The Witching Hour

There once was a mysterious and terrifying village called Mayapur in the middle of the dense Sundarbans. In whispers, the peasants discussed "Pret-er Prohor"—The Witching Hour. It was just before midnight, when the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead became hazy and the departed's spirits were free to roam. The residents would stay inside and lock their doors at midnight every night, hoping for a speedy break of dawn.

Generation after generation, people had been telling the horrific tales of the Witching Hour. It was believed that during this hour, the ghosts of people who had met violent or betrayed deaths—those who had died unnaturally—would rise from their graves and seek comfort or retribution. Numerous people reported feeling a chilling presence that made their skin crawl, seeing ghostly figures strolling the fields, and hearing faint whispers in the wind.

A young man by the name of Ratan lived among the locals. Ratan did not believe in spirits or the Witching Hour, in contrast to the others. He was a sensible man who was more interested in life's practicalities than in outdated beliefs. Ratan chose one night to see if these stories were true, in spite of the advice from his elders. His goal was to disprove the belief that the Witching Hour existed.

Ratan departed his house shortly before midnight on that fateful night, when the full moon illuminated the village in a ghostly way. The only sound in the quiet village was the wind rustling through the trees. Ratan, with just his bravery and a lantern for protection, made his way to the village's edge to the old, deserted graveyard there. It was said to be the most haunted location in Mayapur, with the most powerful spirits.

The temperature dropped and a dense mist covered the ground as Ratan got closer to the graveyard. He pushed through, his lantern creating lengthy shadows on the old tombstones, ignoring the uneasiness that was beginning to creep up his spine. As midnight approached, the town bell tolled twelve times, sending a foreboding ring into the night.

The wind suddenly started up, roaring like a chorus of wails through the woods. Ratan's route became obscured as the mist grew thicker and the temperature decreased even more. But he went on, intent on getting to the cemetery's center. That's when he heard it, a melancholy wail carried by the wind. Ratan came to a standstill, his heart racing. The cry became more urgent and louder until it filled the room surrounding him.

Raising his lamp, Ratan spotted them in the faint light, silhouettes forming out of the haze, their bodies shimmering and translucent. Their faces contorted in anguish and agony, they were the ghosts of the dead. With eerie, vacant eyes and spectral hands stretching out, they drifted in his direction.

Ratan became terrified upon discovering the veracity of the tales. The ghosts were genuine; they were drawn to him and their influence grew stronger by the moment. Despite his attempts to turn and flee, he felt as though his feet were immobile. The ghosts encircled him, their icy breath freezing him to the bone and their cries ringing in his ears.

One of the spirits spoke, barely audible above a whisper, just as he was about to lose all hope. It questioned, Why have you come here, mortal? Do you seek to join us in our eternal torment?

Shaking from terror, Ratan said, I intended no harm... I was not convinced... I had no idea.

The ghost cast a mournful glance at him. The hour of the dead is not for the living, it said. Leave this place and never return, or you will be lost to the darkness forever.

The spirits' shapes started to dissolve into the mist as soon as they said those words. The air became calm as the breeze slowed. Shaken to his very core, Ratan turned and ran from the cemetery, his lantern waving erratically.

His head spinning from what he had witnessed, he fled back to the village. He rushed inside, locked the door behind him, and collapsed to the ground, his heart pounding. Though the Witching Hour was over, the memory of it will always trouble him.

Ratan never again mentioned the events of that night. He never went outside after dark again, and he respected the stories of the Witching Hour. He came to the realization that the Witching Hour was a period best kept sacred and that the spirits of the dead were not to be trifled with.