The Winter Bride: The Terror of Kashmiri Nights

Kashmir’s winters are beautiful but unforgiving. Snow blankets the valleys, rivers freeze over, and a chilling silence settles over the land. But among the locals, winter is not just a season—it is a time of fear. For when the snow falls thick and the nights grow long, the Rantas awakens.

My grandmother often spoke of the Rantas in hushed tones, her eyes darting to the darkened windows as if the creature might be listening. She described it as a grotesque, inhuman figure: a female spirit with long, matted hair covering its entire body like a beast’s pelt. Its crimson eyes burned with malice, and its teeth, sharp and jagged, were bared in an eternal snarl.

The Rantas was said to wander the snowy forests and mountain paths in search of men—calling out to them in a voice so sweet and melodic it could lure even the bravest into its trap. But beneath that haunting beauty lay a creature of pure terror, cursed to roam the earth forever.

I never believed those stories—until the winter of 2001.

The Howl in the Forest

It was a harsh winter that year, the kind that left even the hardiest villagers confined to their homes. The snow piled high, and the cold seeped into every crack. But life in our village had to go on, and one evening, my cousin Imran and I were tasked with fetching firewood from the edge of the forest.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting the world in shades of blue and gray. The forest was eerily quiet as we worked, the snow crunching underfoot the only sound.

Then we heard it—a long, low howl that froze us in place.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered.

Imran nodded, his face pale. “Probably just a dog,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

But this was no dog. The sound wasn’t animalistic—it was almost human, tinged with a strange, mournful quality that sent a shiver down my spine.

As we hurried to finish our task, a strange feeling came over me, like we were being watched. I turned, scanning the darkened trees, but saw nothing.

“Let’s go,” I said, and we quickly made our way back to the village.

The Rantas Appears

That night, as the wind howled outside, I lay in bed, struggling to sleep. I kept replaying the sound we’d heard in the forest, trying to convince myself it was nothing.

Then, just as I was drifting off, I heard it again.

A soft, melodic voice, calling my name.

I bolted upright, my heart racing. The voice was faint, but it was coming from outside. I crept to the window and peered into the darkness.

At first, I saw nothing but snow and shadows. But then, a figure emerged from the trees.

It was tall, impossibly tall, and covered in long, matted hair that swayed in the icy wind. Its glowing red eyes pierced the darkness, and its jagged teeth gleamed as it smiled.

It was the Rantas.

I stumbled back from the window, my breath coming in short gasps. The voice grew louder, more insistent, filling the room with its eerie melody.

“Come to me,” it whispered, sweet and soft. “Come to me.”

The Chase

Terrified, I ran to my parents’ room and woke them. “The Rantas is outside!” I cried, my voice trembling.

They didn’t question me. My father grabbed a bundle of herbs and a burning coal from the fire, muttering prayers under his breath. Together, we huddled in the center of the room as he performed a protective ritual.

Outside, the voice turned to a low growl, and then a deafening howl that shook the walls.

“It’s testing us,” my grandmother said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Don’t open the door, no matter what you hear.”

The howling continued for hours, accompanied by the sound of scratching at the windows. At one point, I thought I heard Imran’s voice, begging to be let in. But I knew it couldn’t be him—he was safe in his home on the other side of the village.

Finally, as dawn broke, the sounds stopped.

The Aftermath

When we stepped outside, the snow around our house was disturbed, as if something had paced back and forth all night. Deep claw marks scored the wooden door and window frames.

The elders performed a cleansing ritual for the entire village that morning, burning herbs and offering prayers to ward off the Rantas. They told us the creature was drawn to despair and loneliness, and that it thrived in the silence of winter.

I never saw the Rantas again, but I will never forget those glowing eyes and that haunting voice.

Even now, years later, I avoid the forest in winter. When the nights are long and the snow falls thick, I stay inside, close to the fire, and remind myself of my grandmother’s words:

“The Rantas may be beautiful, but it is a beast. And no one who follows its call ever returns.”