HALLOWEEN SPECIAL 2025

A Hostel Horror in Bhubaneshwar- Names Changed on Request

It was a little past 1:00 AM in a quiet engineering hostel in Bhubaneshwar.
Five friends — Ananya (name changed), Ritika (name changed), Meenal, Shreya, and Pooja — had gathered in one of the rooms for a late-night study session.

The day had been packed: a morning visit to a nearby botanical garden, lectures through the afternoon, laughter over chai in the canteen, and now, books spread across the floor as the five tried to revise for their upcoming exams.

The ceiling fan hummed lazily, fluorescent light flickering every now and then. Outside, the hostel corridor was dead silent. No footsteps. No voices. Just the kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own breathing.

By 1 AM, exhaustion set in. One by one, the girls decided to call it a night. Meenal, Shreya, and Pooja gathered their books, cracked sleepy jokes, and headed back to their respective rooms.

That left Ananya and Ritika alone in the room. They hadn’t used the washroom. In fact, none of them had.

Just as Ananya zipped her backpack shut, a sharp metallic sound echoed through the room.
Clink… drip… drip… shhhhhhhh.

Both froze. It was coming from the attached washroom. The sound grew louder, like a tap being turned — first halfway, then fully.

Ananya whispered, “Did… did someone go in there?”

Ritika shook her head. The door was locked from the outside, and they hadn’t heard anyone move. They exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier laughter now replaced by silence thick enough to hear the beating of their hearts.

They knocked.
No answer.

They knocked again, louder.
Still nothing.

Thinking one of their friends might’ve played a prank, Ananya grabbed her phone and called Meenal.
Meenal picked up on the second ring, her voice groggy. “Yaar, I’m already in bed. What happened?”

One by one, they called everyone.
All three were in their rooms. No one had stepped into the washroom.

The sound of gushing water continued — steady, cold, almost deliberate.

Ritika, with trembling hands, slowly reached for the door latch. Ananya gripped her arm, whispering, “Wait…”

But something — maybe stubborn courage, maybe curiosity — pushed them forward.

The door creaked open.

The tap was wide open, water splashing onto the floor. The mirror above the sink was fogged up… but the air inside wasn’t warm. It was icy cold.

And then they saw it — on the fogged mirror, faint but visible, as if drawn by a wet finger:
“I WAS HERE.”

Ritika screamed. Ananya slammed the door shut. The corridor lights outside began to flicker, as if on cue.

They rushed to the warden’s room, but when they returned minutes later, the washroom was dry. The tap was closed. The mirror was spotless.

No one believed them fully, but from that night onward, that room gained a quiet, uneasy reputation. Students whispered about it during night study sessions, and new residents avoided staying there alone.

Months later, a first-year student who moved into the same room mentioned something unsettling in passing —

“Every night around 1 AM… I hear water running.
But when I open the door, the tap isn’t on. Sometimes… I just find the floor wet.”

Everyone went quiet after that.
And no one ever laughed off the story again.

Author: Devulapli Janaki Murthy (Mrs Janakki is a retired central government official and an avid reader)

It was during the holidays when we visited our hometown, Bhimavaram. The old ancestral house we stayed in didn’t have inbuilt washrooms — they were outside, across the yard, under a tin shed that always creaked when the wind blew.

That night, around midnight, heavy rain lashed against the tiled roof. The power had gone out, and the house was wrapped in pitch darkness. My sister suddenly woke me up — she needed to go to the washroom. I grumbled, half asleep, but she wouldn’t go alone.

We lit a small kerosene lamp and stepped out. The moment we left the house, the wind nearly snuffed the flame out. The rain had turned the yard muddy, and every sound — the dripping eaves, the rustling trees, the distant thunder — felt amplified in the silence of the night.

When my sister went inside, she whispered, “Talk to me… I’m getting scared.” I laughed nervously and tried to make small talk, my eyes darting toward the dark corners of the yard.

That’s when I noticed it — a figure moving toward us. Slow. Steady. The flickering lamp barely lit its outline. My heart thudded in my chest. “Who’s that?” I asked, my voice trembling.

My sister froze inside. “What happened? Who is it?” she whispered urgently.

The shadow came closer — and I exhaled in relief when I saw it was my aunt. She looked startled to see us.
“You came out alone in this weather?” she asked.
I pointed to the washroom. “No, my sister’s inside.”

We returned to the house together, still shaken. But the next morning, when I mentioned it at breakfast, my aunt looked puzzled.
“Me? I didn’t step out last night,” she said. “I slept right through the storm.”

Even today, I remember that rain-soaked night — the flickering lamp, the drenched yard, and that quiet figure who came toward us in the dark. Whoever — or whatever — it was, it felt just a little too real to be a dream.

Author: Sulogna Mehta  (Sulogna Mehta is an award -winning journalist and creative-writer)

In the mellowing autumn sun, the sight of the colonial-era manor with gabled roof, ivy-grown walls, glass windows and chimneys of the Morgan House filled me with curiosity and a sense of adventure. Halloween was around the corner and I had heard about her presence. Would I be lucky enough to get a glimpse of Lady Morgan who famously haunts the House or at least get to hear – as people say - the sound of her footsteps?

Between suffering and dodging different waves of the pandemic and lockdown from early 2020, finally in mid-October 2022, along with my parents, we headed for some reposeful retreats in scenic Himalayan towns and forests of north-Bengal.

Our first stay was at Kalimpong – a three-hour drive from New Jalpaiguri through the scenic, steep Sevoke road. We were looking forward to relaxing at the beautiful property in Kalimpong – Morgan House cottages run by the West Bengal Tourism Development Corporation (WBTDC). There was also another reason for my eagerness to visit the place.

Since we arrived late, we decided to have our breakfast at a food plaza at NJP station. While walking on the platform, a colourful beaded strip from one of my shoes came off. Though the heels were intact, it looked odd wearing the shoes, as the straps now looked different without the beaded layer in one of them. It would require a strong adhesive to paste the beaded strip back. After checking-in to Morgan House Cottage, I changed into a pair of spare shoes and kept the damaged ones under the bed. I decided to fix it myself if I could manage to find the required adhesive. Otherwise, I will get it repaired after returning from the trip.

Now let me describe the beautiful Morgan House property. On its sprawling premises dotted with lovely flora, lush green lawns and canopied walkways, it houses a few cottages in a more forested part, an annex building with the reception counter and the main attraction – the colonial-style structure of the Morgan House, with a Mount Kanchenjunga-view terrace. The Army’s golf course was just outside the premises.

According to locals and also as per testimonials of some tourists, Morgan House, built by jute merchant George Morgan in the 1930s as a summer retreat, is haunted. His wife died prematurely and mysteriously in one of its bedrooms and it’s widely believed her spirit still haunts the place. Reportedly, some visitors have heard someone walking in high heels in the corridors at night, strange sounds or felt an eerie presence. After independence, the uninhabited house passed into the hands of the Government of India and subsequently to WBTDC in the 1970s, which now runs it as a hotel.

There were a number of stray dogs in the premises, which have been well-trained to keep trespassers and monkeys away. A particular spotless white dog with bluish green eyes caught my attention. It did not mingle much with other dogs, never barked, was unusually quiet but observant. It would look at you with piercing eyes, yet they looked far past you, as if those eyes did not belong to this world. I felt a sudden chill as I remembered a local casually mentioning Lady Morgan had striking blue-green eyes.

Since we could not get a reservation in the main Morgan House Building on our desired dates, we had opted to stay in one of the cottages. However, we used to go to the main building for breakfast and dinner as the dining hall was on its ground floor.

I anticipated perhaps Lady Morgan would appear before me suddenly in the corridor, on the pebbled driveway or even on the canopied path, where I used to walk while playing beautiful classical piano music on my phone. I had heard someone say that Lady Morgan played the piano. I wished she would hear the music and appear. But no such luck so far. I just saw a shooting star fall.

On the last night of stay, during my usual post-dinner stroll from the Morgan House towards my cottage through semi-darkness in a dimly-lit path, I felt footsteps behind me, as if someone was walking on stilettos. I turned sharply and saw a small white figure on four legs. Even in the darkness, I knew its glittering eyes were observing me. Only I didn’t understand how its footsteps resembled the sound of heels! It quietly followed me till my cottage before disappearing into the darkness.

Post-midnight, we heard strange sounds hitting the cottage roof, as if something hard was dropping again and again. I got goosebumps but rationalized – perhaps it’s the sound of pine cones, oak acorns or some overripe fruits falling.

It was check-out time and I had packed everything. I peeped under the bed to take my damaged shoes but my eyes swept through the emptiness of the floor. We had no visitors to these isolated cottages for the last three days, not even the housekeeping staff had entered, nor stray animals. We asked a few staff but even they were clueless about who could have taken those damaged shoes! A thorough search of the cottage and surroundings was futile. It seemed like the shoes had vanished into thin air.

As our luggage was being loaded in the vehicle, I noticed a pair of blue-green eyes looking at me as if to say, “I now have your shoes in my collection, didn’t you hear the heels last night?”

Author: Dr. Hyma Moorty (Dr Hyma is a renowned Educator and Writer based in Hyderabad.)

It was the early 1960’s, and ghost stories were all the rage in Hyderabad. People would share spine-tingling tales of supernatural encounters and we would listen with bated breath. Our family did not believe in such stories, but the rumours were hard to ignore and brush aside. People claimed to have seen ghosts boarding buses, scaring passengers, and getting off from a speeding bus. Others described encountering ghostly figures in white sarees, with loose hair and ugly faces.

As kids we were fascinated and terrified by these stories. My grandmother would often tell us the ghosts resided in the tamarind tree in the Chinta Thota (tamarind grove) near our house, just to keep us indoors during hot summer afternoons. We would stop going there for a while, but as the rumours died down, we ventured again.

One Sunday afternoon, my younger sister and I were sent to fetch medicine from a family doctor’s house in Kachiguda. We walked past Hanuman Temple; a familiar route we had taken many times before. After finishing our task, we left the doctors place around 2 pm, eager to get back home. As we walked, my sister noticed someone following us, when we turned back, we saw a woman in a white saree with a black border, a big bindi on her fore- head, and loose flowing hair. The woman made faces at us and mumbled something which only added to our fear.

She seemed to know exactly what we were talking and thinking about and repeated them from that distance. She even asked for the toffees we’d received from the doctor’s house.

My sister started whimpering, gripping my hand tightly. The woman warned us not to seek help from anyone, claiming that only we could see her. I was paralyzed with fear, not sure what to do. With my little sister clinging to me, I knew I had to find a way to get out of the situation and reach home safely. The eerie creature continued to make faces and mumble, but I didn’t let my gaze waver, I gripped my sister’s hand tightly and started walking faster, trying not to look back or show signs of nervousness. But I could sense her following us.

My heart was racing and pounding fast, my sister was trembling with fear and so was I. But I didn’t want to show it. We walked as fast as we could, but, the spooky woman seemed to be keeping pace with us. I did not dare look back again, fearing what I might see. Finally, we saw a familiar landmark—the Barkathpura Chaman. We quickened our pace, and soon we were running in the lane towards our house. We did not stop till we reached the gate gasping for breath. I pushed my sister in, closed the gate with a bang, ran up the verandah steps all the while dragging my sister along, we both collapsed on the floor, our hearts still racing from the encounter. We did not scream or say a word still in fear, but we both knew that we had experienced, something inexplicable. Our mother was shocked to see us both in that state; after recovering from that scary ordeal, I opened my mouth but hesitated, unsure of how to describe what we both went through. Somehow, I managed to reveal everything from the beginning till we dropped at home. She listened with a mixture of concern and curiosity. Neither she dismissed our story nor tell us it was just our imagination.

Instead, she nodded thoughtfully and said, “May be you girls shouldn’t walk alone in the afternoons.”

My sister and I never spoke about that encounter again, maybe we both were trying to forget it as a bad dream, but the memory of the mysterious woman in white lingered in our minds. As I grew older, I began to wonder if what we saw was real or just a product of our imagination. But the fear and the vividness of the encounter remained etched in my memory. It was as if time had stood still that afternoon, and all that existed was the three of us—my sister, the scary woman in white, and I.