It was a blistering summer afternoon in May 2017.
We had just finished a boring exam in school, and all that was on our minds was freedom.
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Back then, I was in Class 8 — just a teenage boy like the rest of my friends: Rohit, Aarif, and Pradeep.
School was more of a formality that day — the real plan was whispered between benches and during lunch break:
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“Let’s hit the river.”
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The sacred Markanda River, considered holy by many in our region, flowed a few kilometers from our village.
We planned to go to a specific spot called Mornikund — a quiet stretch of the river surrounded by trees, rocks, and silence. It was supposed to be perfect for swimming.
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We reached there full of energy — throwing bags down, kicking off shoes, laughing like we owned the world.
The water sparkled under the harsh sun. We splashed around, racing, dunking each other, yelling out into the wind.
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For a while… everything felt perfect.
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Until it didn’t.
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As we moved toward the shallower edge, I (Aman) noticed something strange — a pile of blackened ash near the riverbed, half-buried in sand and scattered between stones.
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It didn’t look like a regular campfire spot. It was something else.
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I called out:
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“Guys… yaha toh kisi lash ko jalaaya gaya hai.”
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All three froze.
Rohit’s expression changed instantly.
He stared at the ashes and muttered,
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“This is where they cremated the sarpanch… the one who died in that accident last week.”
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A shiver ran down my spine.
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The atmosphere suddenly felt heavier.
Even the breeze, which earlier felt cool and fresh, now carried a strange stillness.
But like typical boys trying to be brave, we laughed it off awkwardly.
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“Chhod yaar… we’re here already. Let’s just enjoy a bit more.”
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So, we did.
But the river had other plans.
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Rohit climbed a nearby boulder — a favorite jump spot — and leapt into the deeper end of the river.
He disappeared underwater…
Seconds passed.
Then he resurfaced — but something was wrong.
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His face was pale. There was blood near his forehead.
And terror. Pure, uncontrollable terror in his eyes.
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He gasped and screamed:
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“Bhago! Koi meri pair pakad liya tha neeche! Koi tha paani mein!”
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We froze.
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“WHAT?!”
He repeated louder, panicked:
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“Mujhe neeche kheech raha tha koi! It wasn’t a rock — it had a grip!”
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As we looked around, something caught all four of our eyes… and what we saw still haunts us to this day.
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Just a few meters away, half-submerged in the water, was a dark, twisted figure.
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The eyes — red, glowing, inhuman.
The arms — spread unnaturally wide, like a predator waiting to lunge.
The posture — like a rotting turtle, half-floating, half-sunk.
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And the face…
We recognized it.
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It was the sarpanch — the same man who had died violently, whose body parts were recovered in pieces after a brutal accident.
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But his soul wasn’t at peace.
He hadn’t moved on.
And now… he was watching us.
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We ran.
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We didn’t look back.
Not once.
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💀 Aftermath
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We told no one that day.
Not our families. Not our teachers.
We didn’t return to that place ever again.
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The village elders had warned us before — about “Budauaa” —
Spirits of those who die unnatural or painful deaths, souls that cling to where they perished…
Angry. Restless. Vengeful.
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It’s been 8 years since that day.
I’ve grown up, finished college, working a job now.
But that memory —
That glare from the water —
That presence behind Rohit…
It still visits me in nightmares.
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Some things don’t need to be explained.
Some ghosts don’t leave.
And some places… are better left alone.
