THE HAUNTED MARKETPLACE

THE HAUNTED MARKETPLACE

I never believed in ghosts. Not until I stepped into the marketplace that night.

It was supposed to be simple. A promise to my girlfriend, Mia. Her dad had died here a year ago, torn apart by something no one could explain. The locals whispered about the spirits, but I thought it was just stories. I was wrong.

The marketplace was built on cursed ground. Centuries ago, a massacre happened here. Innocent people were slaughtered, and their spirits never left. At night, they rise, angry and hungry for revenge. Mia begged me not to go, but I couldn’t back down. I had made a promise.

I came prepared. Holy water, iron knives, amulets—everything I could think of. I even wore my grandfather’s old pendant, a family heirloom. I thought I was ready.

The moment the sun set, the air changed. The bustling market turned silent, and the shadows seemed alive. I felt them before I saw them—cold, invisible hands brushing against my skin. Then, they appeared. Ghostly figures, their eyes hollow, their faces twisted in rage. They surrounded me, but I stood my ground.

That’s when she appeared. The leader. A woman in a tattered dress, her hair flowing like smoke. She looked at me, and for a moment, I froze. Her voice was soft but chilling. “Leave,” she said. “You don’t belong here.”

I tightened my grip on the knife. “I can’t. I made a promise.”

She tilted her head, studying me. Then her eyes fell on the pendant around my neck. Her expression changed. “Your grandfather… he was my fiancé.” Her voice cracked, and for a second, she looked human. “He tried to stop the massacre too. He failed. Leave, boy. Don’t make the same mistake.”

I hesitated. My grandfather had never talked about her. But I couldn’t leave. Not after what happened to Mia’s dad. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

Her face hardened. “Then you’ll join him.”

The spirits lunged at me. I swung the knife, splashing holy water, but there were too many. They clawed at me, their cold fingers burning my skin. I fought harder, screaming, swinging blindly. The woman watched, her eyes filled with sadness and anger.

I don’t know how long it lasted. My arms ached, my breath came in gasps, and I was covered in cuts. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Finally, the woman raised her hand, and the spirits retreated. She stepped closer, her face inches from mine. “You’re just like him,” she whispered. “Stubborn. Brave. Foolish.” She touched the pendant, and for a moment, I saw tears in her eyes. “Go. Tell your girlfriend her father’s death will be the last. We’ll stop. But if you ever return, we won’t be so kind.”

I didn’t argue. I ran. I ran until my legs gave out, and I collapsed outside the marketplace. The sun was rising, and the shadows were gone.

I kept my promise to Mia. The spirits never hurt anyone again. But sometimes, at night, I dream of the woman. Her sad eyes, her voice, her touch. And I wonder if I did the right thing—or if I just made a deal with the dead.