The Bloodstained Silk

Chapter 1: Festival and Blood

In the heart of an ancient mountainous region, nestled in a valley wrapped in mist and shadow, stood the crumbling remains of a once-glorious palace. It had belonged to the Larma family, an old Chakma lineage that once ruled these parts with grace and pride. But now, the estate stood abandoned—haunted by whispers of betrayal, bloodshed, and a silk handkerchief soaked in death.

The tale most often passed from mouth to mouth was that of Sundari Larma, the family’s only daughter—beautiful, intelligent, and loved by all. Despite countless suitors from noble families, she gave her heart to a soft-spoken man from the city—Rumen, a quiet but charming scholar.

Their engagement festival was grand. Lanterns floated in the night sky, traditional Chakma instruments played melodic tunes, and guests arrived dressed in silk and gold. The Larma palace glowed in celebration.

But that night would become Sundari's last.

Amid the drums and laughter, a terrifying scream pierced the air. Guests rushed toward her chamber only to find her lifeless body sprawled across the floor. Her white silk attire was drenched in blood. In her hand was a finely embroidered silk handkerchief—a gift from Rumen the night before their engagement.

Rumen, however, had vanished. Gone. As if swallowed by the mist.

The investigation yielded nothing. No signs, no suspects—just silence. The palace fell into mourning, and the once-vibrant halls turned cold.

Chapter 2: Reign of Shadows

After Sundari's death, the palace decayed both in form and spirit. The staff slowly left—servants, guards, caretakers—none dared stay after what they heard.

The villagers in the nearby hamlet of Rajbari Para began to speak of strange events. On full moon nights, they claimed to hear soft sobbing echoing through the valley. Sometimes whispers. Sometimes the dragging of heavy chains. A few claimed they saw a woman—long black hair, bloodstained clothes, and a handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand.

Parents forbade their children from playing near the ruins.

“She still wanders those halls, seeking justice,” they would say.

And so, the palace became a place of silence, sealed in memory and mystery.

Chapter 3: The Visitor from the City

Decades later, a curious young historian named Drubo Chakma arrived from the city. Fascinated by folklore and forgotten legacies, he had read mentions of the Larma Palace in dusty journals and rare books. Determined to uncover the truth behind the legend, he made the journey to Rajbari Para.

The villagers, hesitant at first, slowly shared the tale of Sundari and the cursed handkerchief.

But Drubo wasn't afraid. He was intrigued. He even decided to stay in the palace itself, hoping to find records, carvings, or relics that would confirm the events of the past.

The first few nights were uneventful. Silent. Calm. Dusty. He explored the decaying corridors and catalogued whatever he could.

Then came the full moon.

Chapter 4: The Whispering Handkerchief

It was nearly two in the morning. Fog blanketed the surroundings like a suffocating quilt. The palace creaked under the cold, silver glow of the moon.

Suddenly, Drubo heard it.

A cry—soft and piercing—echoed from the far end of the eastern wing. He paused. Perhaps an owl? A jackal? But then came the whisper:

“My handkerchief... my justice...”

Frozen in fear and curiosity, Drubo grabbed his flashlight and followed the sound through the dark hallways.

He stopped at an old chamber door—slightly ajar. A faint, golden light shimmered from within.

He pushed it open.

Inside stood the silhouette of a woman. Her face obscured by shadow. Long hair flowed over her shoulders. She wore a white dress stained crimson. And in her hand—the silk handkerchief, embroidered, elegant… and dripping blood.

Drop by drop, it pooled onto the stone floor.

Chapter 5: Escape and Madness

Drubo wanted to scream, to run—but his legs felt like stone. The figure took a step forward.

“You saw it... You know the truth... Find him... Return my handkerchief...”

Her voice was a whisper and a cry at once—haunting, hollow, human.

Mustering every ounce of strength, Drubo broke free from his paralysis, stumbled backward, and burst through the door, sprinting through the corridors, heart racing, mind spinning.

By dawn, villagers found him unconscious at the edge of the forest.

When he awoke, pale and trembling, he said only one thing:

“She’s still there... waiting for justice.”

He left Rajbari Para the same day and never returned.

Chapter 6: The Cursed Truth

In a later publication, Drubo wrote:

“Rumen never left that palace. He killed Sundari—not out of hatred, but a twisted form of love and jealousy. Perhaps even his spirit lingers there, tormented. But Sundari’s soul—she is trapped by sorrow, rage, and betrayal.”

To this day, villagers claim that anyone who ventures too close to the palace on a full moon hears the same whisper:

“My handkerchief... my blood... my justice...”

Some say that if you ever touch the handkerchief, you’ll never return.

Final Note

Rajbari Para still exists, nestled in the green hills. But no one enters the Larma Palace after sundown. The fear remains, woven into their lives.

On nights of the full moon, the air grows thick, the winds heavy. Some claim to see her in the distance—a woman in bloodstained silk, clutching a handkerchief, searching eternally for the one who can avenge her fate.