Shadow Man

Once night falls, a shadow man comes out of the jungle.

At first, Manaf laughed it off. Typical rural folklore meant to spread fear, he thought. But when he saw the fear in the eyes of an elderly villager, Fazlu Chacha, the intrigue crept into his blood.

Fazlu Chacha warned,

“Boy, don’t leave the house after dark. If the shadow man lays eyes on you… you won’t remain yourself.”

Several people had reportedly disappeared—last seen near the forest at night. None were ever found.

Determined to uncover the truth behind the mystery, Manaf decided: this would be the big story of his career.

Night three.

No moon in the sky. Light fog veiled the trees. Manaf set off alone with a camera and flashlight. It was 1:00 AM. The forest was deathly still, as if nature itself held its breath.

Suddenly, from the jungle, came a strange sound—like rustling leaves, but irregular and unnatural.

And then he saw it—a shadow. Shaped like a man, but far taller. The face was indistinct. The figure slowly moved toward him.

His throat went dry, but Manaf raised his camera. As soon as the flash went off—nothing. The shadow had vanished like smoke.

Startled but not defeated, he moved forward, eventually stumbling upon an old, half-burnt mansion. The house looked like it was weeping—the wind carried sounds that resembled sobs.

The door stood ajar. Inside, he found ruins—broken furniture, a rusted chain on the wall, and a torn mattress.

In one corner, he discovered an old diary. On its pages, an eerie message was written:

“I was never a man. I was a shadow, and still am.”

Below it:

“Those who spend the night in this house... their shadows never return.”

Around 3:00 AM, the door suddenly slammed shut. The air went still. The flashlight died. The camera turned off. Darkness.

Behind the door—stood the shadow. Now much closer. A cold breath touched Manaf’s neck. He dared not look. But a voice echoed in his ears:

“You’ve come to write my story, haven’t you? Then write… not on paper—write in blood.”

The next morning, villagers found only a camera lying by the house. Empty. No photos. Nearby, a few lines were etched into the dirt:

“Shadow stories never end. Manaf came with light… and returned as a shadow.”

But the story didn’t end there.

Back in Dhaka, Manaf’s friends noticed something odd—he wasn’t the same. His eyes held no sleep, his smile was gone.

And every night, strange words began appearing in his journal—written in a language no one knew. The language of shadows.

One night, a shadow rose from the pages. That very night, Manaf disappeared.

In his room, only that old diary remained. On one of the pages was written:

“I no longer write. Now, I am what is written.”

Three weeks passed since Manaf vanished. The police closed the case. The villagers said he was no longer human—he had become a shadow.

And so, the story begins again. This time in Dhaka, with a young writer named Nabila, a close friend of Manaf. When she went to retrieve his belongings, she found a peculiar notebook.

On the first page was just one line:

“Now, you’ll write my story.”

Nabila thought little of it at first. Maybe something Manaf scribbled in fear. But that night, strange things began to happen.

The notebook’s pages started flipping on their own. No wind. The windows were shut. Still—shhh shhh—the sound of turning pages.

The second night, she saw something written in her own handwriting.

But she hadn’t written it.

“Dhulamati is calling again. The shadow is no longer behind you—it’s ahead.”

Sleep became impossible. The notebook felt like it was watching her. A shadow slowly began to form on the wall beside her bed.

On the third night, she dreamt of standing in front of that same burnt house in Dhulamati. The door opened on its own, and out walked... Manaf.

But his eyes were black, face devoid of emotion, lips whispering:

“I’m still writing… for the shadow.”

The next morning, Nabila made her decision—she would go to Dhulamati and find out what really happened to Manaf.

Armed with a camera, her journal, and the shadow notebook, she set off.

In the village, she met Fazlu Chacha again. His face turned pale when he saw her.

“If you’ve taken the notebook,” he said, “then your shadow is no longer yours. Leave while you can.”

Nabila didn’t listen. That night, under a moonless sky and thick fog, she walked toward the haunted mansion.

Inside, everything was more decayed. But on the wall—she saw a new portrait.

It was her. In a black dress, eyes hollow.

Then, she heard it again—that familiar voice:

“Now you will write. Not in blood… in shadow.”

She screamed and threw the notebook. But it floated back into her hands. The pages rustled and wrote themselves:

“Your shadow is mine. Whatever you write… will come true.”

Suddenly, the room filled with moving shadows—tall, faceless, whispering.

One said:

“Manaf wanted to reveal the truth… but truth doesn’t always live in the light.”

Just then, dawn broke. Sunlight peeked in. The shadows began to melt.

Nabila realized this notebook wasn’t just a story—it was a bond, an ancient curse. Whoever wrote in it became part of the tale.

She decided to finish it. To tell the truth. To bring Manaf back.

On the last page, she wrote:

“Manaf returned, but his shadow did not. The shadow… is now mine.”