The Gallows Grove

I am Nisha, and like many from my country, I have always been drawn to tales of the supernatural. But the stories I grew up with were not mere entertainment; they were warnings, passed down from my grandmother, my father, and now, they have become my reality. I spent my childhood summer vacations in my ancestral village, nestled deep in the hills of Himachal, where the forest was both a provider and a predator. The stories I heard then were chilling, but one in particular—my grandmother’s—has never left me.

My grandmother, Amma, was a resilient woman who earned a meager living by collecting firewood from the forest and selling it in the nearby town. The village was poor, and many women did the same, but Amma, ever ambitious, decided to start her trips at two in the morning, believing the wood would be fresher and she would have first pick. The forest, at that hour, was a ghostly realm of silver mist and gnarled branches that clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers. She carried a lantern that cast weak, dancing shadows, and she knew every path by heart.

One early morning, as she followed a narrow trail that wound through a cluster of ancient oaks, her lantern’s beam fell upon a horrifying sight: a figure hanging from a low branch, its feet swinging gently as if caught in a breeze. The silhouette was unmistakable—a person, suspended by a rope around the neck. Amma’s blood ran cold. She dropped her bundle of wood and screamed, but no sound escaped her throat. She stumbled backward, her heart pounding, and fled as fast as her legs could carry her. She did not stop running until she burst through her doorstep, breathless and pale.

For three months, Amma did not set foot in the forest. She was convinced she had seen a real hanging, but when she reported the incident to the village elders, they shook their heads. No one had been reported missing, and no one had been hanged in the area for years. Yet Amma swore on her ancestors’ souls that what she saw was real—the man’s face was clear, his eyes bulging, his tongue blue. The fear was so great that it took her weeks to even step outside her hut.

But survival demanded she return. Her family needed money, and she was the sole breadwinner. With trembling legs, she forced herself back into the forest, this time at dawn instead of night. And there, on the same branch, hung the same figure—or a different one? This time it was a woman in a tattered white saree. Amma’s heart nearly failed her, but she was a practical woman. She took a deep breath, muttered a prayer to the forest gods, and walked on, averting her eyes. That day, she gathered her wood and left quickly.

To her horror, it didn’t stop. Every time she entered the forest, she would see swinging bodies—sometimes a group of them, like grotesque fruit. At first, she would faint, but gradually, a numbness crept over her. She began to ignore them, walking past as if they were just part of the scenery. ‘They look almost real,’ she would tell me, her voice distant, ‘but they are not of this world.’ She learned to coexist with these phantoms, and eventually, she would even chat with them as she worked, asking about their day, as if they were old acquaintances. It became her routine: collect wood, sell it, and complain to the hanging dead about the rising price of lentils.

My father, Ravi, had his own encounter, years later. He was a truck driver, and one night, his truck broke down on a lonely mountain road that wound through a different part of the forest, not far from where Amma had her experiences. The road was notorious for accidents and eerie occurrences. It was past midnight, and the headlights cast long, ominous shadows on the rocky cliff faces. As he got out to check the engine, he saw a young boy standing by the side of the road, waving for help. The boy was dressed in a school uniform, soaking wet, even though there had been no rain for days. My father, being kind-hearted, asked the boy what he was doing out so late. The boy pointed to a steep ravine and said, ‘My bus fell there. Please help me.’

My father’s heart raced. He knew of a bus accident that had taken the lives of twenty schoolchildren a decade ago. He approached the edge, shining his flashlight down, but saw nothing but darkness. When he turned back to ask the boy more, the boy had vanished. A chill ran down his spine. He quickly called for a tow truck, and while he waited, he kept the boy in his prayers. Even now, whenever he drives that road, he looks for the boy, half-expecting to see him again, but the forest only whispers secrets that are never told.

These stories stayed with me, haunting my dreams, but I never truly believed they would touch my life. That was until last summer, when I returned to the village to sell my grandmother’s ancestral land. The village was decaying, and the forest had grown denser, more foreboding. I decided to take a walk to the old grove where grandmother used to gather wood, just to remember her. It was late afternoon, and the sun was dipping low, casting long, distorted shadows. The path was overgrown, and I struggled to find it. Eventually, I reached a clearing where the trees were twisted in bizarre shapes, their branches like gnarled arms reaching for the sky.

And there, in the center of that clearing, stood a gallows. Not a crude branch, but a real wooden structure with a noose swaying gently in the wind. I froze, my heart pounding. I wanted to run, but my legs were rooted. I looked up at the noose, and in the dim light, I saw a figure—a young woman in a white gown, her face obscured by long black hair. She was not hanging; she was standing beneath the noose, looking at me. I blinked, and she was gone. But the noose remained, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I turned, but no one was there.

The next morning, I decided I had to leave. As I packed my bags, I heard a whisper from the kitchen. ‘Don’t go,’ it said, a woman’s voice, gentle but insistent. I dropped my bag and saw a faint silhouette in the doorway, wisps of smoke forming a human shape. ‘This is my land now,’ the voice continued. ‘You cannot run.’ I fled without looking back, but on the drive out, I passed the gallows. The noose was empty, but a rope was tied to the back of my jeep. I stopped, cut it free, and drove on. But when I reached the city, I found a piece of rope in my pocket—a piece I had never put there.

Now, I sit in my flat in Mumbai, writing this. But every night, I hear a creaking sound, like a rope straining. And sometimes, when I look out my window, I see a shape swinging from the ceiling fan. I know now that the forest never let go of my grandmother, my father, or me. It claims those who enter its heart, and it follows them wherever they go. The grove is not just a place; it is a curse that lingers in the blood. And I fear that soon, I will be the one hanging in the family tree, waiting for the next unfortunate soul to pass by and see me swaying in the early morning light.