eerie encounters
Slapped by the Unseen
Slapped by the Unseen
Slapped by the Unseen
Read this spine-chilling real story of a college student’s haunted bike ride on Bhubaneswar’s infamous Road—where unseen forces are said to target lone male travelers at night.
The Pull From Beyond
Slapped by the Unseen
Slapped by the Unseen
Pull from Beyond is a story about a group of girls headed to a friend’s house down a dark by lane—until an unseen force pulls one of them towards a secluded stretch of land. Return here for this gripping true story of unseen forces that don’t wait for permission!
Unseen at Rakha Mines
Slapped by the Unseen
Whispers on the Hostel Terrace
Delve into the eerie and mysterious tale of Rakha Mines Station, where unexplained events and local legends blend into a chilling narrative.
Whispers on the Hostel Terrace
Whispers on the Hostel Terrace
Read the chilling real story of a haunted hostel terrace in Vadodara—where shadows whispered names and left students terrified. Dare to enter?
What the Ouija Awoke
What the Ouija Awoke
A chilling real-life hostel experience with a handmade Ouija board in Vadodara, India. What started as fun turned into an eerie encounter that lingers till date.
The Shortcut
What the Ouija Awoke
A chilling true story from the 1980s Kharagpur Railway Colony—what began as a harmless shortcut turned into a decades-old mystery involving a smiling stranger, a mother’s growing unease and a child who saw what no one else could.
slapped by the unseen
Read This Spooky Chilling Folklore of Sainik School Road
For decades the Sainik school road in Khurda area of Bhubaneshwar had earned itself a spooky reputation particularly among men. When Abhishek had joined an engineering college in early 2001, it was his turn to learn about this haunted road. Coming from Balasore, Bhubaneshwar was not just a newer and bigger place but it suddenly opened up possibilities for him- largely of exploring newer areas, hanging out late in the night at friends’ places and enjoying a late night snack. All these had been forbidden in his 18 years of life when he had to play the role of an obedient son, who the entire family doted upon. He was dropped off to school, to tuition classes, his father would accompany him for his football coaching classes and his mother’s life revolved around cooking up the healthiest meal for Abhishek.
Within a day of being dropped at his hostel, Abhishek had started exploring all that Bhubaneshwar’s college life had to offer. Soon he had a group of close buddies who would hang out together after college hours. This particular Thursday night, he had been alone in his room after coming back from college. Unable to concentrate on studies, he closed his books. He realized that time was moving rather slowly this evening. He lazed around and at 8.30 went to the hostel canteen to have dinner. He was startled not to find any of his newly made friends at the canteen. Two decades back mobile phones were still a rarity and although he had one, none of his friends had mobile phones.
Giving up on the idea of finding them, he went back to his room and prepared to get into the bed early. And then, his phone finally rang. Three of his newly made friends had made a plan to spend the night at Manikanta’s house, near the Mancheswar railway station.
He had a good one hour bike travel ahead of him and the Khurda road was pretty empty and dark. not a soul was in sight but Abhishek was enjoying the cool breeze swishing past him making the ride even more enjoyable. He sang on top of his voice- the 80s hit Bollywood song- tumse milne ki tammana hai- and remained happily lost in his thoughts. He was dreaming about a possible love story that might be awaiting him in his college but a tight slap on his face jolted him awake from his dreamland.
He looked around perplexed. Who could slap him when he was riding a bike and why? But when he saw all around there was nothing except the eerie silence. The road too was dark except for an occasional streetlight after 500 meters. He accelerated his bike, sensing trouble and then it happened again. This time the slap was harder and he couldnt hear his own scream for a while. He rushed through the stretch accelerating futher and finally reached Manikanta’s house with a red face.
There he narrated his experience and all the boys said in a single voice, you should never take that road at night. Many men have had similar experiences on that stretch. It is said that decades back, the road was a secluded one and occasional cases of a woman’s body being dumped their by murdered, rapists had come to light. While this was hearsay, many instances of boys and men having similar experiences is local forklore now.
Whispers on the Hostel Terrace
A Girl's Hostel Story That Will Give You Chills
Like most Indian hostels, the girl’s hostel in Vadodara carried its own share of haunted stories and eerie legends. The campus, shaped like a rectangle, had an expansive web of terraces connecting nearly eight buildings. Hidden within this network was a smaller, quieter structure—the research scholars’ block—its secluded terrace accessible only by a narrow staircase from the second floor.
Unlike the livelier terraces, this one remained deserted most of the time. The few research scholars preferred books to banter, leaving the space eerily silent. Overgrown branches cast heavy shadows even in daylight, creating a strange, unsettling darkness. Perfect, perhaps, for thrill-seekers—or those daring enough to sneak in forbidden drinks after hours.
Among them were Shri and Arshi, who often found themselves at this terrace, despite whispered hostel tales of shadows, strange voices and unseen presence. That evening, Shri—frustrated by a streak of bad dates—convinced a friend to procure a bottle of whiskey. By 11:30 pm, after carefully sneaking past other hostelites, she and Arshi spread out their stash of chips, peanuts, disposable glasses and the prized bottle.
Laughter, gossip and the warm haze of alcohol carried them deeper into the night. The campus became quieter and slowly the terrace became more still. It was around 1.30 in the night. After the brief stilness, the wind began to rustle violently through the overhanging trees, their shadows dancing wildly as though demanding attention. Out of the corner of their eyes, the girls noticed a shadow moving across the terrace. Nervous laughter followed—they brushed it off as their imagination.
Until it happened again.
Uneasy, Shri decided it was time to leave. She tried to help Arshi—new to drinking—onto her feet, but Arshi’s legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Panicked, Shri left in haste, urging her friend to somehow make her way back. She had barely reached the door, when she felt a tug at her dress and her name- like someone or something whispered her name. She ran off without looking back. Now Arshi, who alone knew she had to leave too. She staggered as she made her way to the terrace door , her vision spinning Then she heard it—a whisper. Her name. Soft, chilling and unmistakably real.
Frozen, she looked around. Dark figures seemed to shift along the walls, shadows that felt too deliberate to be tricks of the night. With every ounce of willpower, she forced herself toward the terrace door, across the connecting platform and down to the lobby staircase. Breathless, terrified, she finally encountered another hostelite who helped her back to her room.
It was only later, when Shri checked on her, that their experiences aligned with terrifying clarity.
Both had seen it.
Both had felt the presence.
And both had heard that whisper—calling their names.
Till today, hostel batches continue to talk about the haunted terrace of Vadodara, where shadows don’t just follow… they call out.
(Names changed on request)
The Pull From Beyond
The Pull from Beyond: A Strange Spooky Evening
It was the height of Durga Puja nearly two decades back—streets glowing with festive lights, the air heavy with the scent of incense, food stalls and Bollywood songs echoing through every corner of West Bengal. On one such celebratory Tuesday night, while the elders took a break after days of pandal hopping, Sumitra and three of her tuition friends decided to continue exploring on their own.
The plan was simple. The girls would meet at a common spot by 5:30 PM and walk over to Deepika’s house before visiting the nearby pandals. The festive atmosphere gave them a sense of safety. People filled every galli and crossing and light spilled onto the roads from every direction.
Surabhi stood out that evening. Her long hair flowed freely. Under the streetlights, she looked almost ethereal. As the trio made their way to Deepika’s place, they entered a dark, narrow bylane that led past a deserted field with an old, towering tree in the distance.
That’s when it happened.
Surabhi suddenly stopped. Her eyes were fixed on the tree, her expression vacant yet oddly serene. “You go ahead,” she said softly. “I need to go there.”
The others froze. “Where? Why?” they asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied, her gaze locked on the moonlit field. “It’s calling me. I just need to be there... just once.”
The girls panicked.
The field she pointed to was known to house an old graveyard, a place avoided even during the day.
Surabhi however seemed entranced, as if another world was pulling her in—one invisible to everyone else.
They tugged at her arm, pleaded with her, tried to talk sense into her—but Surabhi resisted, her steps slow yet determined.
It felt as if she was sleepwalking into the unknown.
That’s when one of the girls remembered something her mother had once said:
“Never leave your hair open near graveyards or old trees—they attract spirits.”
Without wasting a second, they pulled Surabhi back, grabbed metal hair clips from their own heads and tied her long hair into a rough bun. With trembling hands and racing hearts, they held her and began pulling her away with all their strength.
It took several agonizing minutes.
Then suddenly, the light returned to Surabhi’s eyes. She blinked, confused. “What happened? Why are you crying?” she asked, looking at Sumitra.
“You were walking toward the graveyard,” Sumitra said, her voice shaking. “You said something was calling you.”
Surabhi looked back at the moonlit field, then down at her hands. A wistful expression crossed her face.
“It felt... familiar somehow. Like something precious was waiting there. I can’t explain it—it was beautiful and sad all at once.”
None of them felt up to visiting Deepika after that. They went instead to the nearest pandal, trying to lose themselves in the crowded celebrations, hoping the lights and drumming would drown out their lingering dread.
But the question haunted them all night-What had called to Surabhi that evening—and why her?
To this day, Surabhi remembers the pull vividly. A force powerful, tender, almost divine—one that made no sense, yet felt achingly real.
She doesn’t know what lay beneath that ancient tree, or what might have happened had she stepped into the moonlit field.
Sometimes she wonders—could it have been something dark?
Or perhaps, something tragically beautiful that still waits, whispering her name through the rustling leaves.
The Shortcut- A true chilling mystery
The Shortcut That Changed Everything: A real life Mystery from a Railway Colony nestled in old time
In a modest government housing colony, surrounded by quiet roads and sparse midday activity, a young mother of three- Sheela- lived a routine life back in the 1980s. Each day after finishing her morning chores, she would walk to her younger child's nursery to bring him back home . Her route was usually predictable — until she began taking a new found shortcut that cut across the infamous Railway Garden in Kharagpur, in West Bengal.
The garden was an expanse of wilderness beyond the neatly grown flowers along the only road cutting across it length. The garden was known for its eerie reputation, especially at night.
Locals had whispered stories of shadowy figures following men who took the road back from work late at night. To Sheela however , it was simply a time saver — a quicker way to reach her child and return back home before the sun turned too harsh.
One afternoon, while walking the secluded stretch, she began to feel a strange discomfort — a quiet unease, as if someone was watching her. She turned around.
A strange man stood some distance away.
He wore a smile — not an overtly threatening one but unsettling in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She looked away and kept walking- her pace quickening.
Each time she glanced back, he was there. His smile seemed to deepen with each glance. The fourth time she looked back in quick succession, he was not there as if disappearing in thin air. Then when he looked to the front- she gasped on seeing him ahead of her. Finally at a turn on the road, he disappeared.
Relieved, she rushed to the nursery and went about her day as usual
Over the next few days, she chose different routes trying to avoid the stretch altogether. But occasionally, out of necessity, she found herself back on that same path. The man never reappeared during those walks.
Then, ten days later, while cooking in her third-floor kitchen, the feeling returned.
She paused. That same unease — quiet, steady — settled over her again.
Drawn by instinct more than reason she moved to shut the window. That’s when she saw him.
He was standing on the road below, looking up. The same face. The same unreadable, slightly curved smile. She stepped back and moved to the next window. When she looked again, the road was empty.
In the days that followed, the sensation occasionally returned — brief, untraceable. She began asking her husband and children to look out the window when she felt it. They never saw anything unusual.
Sheela started wondering if it was something imagined — stress, fatigue or simply an echo of the strange afternoon on the shortcut. With time, she tried to dismiss it.
Then, one afternoon, her younger child — just five years old — paused during play and turned toward the kitchen.
“Someone is looking up here from the road,” the child said, uneasy.
She gently asked him to close the window.
The child went up to the window.
A few moments passed in silence.
Then he said- “He’s there. He’s smiling.”
What the OUIJA AWOKE
The Board Shouldn’t Have Been Made- A Real Ouija Board Encounter in Vadodara
Back in 2005, when Ouija boards were virtually unknown in India, six hostel students in Vadodara decided to create one out of sheer curiosity—and boredom. One winter night, after a failed group study session, the group began sharing ghost stories. That’s when Shekhar, one of the more imaginative students, recalled a strange incident from his school hostel days in Bangalore. Inspired—or perhaps haunted—by that memory, he suggested making their own Ouija board.
Using a rough sheet of paper, pen and a one-rupee coin, Shekhar assembled the board. “Everyone has to keep a finger on the coin, focus on the candlelight and no one should push,” he instructed.
The plan was simple: call upon a spirit and see what unfolds.
What happened next would remain etched in their memories.
As they sat in the dim glow of a single candle, fingers gently placed on the coin, a faint movement was felt. Accusations flew—Ravi blamed Vikas and Sunny scolded Ram. But as each one swore they weren’t responsible, the coin began spinning.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Round and round.
I am not doing this- all said simultaneously, making it loud and clear.
An eerie silence fell over the room.
“Shekhar, what is happening,” asked Sunny and Shekhar asked out aloud- “Who is this?”
The coin glided letter to letter: Z A F A R.
The name echoed in the silence. In Gujarat, ‘Zafar’ quickly became ‘Zafar Bhai’.
But what started as thrill gave way to dread. The coin spun wildly again and the group sensed agitation. Vikas started chanting prayers, while Sunny began panicking.
Shekhar, trying to control the situation, ended the session abruptly—throwing the coin to the floor and tearing up the board. He was afraid if Sunny became hysterical, the word would reach the warden, leading to serious consequences for playing Ouija in the hostel.
The chain of his thoughts was broken with the sound of the coin which now continued to spin-on the floor-In the dark.
Two students fled the room and didn’t return that night. Others left too one by one, except Ram—since it was his room. Shekhar took the coin of the ground and before leaving, slipped it back into Ram’s cupboard from where it was taken. He returned to his own room down the corridor.
By 1:30 AM, Ram was alone. At 3:00 AM, he was jolted awake by a metallic sound—the unmistakable clink of a coin spinning inside his iron cupboard.
Fear rooted him to his bed. In the morning, he searched through the pile of coins but couldn’t identify the one from the previous night.
Over time, the sounds faded. Life returned to normal.
A month later, the other hostel mates came back—with photos of gods and incense sticks—and set up a small altar in the room. No one dared mention Zafar Bhai again.
Until one night.
Ram knocked on Shekhar’s door for their usual late-night chat. But Shekhar wasn’t his usual self. Visibly disturbed, he hesitated before revealing what had been happening.
“Shekhar, what’s wrong?”
“He has been haunting me,” he whispered. “Zafar Bhai. It’s him.”
He explained how his radio had started acting up—turning on and off randomly. Each time, there was a strange static, followed by a muffled voice. One night, out of desperation, he asked aloud, “Is that you, Zafar Bhai?”
The voice answered— a muffled but unmistakable YES.
Since then, the static, the eerie whispers, and the feeling of being watched only grew stronger. Two decades later, Shekhar still occasionally senses a presence.
(All names have been changed on request)
unseen at rakha mines Station
Discover the spine-chilling tale of a young boy at Rakha Mines Station.
It was supposed to be a routine journey.
A young college student from Bhubaneswar had boarded the evening train headed to Ghatshila, planning to visit a friend over the weekend. The gentle hum of the train and a long day of travel lulled him into a deep sleep. But somewhere past midnight, he was jolted awake—disoriented, groggy and unsure of where he was.
The train had slowed. A dimly lit sign outside the window read Rakha Mines.
Still heavy with sleep and confused by the unfamiliar name, he mistook it for Ghatshila. He grabbed his backpack and rushed to the door just in time to jump out before the train picked up speed again, only to realize his mistake as the train vanished into the darkness. It left him alone on the platform.
The station was eerily deserted, wrapped in a thick, unnatural stillness. No vendors. No passengers. Just broken benches, flickering tube lights and the occasional crackle from the overhead speakers—silent except for static.
A cold wind blew across the platform in the December month, carrying with it the smell of metal and earth. In the distance, shadowy trees swayed under the moonlight- the perfect setting inspiring fear. Back in the year 2001 when mobile phones were not a thing yet, he was left with no other option but to wait out the remaining night. It was 1:00 AM and the next train was only at 5.30 am.
He noticed that the platform lights didn’t illuminate past a certain point and from the from that darkness came faint, rhythmic sounds… like footsteps… but out of sync with each other. Slow, dragging footsteps.
That’s when he saw him.
An old man with a limp slowly walked into view from the darkness.
His appearance was sudden, yet strangely calming. He wore a faint smile. His presence was steady, not threatening.
“You don’t see many people get off here this late,” the man said with a quiet chuckle.
Although unsettled, the student was relieved to have company. The man spoke of the town’s industrial past, asked the student about his studies and mentioned that the next train wouldn’t arrive until morning.
“You might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to a bench.
They sat together through the cold hours of the night. Sometimes talking, mostly silent. Oddly, the student felt less scared and more at peace—as if the old man’s presence offered some kind of silent protection.
As the first light of dawn crept over the tracks and a distant whistle announced the station waking up, the student stretched and walked toward a now-open tea stall. He looked around—the old man was gone.
When the student ordered tea, the vendor looked at him with surprise. “You were here all night? Alone?”
“No,” the student replied. “There was an old man here… walked with a limp. Kind fellow. Kept me company.”
The vendor went pale.
“There’s no one like that here,” he said slowly. “But... you’re not the first to see him.”
“What do you mean?” the student asked, confused.
“That platform’s haunted,” the vendor said under his breath. “They say an old railway worker who died here still walks the platform at night… checking on those who lose their way. Most people run when they see him.”
The student stared in stunned silence, still trying to absorb this information. The man who had offered him comfort, conversation—and calm—wasn’t even alive.
And yet…
He hadn’t felt fear.
Only a strange warmth.
Like the spirit wasn’t haunting the station… but guarding it.