Ghost stories from India

The Road of the Hollow Cow

In the sweltering summer of 1972, my grandmother, Lakshmi, set out on a journey that would etch itself into the marrow of our family’s bones. Her destination was her sister’s...

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The Weight of the Offering

In the summer of 1972, in a dusty village on the outskirts of Nagpur, a young farmer named Raghunath was preparing for his daughter’s wedding. His family was poor, and...

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The Salt on the Windowsill

The heat of that July afternoon in 2007 pressed down on the red-tiled roof of our sprawling ancestral home in the hill town of Kodaikanal. I was nine, and the...

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The Lantern’s Vigil

I’m not sure what I witnessed that night, but I know it was real. It happened in July, the month when the air itself seems to thicken and press down...

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The Last Fare on Khandala Ghat

My father managed a fleet of night buses for a private carrier in Pune, his office a humming warren of screens and phones. When a drunk driver plowed into their...

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The Last Bath

In the autumn of 1932, in the remote village of Karsala, the river Sonali was the lifeblood of the community. Every dawn, the women of Karsala would gather at the...

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The Hollow Mannequin

Before I begin, I want to thank you all for providing this space where we can share our personal experiences. And I apologize in advance for my English and the...

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The Boiler Man’s Toll

In the sweltering summer of 1998, my grandfather, Arjun Mehta, was a shift supervisor at the Korba Thermal Power Station, a sprawling complex of cooling towers and chimneys that stained...

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The Clock on the Wall

The old brownstone on Meridian Lane had been a bargain, and for seven years, I’d convinced myself it was a steal. The walls were thick, the rent was low, and...

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The Hollow Grip

The rental house on Maple Street had a peculiar smell—like old wood and forgotten rain. My mother, Clara, swore it was just the age of the place, but I always...

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The Lantern Keeper’s Debt

I had never met my great-grandmother while she was alive. We arrived at the village of Chanderi in the dead of March, the heat already a shimmering veil over the...

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The Visitor at the Vanishing Clock

I was nineteen that summer, house-sitting for my aunt and uncle in their sprawling Victorian on the edge of a dying mill town. They had gone to Italy with my...

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The Blue Thread

It was the last week of December, and the old tenement building on Chowringhee Lane in Kolkata was buzzing with the sounds of a small celebration. My cousin, Rohan, was...

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The Locked Door on Kharghar Road

My maternal uncle, Rohan, is a quiet man. He has spent twenty years managing luxury hotels, from the glittering lobbies of Mumbai to the fog-draped corridors of Darjeeling. But there...

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The Clockwork of Room 217

In the autumn of 2018, I moved with my father to a small coastal town named Port Blossom. We rented a two-story Victorian house that had been converted into a...

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The Fabric of Memory

In the old textile mill town of Hollowridge, I rented a small apartment above a shuttered workshop. The building had a history of accidents—looms that had crushed hands, a fire...

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The Last Lantern of Chittern Abbey

At twenty-one, I’d spent most of my life as a skeptic. Raised in a Tamil Christian household, my mother’s whispered novenas and my grandmother’s tales of saints and demons had...

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The Third Step

We had been living in the duplex for three months. It was a peculiar layout: ground floor held the living room and kitchen, while the upper floor held the single...

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The Stitched Mannequin

In the autumn of 2019, I rented a room in a converted textile mill called the Loom House, a sprawling brick labyrinth of exposed pipes and creaking wooden floors. The...

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The Muddy Night of the Rusted Bell

Vinay was a college student in the early ’90s, living in a small town in the hills. He and his friends—Dev, Ramesh, and Suresh—were known for their restless energy. They...

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The Vine of St. Iona

My first year away from home was supposed to be a fresh start, a canvas of independence painted with new friendships and late-night laughter. The hostel, an old converted manor...

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The Concrete River

The rain had stopped, but the air in Chennai still felt thick, as if the city itself were exhaling steam. Arjun pulled his hood lower over his forehead, though the...

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The Thirteenth Crepe

Meera’s hands moved with the rhythm of two decades of practice. In the humid dawn, she slid the batter across the hot griddle, the sizzle a familiar comfort against the...

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The Unseen Acquaintance

Three years ago, my father was admitted to a secluded convalescent home in the hills of Shimla, a place chosen for its crisp air and reputed care. He had been...

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