The Clay Pit of Pindari

I’ve always been a rational man. I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, or the things that go bump in the night. At least, I didn’t. But after what happened at the Pindari farmhouse, I’m not so sure. My friend Rohan, who lives in the outskirts of the city, often organized weekend trips to his family’s farmhouse in the village of Pindari, about two hours from the city. It was our escape from the chaos, a place to drink, gossip, and sleep under the stars.

On one sweltering Saturday, we decided to head out as usual. There were seven of us this time: me, Rohan, his cousin Arjun, and four others from work. We had packed the bikes with food, liquor, and bedding. The plan was to reach by sunset, but we got delayed at Rohan’s place, and it was already 8 PM when we hit the road. We were on three bikes, and the sky was clear, promising a starry night.

But as we crossed the city limits, dark clouds rolled in from nowhere. The temperature dropped, and the wind picked up. By the time we reached the highway that ran through the fields, it started to rain. Not a gentle drizzle, but a torrential downpour that soaked us to the bone within minutes. We had no raincoats, so we decided to take shelter under a large banyan tree on the roadside, cursing our luck.

The rain showed no signs of letting up, so we decided to push on. Visibility was poor, and the road turned into a muddy track. We passed a few small villages, their lights flickering like candles. About halfway, we encountered a stretch where the road narrowed, flanked by dense bamboo groves. The rain hammered on the leaves, creating a cacophony. It was then that I saw it.

Through the curtain of rain, I noticed a figure standing by the side of the road. It was a woman in a white saree, her hair drenched, covering her face. She was standing perfectly still, not seeking shelter. I tapped Arjun, who was riding ahead, and pointed. He squinted but then shrugged, and we continued. But as we passed her, I had an overwhelming urge to look back. She had turned her head toward us. And in the brief flash of lightning, I saw her eyes were completely white.

My blood ran cold. I gripped Rohan’s waist tighter, and he must have felt my fear because he sped up. The others must have seen her too, because they accelerated. We didn’t stop until we reached the farmhouse, which was a small cottage at the edge of a huge dried-up pond, surrounded by fields.

We rushed inside, drenched and shivering. As we lit the kerosene lamps, the power was already out, we tried to laugh off what we had seen. ‘It was just a villager caught in the rain,’ Arjun said, but his voice was shaky. We changed into dry clothes and sat around the kitchen, huddled together, listening to the rain drum on the tin roof. The mood was tense, but the alcohol soon eased our nerves.

Hours later, around midnight, the rain stopped. The silence was deafening. We stepped out onto the veranda. The moon had emerged, casting an eerie silver glow over the landscape. The dried pond, which was now filled with rain, looked like a black mirror. And there, at the edge of the pond, stood a figure. The same woman in white. My heart pounded.

‘Did anyone else see her?’ I whispered. All six of them nodded, their faces pale. She was motionless, facing away from us. Rohan, trying to be brave, called out, ‘Hey! Who are you? Are you lost?’ She didn’t respond. Slowly, she turned around. Her face was ghastly, ashen, with dark hollows for eyes. And then, she vanished. Just like that. One moment she was there, the next she wasn’t. But where she stood, we could see something in the mud – a clay pot, old and weathered.

We were too frightened to investigate, but curiosity got the better of us. We armed ourselves with a flashlight and a crowbar, and cautiously approached the spot. The clay pot was half-buried, and it was unlike any we had seen. It was crude, hand-made, and covered in strange symbols. Arjun, who had a fascination with the occult, said it looked like a relic from some ancient ritual. Against my better judgment, we dug it out.

Inside was a small bundle wrapped in cloth. With trembling hands, Arjun unwrapped it. It was a child’s doll, but horribly disfigured – its limbs were twisted, and its eyes were painted black. Along with it was a piece of paper. The writing was in an old script, barely legible. Arjun later deciphered it to be a curse. It said that the one who disturbs this vessel will be haunted by the restless spirit of a woman who died in the pond years ago, drowned with her unborn child.

We threw the pot and its contents back into the water, but it was too late. That night, we heard sounds from the pond – like a woman weeping, and sometimes a child’s faint cry. And when I looked into the murky water, I saw my own reflection, but it wasn’t me. It was a gaunt woman with dead eyes, staring back. I screamed, and the reflection vanished.

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the cottage, guarding each other, whispering chants we half-remembered. The next morning, as dawn broke, we packed up and left, not even looking back. But the haunting didn’t end there. For weeks after, I would see her in my dreams, standing by that pond, pointing at me. And sometimes, when I looked in any mirror, her face would flicker for a split second.

We never went back to Pindari. We stopped talking about it, hoping to forget. But last week, Arjun called me, his voice was desperate. He said, ‘She’s here. She’s in my house. And she won’t leave.’ I don’t know what to do. I’m writing this as a warning. If you ever see a clay pot buried near water, don’t dig it up. Some stains are permanent, and some spirits are patient. I just hope I can find a way to make her leave us alone before she takes what she came for.