Indian horror short stories are deeply connected to the country’s culture and traditions. For generations, tales of ghosts, curses, and the supernatural have been passed down.
What makes Indian horror special is how it blends eerie supernatural elements with real-life fears like karma and family curses. It’s not just about scaring you—it makes you think.
These stories stay with you because they tie fear to real emotions. Over 30% of horror fans in India enjoy these unique stories, showing how the supernatural and personal fears blend together perfectly.
Indian Horror Short Stories
A whisper in the dark. A shadow that shouldn’t move. Indian horror short stories don’t just scare you—they haunt your thoughts long after the last page.
The Last Train to Bhairavpur
It was nearly 11:45 p.m. when Ananya stepped onto Platform 6.
The station was half asleep.
Yellow bulbs hung from rusted poles, casting their tired light onto the cracked concrete.
The loudspeaker mumbled something about a delay on another line, but the sound faded into the warm, sticky air.
She checked her phone again. No signal. Not even a single bar.
Her friend in Kolkata had told her, Don’t take the night train to Bhairavpur unless you have to.
She had to.
The Bhairavpur Express wasn’t on the schedule anymore. Not officially.
But old timers at the station whispered that if you stood on Platform 6 late enough, a train would appear.
It wouldn’t be on the display board.
It wouldn’t even slow down until it was almost in front of you.
And it would always arrive on time—no matter the hour.
Ananya heard it before she saw it.
A low, rattling hum. A metallic clatter.
The sound of something huge moving through the night.
Then, out of the darkness beyond the station lights, it appeared.
The train looked… old.
Not vintage in a charming way. Not polished for tourists.
Old in the way abandoned houses look old. Paint peeling. Windows smeared. The coaches long and narrow, their colors faded into an almost uniform grey.
It slowed as it reached her. Steam—or maybe mist—rolled from beneath its wheels.
The door nearest to her creaked open.
Inside, the air was cooler. Stale.
Only a handful of passengers sat scattered through the carriage.
They were strangely still, their heads bowed, faces pale in the dim light.
No chatter. No rustle of paper. Not even the creak of the wooden seats.
She chose a spot by the window. The seat was hard, polished smooth by years of use.
Her fingers brushed the surface. It felt faintly damp.
The train lurched forward.
The station slid away.
Ananya stared out at the darkness. Now and then, the faint glow of distant huts flashed past. The air smelled faintly of smoke and wet earth.
She turned to glance at her fellow passengers.
That’s when she noticed something odd.
The man across from her was wearing clothes from… another time.
A white dhoti, a kurta with frayed sleeves. His shoes—leather, but cracked and falling apart.
He sat with his hands on his knees, eyes closed, lips moving silently.
The woman in the corner wore a saree of deep maroon, but the fabric was unlike anything Ananya had ever seen—thick, almost coarse, as if woven decades ago.
A young boy sat two rows ahead. He turned his head slightly, and she caught his profile—his skin was pale, almost grey, and his hair was plastered flat as if still wet.
The ticket collector appeared.
Or rather, he was just there.
One moment, the aisle was empty. The next, a tall man in a faded uniform stood in front of her.
His cap was tilted low, shadowing his face.
His hands were gloved.
The whistle around his neck hung from a frayed cord.
“Ticket,” he said, voice flat, almost mechanical.
She handed him her printed ticket.
He didn’t look at it. Just stared at her for a long moment before clipping it with a metal punch.
When he walked away, she noticed his shoes—polished black, but scuffed at the toes. One sole was peeling off.
The train rattled on.
Ananya’s eyelids grew heavy. She leaned her head against the cool glass.
That’s when she saw them.
Outside, running alongside the train, were shapes.
Dozens of them.
They looked human… but they moved too fast. Their faces flashed in the light—eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams.
Her breath caught. She sat upright, blinking hard.
The shapes were gone.
The man across from her opened his eyes.
“You shouldn’t look outside,” he said softly. His voice was deep, cracked like old wood.
Ananya’s mouth went dry. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes again, resuming that silent prayer.
Minutes—hours?—passed.
The train made no stops. The dark countryside stretched on endlessly.
The boy ahead turned in his seat. He smiled at her.
It was a small smile, but wrong somehow—too slow, too deliberate.
“My father says the train will be full tonight,” he whispered.
She frowned. “Full?”
But he’d already turned back around.
The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then dimmed to a sickly yellow.
From somewhere up ahead, a sound began.
A low wailing. Not quite human.
It rose and fell with the movement of the train.
Ananya’s chest tightened. She looked around, but no one else seemed to notice.
She decided to move to another carriage.
The door between coaches was heavy, its glass fogged.
When she slid it open, a gust of air swept past her. It smelled faintly of rust and something metallic—blood, her mind supplied before she could stop it.
The next carriage was almost identical, but the passengers were different.
A woman rocked back and forth in her seat, clutching a bundle wrapped in cloth. The cloth was stained dark in the middle.
Two men sat opposite her, their heads bent together. As she passed, she realized they weren’t speaking—both were perfectly still, mouths open, as if frozen mid-word.
She kept moving.
Carriage after carriage.
The faces changed, but the stillness, the wrongness, stayed the same.
Until she reached the one where the air felt… heavier.
This carriage had no lights. Only the faint glow from the windows illuminated the shapes inside.
And every single passenger was staring at her.
She stumbled back, heart pounding.
The ticket collector was suddenly there again.
“You should return to your seat,” he said. This time, she saw his face clearly. His eyes were milky white.
“What is this train?” she asked, her voice shaking.
He tilted his head slightly, like someone considering whether to tell the truth.
“It’s the last train to Bhairavpur,” he said. “We’ve all been on it for a very long time.”
She turned and hurried back to her seat.
The man across from her opened his eyes again. “Don’t get off until you reach the end,” he murmured. “If you do… you’ll stay.”
Stay.
The word lodged in her chest like a stone.
When the train finally slowed, she peered out the window.
Bhairavpur station lay ahead, bathed in fog.
The platform was empty. No porters, no passengers. Just a single dim lamp swaying in the breeze.
The train stopped.
The doors creaked open.
The man across from her stood, adjusting his kurta. The boy ahead of her picked up a small cloth bag. The woman in maroon smoothed her saree.
One by one, they stepped onto the platform… and vanished into the mist.
Ananya hesitated.
Then she stepped off.
The air was thick, damp. The silence was absolute.
When she turned to look at the train, it was gone.
Only the empty tracks remained, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
She never remembered walking out of the station.
One moment she was there, the next she was standing on a dusty road outside her grandmother’s house in Bhairavpur.
Inside, her grandmother looked at her for a long time before speaking.
“You took the last train,” she said quietly. “Your father… he took it too. The night it crashed.”
Ananya’s blood ran cold. “Crashed?”
Her grandmother nodded. “Forty years ago. Everyone on board died.”
That night, Ananya lay awake, listening.
Somewhere in the distance, faint and rhythmic, came the sound of wheels on rails.
And underneath it… the low, metallic wail of the Bhairavpur Express, forever running, forever arriving on time.
The Mango Tree’s Secret
You ever hear a story so strange, you can’t stop thinking about it, even though you tell yourself you don’t believe it?
That’s what happened to me with the mango tree.
It was in my grandmother’s village. Small place. Dusty lanes, slow afternoons, everyone knowing everyone’s business.
I was sitting in this tiny tea stall by the road—wooden benches, chai in those little clay cups, the kind you throw away after a sip.
A few old men were talking. Not loudly, just in that slow, deliberate way old men talk when they’re telling something important.
One of them points with his chin and says, “You see that mango tree over there? You know what’s different about it?”
I look. It’s just a tree. Big trunk, thick green leaves. Honestly, it looked like it could’ve been anywhere.
He leans in a bit. “It doesn’t bear fruit in the day. Only at night. And if you eat one… you’ll see how you die.”
I laughed. Couldn’t help it.
Sounded like the kind of thing you tell kids to stop them from stealing fruit.
But they didn’t laugh. They just sat there, sipping chai like they’d said something completely normal.
Later, my grandmother brings it up too.
Same story.
She’s rolling out dough for rotis, hands moving automatically, eyes not meeting mine.
“They tried to cut it down once,” she says. “The woodcutter died before the week was over. No one goes near it now. Not after dark.”
I say, “Dadi, come on. It’s just a tree.”
She doesn’t answer. She just presses her rolling pin harder into the dough.
For the first two days, I don’t think much about it.
I see the tree in the mornings. Birds sitting in the branches. Shade falling across the dusty road. Totally normal.
But I start noticing—people don’t walk too close. They cross the road, take longer paths.
By the third night, it’s stuck in my head.
And that’s when I decide to go.
It’s just after midnight.
I slip out of the house, careful not to wake anyone. The air is warm, but the closer I get to the tree, the cooler it feels.
I stop a few steps away.
And then I see them.
The mangoes.
Dozens of them, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Like they’re lit from inside.
I swear they weren’t there in the afternoon.
I stand there for a while.
The legend says if you eat one, you’ll see your death.
But part of me is rolling my eyes at myself. I mean, I don’t believe in curses.
So I reach up, twist one off the branch. It’s warm in my hand. That makes me pause—fruit’s not supposed to feel warm in the middle of the night.
Still, I take a bite.
The taste is… weird. Sweet at first, but there’s something bitter underneath. Makes the back of my tongue ache.
Then the world tips.
I’m not under the tree anymore.
I’m standing on the village road, right next to the old well.
It’s dark. A bus is coming towards me, headlights blinding.
I can’t move. My feet won’t work.
The horn blasts.
And then—impact.
I stumble back into myself.
The mango drops from my hand and rolls into the roots.
I’m shaking. It felt real. Too real.
I tell myself it’s just my brain making things up. Just a dream while awake.
But the road I saw—the well, the way the bus came—that’s all real. I walk that way every day.
Next morning, I keep quiet.
Don’t mention a thing.
But now I cross the road faster when I’m near the well.
And I don’t like hearing buses in the distance.
Two nights later, it happens.
I’m coming back from the tea stall just after sunset. The air’s cooler, sky still a little orange.
I hear an engine.
A bus.
It’s coming down the road faster than it should.
Something in me freezes. This is it. Same sound. Same road. Same angle.
I leap out of the way as it blasts past, horn screaming.
It misses me by inches.
I’m gasping, holding on to the well to keep from collapsing.
For a second, I think—I beat it. I escaped.
Then I glance down into the water.
There’s a face there.
Not mine. Pale. Eyes wide. Mouth open.
And a hand.
It shoots up out of the darkness, grabs my wrist—cold as stone—and pulls.
They find me the next morning.
Floating.
No one asks why I was out there at night.
They don’t need to.
The tree stands the same as always, its branches empty in the daylight.
But when the moon comes up, the fruit returns.
And it waits.
The Dollmaker of Kolkata
The Dollmaker of Kolkata
You know Bowbazar? That part of central Kolkata where the streets are so narrow the buildings almost touch overhead, and you can smell frying fish, incense, and damp stone all at once?
There’s a lane there — not on any tourist map — where the air feels a little colder, even in May. My cousin Anik swears that if you walk it after dark, you’ll hear tiny footsteps behind you.
That’s where the dollmaker’s shop used to be.
It wasn’t much to look at. Just a wooden door painted blue once upon a time, now faded and peeling. The windows were so dusty you could barely see inside. But if you stood there long enough, you’d notice something strange — the dolls in the display never seemed to be in the same place twice.
You’d pass one day and there’d be a little girl doll in a white frock sitting in the corner. Next day, she’d be at the front, her glass eyes staring right at you.
People said the dollmaker, Mr. Sen, had been there forever. No one could remember him as young. He was always the same — thin, wiry frame, hair slicked back, wire-rimmed glasses
He didn’t make ordinary toys.
His dolls were… lifelike. Not just in detail — though the detail was ridiculous: tiny fingernails, individual hair strands, fabric stitched so fine you could barely see the seams. It was more than that.
They looked like people. Specific people.
That’s where the whispers began.
They said grieving parents came to him. Parents whose children had died suddenly — an accident, an illness, a disappearance. They brought him photographs, locks of hair, bits of clothing.
And he’d make a doll.
Not a cute, simplified version.
An exact replica.
My friend Rima told me she saw one up close once.
Her aunt’s little boy had gone missing in 1997. They never found him. A year later, her aunt had a doll — same curly hair, same crooked smile, same faded Superman T-shirt he’d worn the day he vanished.
Rima swore the doll’s eyes followed you around the room. And at night, she said, her aunt would sit up talking to it in low tones, like she was being answered.
I didn’t believe it — not really — until the winter I went to find Mr. Sen’s shop myself.
It was by accident, or at least that’s what I told myself. I was wandering Bowbazar with my camera, chasing the way the light hit the old balconies. Then I saw the blue door.
The sign above it just said Sen & Sons. There was no “sons” that anyone knew of.
When I stepped in, the air smelled faintly of varnish and camphor. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with dolls of every size. Some sat, some stood, some leaned against the wall like they’d been left mid-play.
Every single one was looking at me.
Mr. Sen was behind the counter, polishing the cheek of a half-finished doll. He looked up, his glasses catching the light.
“You’re not here for an order,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
I shook my head. “Just… curious.”
He smiled thinly.
“Curiosity is dangerous in my business.”
I walked slowly, trying to act casual, but it was hard to ignore the way the dolls’ faces seemed… not happy, not sad — just aware.
One in particular made me stop.
It was a girl, maybe seven years old, in a green school uniform. Her hair was tied into two neat braids. The badge on her pocket read St. Agnes Primary.
I swear her lips were parted, just enough that you could almost hear her breathing.
Mr. Sen came up beside me.
“Beautiful, isn’t she? Her mother brought me her handwriting practice book. Said she wanted the doll to ‘remember’ things.”
I asked him — trying to keep my voice steady — “Do they… move?”
He chuckled, not like it was a joke, but like I’d asked something obvious.
“They visit their parents sometimes. To keep them from being lonely.”
That was when I noticed — some of the dolls had faint scratches on their feet, like they’d been walking on rough stone.
I didn’t stay long after that. Something in my gut was screaming leave.
But as I paid for a small wooden puppet — something I could justify taking without inviting nightmares — I heard it.
A whisper.
High-pitched, like a child’s voice.
“Take me with you.”
I froze.
Mr. Sen didn’t look up from wrapping the puppet.
The voice came again, soft and urgent.
“Please.”
It was coming from the girl in the green uniform.
I left without looking back.
A week later, Rima called me, her voice shaking.
“Didi, you won’t believe this — my aunt’s doll… it’s gone. She swears she left it in the bedroom, but when she woke up, it wasn’t there. Door locked, windows locked. Just gone.”
I thought about the scratches on the dolls’ feet.
I thought about the whisper.
Two months later, the news broke.
A police raid on a building in north Kolkata had uncovered a room — dozens of dolls sitting in neat rows. Some of them were so lifelike the officers refused to touch them.
In the middle of the room, on a wooden chair, was Mr. Sen.
Except he wasn’t breathing.
His eyes were wide open, and in his lap was a doll — a perfect replica of himself.
They shut down the shop after that. Boarded up the windows, sealed the door.
But sometimes, late at night, if you walk that lane in Bowbazar, you’ll see the blue door just slightly ajar.
And if you hear a voice from inside — high, thin, pleading — you’d better not turn your head.
Because once you look, they say, one of them will follow you home.
Whispers in the Stepwell
Whispers in the Stepwell
You know how some places just feel… wrong?
Not because something bad is happening right then, but because it’s remembering something bad that happened a long time ago.
That’s what the stepwell was like.
It was on the edge of my uncle’s village in Gujarat — a sunken structure, stone steps leading down to a dark pool of water. The kind of place you could miss entirely if you didn’t know it was there.
Nobody went there anymore. Not to fetch water, not to rest in the shade, nothing.
The villagers drew from the newer pump on the other side of the fields.
I found it by accident.
I’d been wandering with my camera, following the sound of goats, and suddenly the ground just… fell away
One moment I was looking at a cracked wall covered in vines. The next, I was peering over the edge at this yawning pit lined with steps.
It went down farther than I could see. The water at the bottom was black. Not just dark from depth — black like oil.
Later that day, my cousin saw the photos on my camera.
“You went there?” he asked, eyes widening.
I shrugged. “It’s just a well.”
He shook his head. “It’s not. It’s the well. People say it talks at night.”
Over dinner, my aunt told me the story.
Back in her grandmother’s time, the well was a gathering place. Women came to draw water, children played on the steps. But then — and here she dropped her voice — a girl fell in.
No one saw her again. Not her body, not her clothes, nothing.
At first, they thought she’d drowned and been swept away by some underground current. But then, people started hearing things.
If you stood at the edge after sunset, you’d hear a voice. Sometimes it sounded like crying, sometimes like laughter, sometimes just your own name being repeated in a whisper.
A few who leaned too close… fell in.
Or at least, that’s what people told themselves. No one ever saw them fall. They were just gone.
Of course, I thought it was just a story.
Until that night.
It was humid, the air thick enough to chew. The power had gone out — as it often did — and the whole village was lit only by kerosene lamps and the occasional torch beam.
I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to walk.
I don’t know why my feet took me toward the edge of the village.
The moon was bright enough that I didn’t need a flashlight. I could see the pale stone of the stepwell from a distance, glowing faintly under a tangle of banyan roots.
I told myself I’d just look. Maybe take a few shots with the long exposure setting.
I got to the edge, crouched down, and listened.
At first — nothing. Just the faint rustle of leaves.
Then…
A sound.
It was so soft I thought it might be wind at first. But the air was still.
It was a voice.
High-pitched, childlike.
It said my name.
I nearly laughed — some part of my brain was sure it was my cousin playing a trick. But the sound wasn’t coming from behind me.
It was rising up out of the dark water.
I leaned a little closer, heart thudding.
The voice changed. It wasn’t a child anymore. It was lower now, hoarse, like someone who’d been screaming for hours.
It said, Come closer.
Something in the water moved.
Not a ripple — not like a fish. This was slower, heavier.
I should’ve stepped back. But I didn’t.
I remember shifting my weight, leaning forward, peering into that darkness — and then feeling something cold on my ankle.
Not water. Fingers.
I yelped, kicked back, and fell hard onto the stone behind me. My camera clattered away.
By the time I scrambled up, there was nothing there.
But I swear — the water was still moving, just slightly, like something had just submerged.
I didn’t tell anyone the full story. I just said I slipped.
But I went back in the morning to get my camera.
In daylight, the well looked different. Not friendly, but less threatening. The water was still black, but there was no movement, no whisper.
I found my camera halfway down the steps, wedged between two stones. The lens was cracked.
When I checked the memory card later, the last photo was ruined — distorted by motion blur.
But in the corner of the frame, barely visible, was a pale hand reaching up from the water.
I deleted it.
Not because I thought it would harm me, but because I didn’t want to keep looking at it.
That night, the whispers started again.
Not at the well — in my room.
Faint at first, so I told myself it was wind in the rafters. But then it formed words. My name. Over and over.
And then: Come closer.
The next morning, my aunt asked if I was feeling well. She said I looked pale.
I told her I was fine.
But when she left the room, I caught sight of my feet.
There were wet footprints on the floor.
Leading from my bed toward the door.
They say if you follow the whispers long enough, they don’t have to pull you in.
You’ll jump.
The stepwell is still there. Still waiting.
And sometimes I wonder — if I went back now, would it still know my name?
The Cursed Wedding Saree
In our family, there’s a trunk that no one opens.
It sits in the corner of my grandmother’s room, brass-bound and heavy, smelling faintly of sandalwood and mothballs.
When I was little, I thought it was full of treasure — coins, gold bangles, silk scarves. But whenever I asked, Dida would shake her head.
“Not for children,” she’d say. “Not for anyone, if they are wise.”
It wasn’t until I was twenty-two — and getting married — that she called me into her room and unlatched the trunk.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed muslin, was a red Banarasi saree.
Even after all those years, the zari work shone like fire in the lamplight. The silk was so fine it felt like water running through my fingers.
“This is for the brides of our family,” Dida said. Her voice was flat. “But you must decide for yourself whether you will wear it.”
It was only later that I learned the truth.
The saree had belonged to my great-grandmother, who wore it at her wedding in 1913. She was married off at sixteen to a zamindar’s son in a house so big it had its own temple.
The wedding was lavish — feasts for three days, musicians in the courtyard, fireworks that lit the night sky. But on the fourth day, my great-grandmother’s husband fell from the terrace and broke his neck.
She wore the saree again only once — at his funeral.
The elders said it was coincidence. Life was fragile then; people died young.
But when the saree was passed down to her younger sister for her own wedding, the same thing happened — not an accident, but a sudden illness. The groom was dead within a week.
After that, they should have destroyed it. But in our family, there’s this twisted reverence for heirlooms, as if old objects carry the weight of ancestors’ blessings. Or curses.
And so the saree stayed.
It passed from bride to bride, and the story repeated itself.
One groom drowned. Another vanished in the forests of Assam on a hunting trip. Another died in his sleep, no cause the doctors could agree on.
In each case, the bride wore the red Banarasi.
By the time it reached my mother’s generation, no one dared wear it.
At least, not willingly.
My mother refused outright. She chose a pale gold saree instead. But her cousin Parul — stubborn, romantic Parul — insisted the curse was nonsense. She wore it, smiling through the wedding rituals, the silk glowing against her skin.
Her husband’s car went off the road three nights later.
Parul still keeps the saree framed in glass in her flat in Salt Lake. She says she likes to look at it. I think it’s the only way she can convince herself it wasn’t real.
When Dida offered it to me, my hands shook.
I didn’t believe in curses. Not really. But I also didn’t believe in tempting them.
“I’ll wear my own saree,” I told her.
Her eyes softened. “Wise child.” She folded it back into the muslin, closed the trunk, and turned the key.
That night, I dreamt of the saree.
It wasn’t in the trunk anymore. It was spread out on my bed, glowing faintly in the dark. The gold threads moved, almost like they were alive — twisting into shapes I didn’t want to name.
When I reached out to touch it, I felt someone’s hand under the silk. Cold.
I woke gasping, my room smelling faintly of sandalwood and something metallic — like old blood.
Two days before my wedding, the trunk in Dida’s room was open. The muslin wrapping lay crumpled on the floor.
The saree was gone.
We searched everywhere. My aunt accused the servants. My cousin suggested a thief. But there was no sign of forced entry, and nothing else was missing.
That night, I heard my mother and Dida whispering in the kitchen.
“It always finds its bride,” Dida said. “Whether she chooses or not.”
The morning of my wedding, it was there.
Laid out neatly across the foot of my bed, as if someone had ironed it.
My hands were sweating as I picked it up. The silk felt warm — warmer than it should have been.
I told myself it was just fabric. Just a beautiful old Banarasi saree.
I wore it.
The wedding went smoothly. My groom, Rohan, smiled at me all day. We laughed, ate sweets, danced with cousins.
For a while, I forgot the stories.
Until that night, when we left for our new home
Halfway across the Howrah Bridge, our car stopped.
Not broke down — just stopped. Engine running, but the wheels wouldn’t turn. The driver was pale, muttering that something was holding us back.
Rohan got out to check.
I remember him walking toward the back of the car. I remember the sound — not loud, just a splash, like something falling into water.
I ran after him, but there was nothing there.
No railing broken, no sign of struggle. Just the dark river below, smooth and silent.
They never found his body.
The saree came back to me in a plain brown box a week later. No note.
It was folded perfectly, clean and pressed, as if nothing had happened.
I put it back in the trunk. Locked it.
But sometimes, at night, I hear a faint rustle from inside — silk brushing against wood, like it’s shifting, waiting.
They say it’s bad luck to destroy an heirloom. I used to believe that.
Now, I’m not so sure.
The Lantern of Varanasi
The Drumbeat After Midnight
The road to Bansipur ended long before the bus stopped.
It wasn’t a real village on any tourist map — just a cluster of mud houses, a few scattered fields, and a thin trail of smoke curling from the hills in the distance. No shops. No electric poles. No signboards.
Yet every full moon, a sound rolled down from the dark hills.
Drums.
Not the kind you’d hear in a festival or temple ritual. These beats were heavy, slow, and too steady — like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to any living thing.
The people of Bansipur didn’t speak about it in daylight. But after sunset, doors were locked, oil lamps turned low, and even dogs didn’t bark.
They all knew:
If you heard the drums after midnight… someone in the village would be dead by morning.
The Outsider
Rohan Malhotra had no business being there.
He was a freelance photojournalist, chasing rural legends for a feature on “vanishing cultures.” He’d heard about the drum story from a taxi driver in Ranchi, and that was enough to pull him three hours out of his way.
When he asked a group of old men near the well about it, they all stared at him without answering. One finally spat into the dust and muttered, “Go back before dark.”
That only made Rohan stay.
By evening, he’d convinced a farmer’s family to let him sleep in their courtyard. They didn’t charge him anything. They didn’t ask him questions. But the woman of the house pressed a thin strip of red cloth into his hand and whispered, “Tie it on your wrist. Don’t take it off tonight.”
He laughed it off, but kept it anyway.
The First Night
The village was silent after 9 p.m. Even the crickets seemed to hold their breath.
Rohan sat awake, camera ready. He wanted to be the first to record these so-called “death drums.”
The moon slid higher. The night thickened.
And then —
Thum.
It was faint at first, like someone hitting a stretched skin once in a distant valley.
Then again.
Thum.
And again.
Thum.
Each beat was slow, but each carried a strange weight — as if the air itself was moving with it.
Rohan stood, trying to guess the direction. The sound was coming from beyond the fields, deep inside the forest that pressed against the village’s edge.
The family he was staying with did not stir. But their cow shuffled nervously, and the dog whined, curling into itself.
Thum.
The sound grew a little louder.
Rohan grabbed his flashlight and camera.
The Warning
He’d barely stepped past the courtyard when an old man’s voice cut through the dark.
“Don’t go.”
It was the same man he’d seen near the well earlier. He was standing in the lane, a shawl pulled tight around his thin shoulders.
“It’s just drums,” Rohan said. “I want to see who’s playing them.”
The old man shook his head slowly. “No one plays them. The forest does.”
Rohan smiled, thinking it was just superstition. “Then I’ll photograph the forest.”
The old man’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. “You will not photograph what calls you tonight. It has already chosen.”
Before Rohan could answer, the man was gone — swallowed by the shadows between houses.
Into the Fields
The drumbeat was pulling him now.
Not louder. Not faster. Just steady, like it knew he would follow eventually.
The fields were brittle under his shoes. Dry stalks snapped. The air smelled faintly of iron, like blood on rusted metal.
He aimed his flashlight at the tree line. The light seemed to dissolve a few meters in, swallowed by the dark.
Thum.
Something moved just inside the first row of trees.
The First Shape
At first, he thought it was a man standing there. But the figure was too tall — at least seven feet — and its arms hung longer than they should.
It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. But when the drumbeat came again, its head tilted ever so slightly, as if listening.
Rohan froze, his camera half-raised.
When the next Thum rolled through the air, the figure took a single step back into the darkness.
Without thinking, Rohan followed.
The Forest
The moment he crossed into the trees, the air changed.
It was colder here, damp with the smell of moss and rot. The drumbeats were louder now, not because they’d sped up — but because the silence between them was deeper, heavier.
Rohan’s flashlight beam caught something on the ground.
A footprint.
Not bare, not shod — but stretched, with only three deep impressions where toes should be.
Another beat.
Another footprint, facing deeper into the forest.
The Clearing
He reached a clearing after ten minutes. The moonlight spilled down here in pale silver, touching a ring of stones at the center.
On each stone sat a drum.
They were old — goat-skin stretched over wood so cracked it looked ready to crumble. But no hands played them.
They played themselves.
The skins dented inward with each beat, then rose again, as if invisible palms were striking them in unison.
Thum.
Thum.
Thum.
Rohan stepped closer, his camera clicking in rapid shots.
That’s when he noticed the shadows.
The Shadows Without Bodies
They ringed the clearing — dozens of human-shaped silhouettes cast on the ground. But there was nothing to cast them. No trees. No people.
When the drums beat, the shadows leaned forward. When they stopped, the shadows straightened.
Rohan’s breath quickened. He was standing among them now. One brushed against his leg — and though it was nothing but darkness, it was cold.
Ice-cold.
The Face
A drumbeat louder than the rest shook the clearing. The shadows all turned toward him at once.
And from between the stones, something rose.
It was not the tall figure from before. This was smaller, thinner — but its face was wrong.
It had no eyes, no nose. Just a mouth, stretching too far, smiling without moving.
The drums slowed.
Thum.
The mouth spoke without sound.
Rohan didn’t hear words in the air — he heard them in his head.
One must join. One must carry the beat.
The Choice
His chest tightened. “No,” he whispered. “I’m just here to take pictures.”
The mouth stretched wider.
Then you will be the picture.
Rohan’s camera slipped from his hand. His flashlight flickered, then died. The moonlight dimmed as if something had passed in front of it.
The shadows pressed closer. The drums were louder now, beating in his bones, shaking his teeth.
The Last Thing He Saw
The tall figure stepped into the clearing again. In its elongated hands, it carried a single drum — smaller than the rest.
It held it out to him.
Without knowing why, Rohan raised his hands. The drum settled into his grip. It was warm. Wet.
And when the next beat came, it came from him.
Morning in Bansipur
The villagers found his camera at the forest edge. The last photo was of the clearing, but there were no drums in it.
No shadows.
Just moonlight on bare stones.
That morning, an old woman in the village woke screaming. Her husband lay cold beside her — eyes open, mouth stretched in an endless, silent smile.
The Drumbeat After Midnight
The Drumbeat After Midnight
The bus dropped him on a dirt road and drove off without waiting.
Dust hung in the air like it was reluctant to leave, and the heat of the day still clung to the ground. Rohan Malhotra slung his camera bag over his shoulder and squinted at the road ahead.
There were no shops. No signboards. Just a scattering of mud houses, each leaning in some direction like they were tired of standing. Far away, the hills crouched against the horizon, and from somewhere in that direction, a thin trail of smoke curled upward.
This was Bansipur.
It wasn’t on any of the maps he’d checked. Even the driver hadn’t known where it was until Rohan showed him an old newspaper clipping. The place had no internet coverage, no cellphone signal, and no sign of electricity.
But it had something else.
Every full moon, the villagers said, a drumbeat rolled down from the hills. Not music. Not celebration.
A warning.
Whoever heard it after midnight would not see the next dawn.
The First Whispers
Rohan had heard about it from a taxi driver in Ranchi. At first, he’d laughed — another rural ghost story to scare kids into staying home after dark. But the driver’s face had stayed serious.
“They don’t make it up,” the man had said. “They bury someone every month.”
So here Rohan was, sweating under a sun that seemed to glare directly into his skull, walking into a village that seemed to be watching him without moving.
The first group of men he met were gathered near the well. They looked up as he approached, their eyes narrowing.
“I’m a journalist,” Rohan said, holding up his press card. “I’m writing about local traditions. I heard there’s a drum ritual during the full moon?”
The men exchanged glances. One spat into the dirt. Another shook his head. Finally, an old man with a thin, weathered face muttered, “You shouldn’t have come today.”
“Why not?” Rohan asked.
“Full moon,” the man said. “Tonight, the forest calls.”
The Family
By evening, he’d convinced a farmer named Hariram to let him stay in his courtyard. Hariram’s wife, Radha, didn’t speak to him much. She kept glancing at him like he’d brought a storm into their house.
Just before sunset, she handed him a strip of red cloth.
“Tie this on your wrist,” she said quietly. “And don’t untie it until the sun is up.”
Rohan smiled. “A protective charm?”
Her eyes didn’t soften. “No. A warning to them that you’re not theirs.”
He wanted to ask what she meant, but Hariram came in and told him it was time to eat.
Nightfall
By nine o’clock, the village had gone silent. No conversations, no laughter, not even the sound of crickets. Doors were bolted from inside, windows covered.
Rohan sat in the courtyard, camera ready. The moon climbed the sky like it was in no hurry. His watch ticked past eleven.
Then — faint, almost too soft to notice — it came.
Thum.
He thought at first it was a distant firecracker. Then it came again.
Thum.
And again.
Slow. Heavy. Like someone was hitting stretched hide with the flat of their palm, waiting between strikes.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that pressed against his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from the hills or the forest that began just beyond the fields.
The Warning
Rohan slung his camera over his shoulder and stepped into the lane.
“You shouldn’t go,” a voice said.
It was the old man from the well, standing in the shadows. His shawl was wrapped tightly around him despite the warm air.
“I just want to see who’s playing the drums,” Rohan said.
“No one plays them,” the old man replied. “They’ve been beating since before my grandfather was born. They beat when the forest wants someone.”
“And what happens if the forest wants me?” Rohan asked, half-smiling.
The old man’s eyes glinted. “Then you won’t be asking questions in the morning.”
Before Rohan could reply, the man turned and melted back into the darkness.
Across the Fields
The drumbeat was steady now. Not faster, not louder — just patient.
Rohan crossed the brittle stalks of the field, each step crunching under his boots. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and something metallic.
At the edge of the forest, he stopped. His flashlight beam dissolved into the trees after a few meters, the darkness swallowing it whole.
Another beat.
Another step forward.
Something moved between the trees.
The Tall Figure
It stood half-hidden by the shadows. Too tall to be a normal man — at least seven feet — with arms that dangled too long. It didn’t move except for a slow tilt of the head when the drums beat again.
Rohan’s heart hammered.
When the next Thum came, the figure stepped back into the darkness.
And Rohan, against every shred of common sense, followed.
Inside the Forest
The temperature dropped as soon as he crossed the first line of trees. The air was thick with the smell of damp leaves and decay.
On the ground, he saw a footprint. Not a human footprint — three deep impressions where toes should be, stretched unnaturally long.
Another beat.
Another print, leading deeper in.
The Clearing
After ten minutes, he stepped into a wide clearing. Moonlight spilled down here in pale silver. In the center was a ring of stones.
On each stone sat a drum.
They were ancient — wood cracked, skin stretched thin and patched. Yet no one touched them.
They played themselves.
With each Thum, the skin dented in, then rose again, as if invisible palms were striking in perfect unison.
The Shadows
Rohan’s breath caught. Around the clearing were shadows — human-shaped, dozens of them. But there were no bodies to cast them.
When the drums beat, the shadows leaned forward. When they paused, the shadows straightened.
One brushed against his leg. It was cold.
The Mouth Without Eyes
From between the stones, something rose.
It was human-sized, but its face had no eyes, no nose. Just a mouth, stretching too far in both directions, smiling without moving.
The drums slowed.
One must join. One must carry the beat.
The voice wasn’t in the air. It was in his head.
The Choice
“I’m just here to take pictures,” Rohan whispered.
The mouth stretched wider.
Then you will be the picture.
The tall figure stepped forward, carrying a smaller drum. It held it out to him.
Rohan didn’t want to touch it, but his hands moved on their own. The drum was warm. Sticky.
When the next beat came, it came from him.
The Return
He woke at the forest’s edge, camera hanging from his neck. The sky was lighter — almost dawn.
The villagers found him there. Hariram’s wife pulled the red cloth from his wrist and frowned. “They marked you,” she said.
The old man from the well stared at him for a long time. “You heard them. Now they will hear you, too.”
The Last Photograph
When Rohan checked his camera later, every shot of the clearing was empty. No drums. No shadows. Just bare stones in moonlight.
But the last photo — the one he didn’t remember taking — showed the clearing from above, as if from the trees. And in the center, holding a drum, was Rohan himself.
Smiling.
Themes Commonly Found in Indian Horror Short Stories
From restless spirits to family curses, themes in Indian horror short stories mix chilling folklore with fears that feel far too close to home.
Supernatural Entities
Ghosts, spirits, and demons from Hindu, Islamic, and tribal myths.
Examples: Bhoots, Pretas, Rakshasas, Djinns.
Curses and Karma
Stories about past sins or family curses that affect the present.
Example: A family haunted for disrespecting sacred rituals.
Urban Legends and Folklore
Modern twists on old stories passed down over time.
Example: The legend of Nale Ba or haunted banyan trees.
Psychological Horror
Stories that mix reality with madness.
Example: Protagonists doubting their sanity after strange experiences.
Regional Variations in Indian Horror Stories
From Bengal’s haunted mansions to Rajasthan’s cursed forts, regional variations in Indian horror stories bring local legends to life in spine-chilling ways.
North India
- Stories from Mughal and Rajput legends.
- Example: Haunted forts and palaces.
South India
- Inspired by Dravidian folklore and temple mysteries.
- Example: Snake goddesses and cursed idols.
East India
- Bengali Gothic style with colonial influences.
- Example: Tagore’s eerie settings and Satyajit Ray’s supernatural Feluda mysteries.
West India
- Parsi and Marathi traditions with djinns and spirits.
- Example: Haunted mansions in Mumbai.
Cultural Significance of Horror in Indian Society
Horror in Indian society is more than fear—it’s a reflection of beliefs, traditions, and the stories that have shaped generations.
Reflection of Societal Fears
- Horror stories show real fears like poverty, caste problems, and gender inequality.
- For example, ghost stories often represent the effects of these issues, like how social injustice or neglect can haunt a community.
Morality Lessons Through Fear
- Many horror stories teach lessons about respecting elders, nature, and traditions.
- Tales about curses or vengeful spirits warn that breaking moral rules or disrespecting customs leads to trouble, showing the importance of following societal values.
Preservation of Oral Traditions
- Storytelling helps keep cultural traditions alive.
- Horror stories passed down through generations carry values, warnings, and lessons, helping preserve the community’s identity and shared history.
Modern Adaptations and Media Representation
Modern adaptations and media representation give Indian horror short stories a fresh life, blending old legends with new fears for today’s audiences.
Bollywood and Regional Cinema
- Films like Mahal, Bhoot, and Stree take inspiration from classic horror stories.
- These movies blend traditional horror with modern twists, keeping the spooky spirit alive in Indian cinema.
Web Series and Digital Platforms
- Shows like Betaal and Ghoul are bringing Indian horror to a new audience.
- Digital platforms have helped revive interest in creepy, thrilling tales with fresh perspectives.
Global Recognition
- Indian horror is getting noticed worldwide, thanks to translated books and international collaborations.
- The unique blend of culture and supernatural themes is attracting global fans of the genre.
Conclusion
Indian horror literature is unique for its blend of mythology, culture, and societal themes. It captivates readers by mixing the supernatural with real-world fears, creating stories that resonate across generations.
Readers should explore the diverse regional horror stories across India to discover how each region adds its own eerie twist. Writers should continue contributing to this vibrant genre, sharing fresh perspectives and helping it evolve.
Horror connects us to our deepest fears and shared humanity. It reminds us that, despite our differences, the emotions we experience are universal. “The darkest night is often the bridge to the brightest tomorrow.”
