The Night I Mistook Shadows for Ghosts

The Night the Ghosts Chased Me

BY:Khan

I was in a hurry to reach my village that day. That’s why I left home early in the afternoon, certain I would arrive before dusk. But life had other plans. Somewhere along a desolate stretch of road, the bus I was traveling in broke down.

At first, the driver and his helper tried to fix it themselves. When their efforts failed, the driver sent the helper off to the nearest town to fetch a mechanic. By the time the bus was finally repaired, the sun had dipped below the horizon. Evening had turned into night.

When I stepped off the bus at my stop, darkness had already thickened around me. My village was still three kilometers away, down a narrow dirt path branching off from the main road. With no other choice, I began walking.

The sky above was moonless. Not even a silver streak of moonlight offered comfort—only faintly twinkling stars scattered across the blackness. Their weak glow cast strange, eerie shapes on the path. It was my first time walking alone at night, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. In the silence, the sound of my own heartbeat seemed louder than my footsteps.

I had only walked a short distance when it began. A huge owl, wings flapping like torn cloth, swooped from one tree to another just above my head. Its sudden, hollow hoot ripped through the silence. I froze in terror, scanning the trees and shadows around me.

Then came a soft rustling sound from the bushes. I turned quickly, my eyes straining to adjust to the darkness. Was someone there? The tall grass and wild shrubs quivered, as though hiding someone. I stepped back—and bumped into something solid. My throat tightened, and an involuntary scream escaped my lips.

It was only a tree. In my panic, I had stumbled into it. But then, behind the tree, I thought I saw a shape—something pale and hazy, like a figure. My blood ran cold. When I stepped back again, the figure seemed to move toward me.

I did what any terrified man would do: I ran.

I sprinted blindly down the path, my breath coming in sharp bursts. But then I skidded to a stop. In front of me, blocking the path, stood a tall, thin “ghost”—or so it looked. I stumbled backward, only to feel something reaching out from the bushes as if to grab me. My voice cracked as I let out another scream and bolted into the darkness.

Whispers and rustling noises seemed to follow me as I ran. Shadows loomed, trees twisted into grotesque shapes, and every movement in the dark felt alive. Suddenly, my eyes caught something far more terrifying: a witch.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

She hung upside down from a tree, her hair spilling toward the ground like black ropes. In the dark, her eyes burned red like embers. When she lunged toward me, I shrieked and veered off the path, plunging into the fields.

I leapt over bushes and crops, desperate to escape. But fate wasn’t done playing tricks on me. The ground vanished beneath my feet, and I crashed face-first into a muddy pond. Thick slime and water swallowed me, and I clawed my way out, gasping for air. My clothes were soaked, my body caked in mud. Shivering in the cold night, I probably looked more like a ghost than any creature I’d imagined.

Still, I didn’t dare stop. My only thought was to keep running before “they” caught up with me.

By the time I circled back near the village, another disaster struck. The village dogs, seeing a mud-covered stranger staggering toward them, assumed I was some kind of monster. They began barking furiously, chasing me through the lanes.

Panicked, I sprinted toward my uncle’s house, the one place I knew would be safe. But in my confusion, I lost my way among the winding paths. Only after several frantic turns did I finally reach the door. By then, the dogs were snapping at my heels.

I banged on the door with both fists. “Open up! Quick!” I shouted.

“Who’s there?” came a startled voice from inside.

“Open the door, please!” I yelled again.

My cousin opened the door a crack—and immediately stepped back in horror when he saw me. Before the dogs could leap at me, I dashed inside and slammed the door shut.

“Who are you?” my cousin asked in a trembling voice. By now the rest of the family had gathered, their faces pale with fear.

“It’s me,” I gasped, giving them my name. It took several moments before they recognized me. My uncle’s expression shifted from fear to amusement.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“Ghosts,” I panted. “Witches. They were chasing me.”

“Ghosts?” He burst out laughing. “My boy, there were no ghosts. You scared yourself with your own imagination. In the dark, trees become monsters and bushes become witches. Only the owl was real.”

I sat down, exhausted. Slowly, my breathing calmed, and his words began to make sense. He was right. There had been no ghosts, no witches—just shadows and my own fears. I realized how much time I spent reading ghost stories, letting those images take root in my mind. Tonight, in the darkness, they had come alive.

“Good Lord,” I muttered, burying my face in my hands. “It was all in my head.”

And it was. That night, I learned a lesson I’ll never forget: the scariest ghosts are often the ones we carry inside our imagination.