon.
“Don’t leave the trail,” Ravi warned, his tone serious. “People who stray don’t return the same… if they return at all.”
I laughed nervously. “Ghost stories to scare tourists?”
He didn’t smile. That should have been my first clue.
The First Sign
By evening, a dense fog rolled in, and Ravi’s GPS stopped working. “It’s never done this before,” he mumbled, clearly shaken.
That’s when we saw it—the entrance to a village, hidden behind thick brush and nearly consumed by vines. The signboard read “Bhanvra Gaon,” faded and hanging by a single rusted nail.
The houses were abandoned, but not decayed. Everything was frozen in time—a dinner table half-set, clothes drying on lines, a swing moving slightly as if someone had just left. The stillness was too perfect.
“I don’t like this,” Ravi whispered. “Let’s leave.”
But I was already inside the main square, camera in hand.
The Night Falls
We camped just outside one of the homes. At night, the wind carried whispers—not the rustle of leaves or animals, but unmistakably human murmurs. When I stepped outside the tent, the fog had thickened, and silhouettes of people stood across the square.
“Ravi,” I called out, but he was gone.
Panic set in. I ran through the fog, blindly following the voices. A woman in a red saree appeared by the old well. Her back was turned. Something about her presence made my skin crawl.
 |
| A woman in a red saree by the old well |
“Excuse me!” I called.
She turned slowly. Her eyes were hollow, mouth sewn shut with black thread. Blood dripped from the corners of her lips. My legs refused to move.
She pointed toward the woods.
I ran.
The Woods Speak
The forest was alive with ghostly whispers. Trees bent unnaturally, as if watching me. I saw shadows darting between trunks, and laughter—childlike and cruel—echoed through the branches.
Then I found Ravi.
He was standing still, eyes rolled back, muttering, “They see you now… they see you.”
I shook him. “Snap out of it!”
He turned to me with a twisted smile and whispered, “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s not just haunted… it’s hungry.”
The Forgotten Curse
I stumbled back into the village square. Everything had changed.
Now the buildings were in ruins, scorched and collapsed, as if ravaged by fire. The swing was no longer swaying—it was burning. Ash rained from the sky. Time had warped.
A diary lay open on the ground, pages fluttering in the unnatural wind. It belonged to the village priest. The entries spoke of a ritual gone wrong, a forbidden practice to summon prosperity. Instead, they summoned something else. A spirit born of the forest, feeding on fear and memory.
The villagers had tried to undo the curse by sacrificing one family every eclipse. It wasn’t enough. So they vanished—absorbed by the very woods they once worshipped.
Now, the spirit needed new stories, new souls to trap.
Escape or Illusion?
I ran.
I don’t remember how I got out, but I awoke two days later at a roadside tea stall. My camera was gone. Ravi was never found. The police believed I imagined it all.
But something followed me back.
My dreams are plagued with whispers. My house plants wilt. My reflection sometimes… doesn’t move.
And this morning, I found a photo on my phone I never took.
It’s a picture of the woman in red, standing at the edge of my bed.
Final Thoughts
If you ever hear about Bhanvra Gaon, let it remain forgotten. Not all places are meant to be explored. Some stories exist not to be told, but to be escaped from.
Comments
Post a Comment
If you have any doubts or suggession let me know.