শ্মশান ঘাটের অদ্ভুত রাত

 

বাংলা সাহিত্যে ভূতের গল্পের এক আলাদা স্থান আছে। আজকের এই বাংলা ভূতের গল্পটি এক অদ্ভুত শ্মশান ঘাটকে কেন্দ্র করে, যেখানে রাত হলেই নেমে আসে ভয়ংকর এক নিস্তব্ধতা। যারা সাহস করে সেখানে পা দেয়, তাদের জীবন আর আগের মতো থাকে না।

শুরুর কথা

ঘটনাটা ঘটে পশ্চিমবঙ্গের এক প্রত্যন্ত গ্রামের, নাম ধরি চণ্ডীপুর। গ্রামের শেষপ্রান্তে একটা পুরনো শ্মশান ঘাট ছিল—নির্জন, ঝোপঝাড়ে ঘেরা আর দিনের আলো পড়তেই যেন চারপাশটা নেমে যেত ভয়ের অন্ধকারে। গ্রামের লোকেরা সেখানে সূর্যাস্তের পর যেত না, এমনকি কারো মৃত্যু হলেও কেউ চায় না রাতে দাহ করতে।

অভিনেতা অমিতের আগমন

অমিত, একজন উঠতি অভিনেতা, শহর থেকে গ্রামে এসেছিল একটা ডকুমেন্টারি শ্যুট করতে—"বাংলার হারিয়ে যাওয়া রীতি ও কুসংস্কার" বিষয় নিয়ে। শুটিংয়ের অংশ হিসেবে তাকে শ্মশান ঘাটে যেতে হতো। অমিত কুসংস্কারে বিশ্বাস করত না। তার বিশ্বাস ছিল, ভূত-প্রেত সব মানুষের মনের ভয়।

গ্রামের এক বৃদ্ধ, হারাধন কাকা, তাকে সাবধান করেছিল, “বাবু, ওই শ্মশানটা ভালো নয়। বহু বছর আগে এখানে এক তান্ত্রিক সন্ন্যাসীর মৃত্যু হয়, তার পর থেকেই রাত হলেই নানা অঘটন ঘটে।” কিন্তু অমিত এসব কথা হেসে উড়িয়ে দেয়।

রহস্যের শুরু

শুটিংয়ের তৃতীয় দিন অমিত আর তার ক্যামেরাম্যান বাপন যায় রাত আটটার সময় শ্মশান ঘাটে। জোছনার আলোয় জায়গাটা আরও বেশি রহস্যময় লাগছিল। ক্যামেরা অন করে তারা শ্যুট শুরু করে—তবে কিছুক্ষণ পরেই বাপন বলে, “দাদা, ক্যামেরায় ঝাপসা ছবি আসছে, বারবার ফোকাস হারাচ্ছে।”

হঠাৎ বাতাস ঠান্ডা হয়ে গেল। গাছের ডালগুলো যেন আপনমনে দুলতে লাগল, কোথা থেকে যেন ভেসে এল এক করুণ কান্না—এক নারীর, গভীর বেদনাভরা।

অমিত চমকে উঠল। “কে ওখানে?”—চিৎকার করে উঠল সে। কোনো উত্তর নেই, কেবল কান্না আর ঠান্ডা বাতাসের শব্দ। বাপন কাঁপা গলায় বলল, “দাদা, চলুন! এখান থেকে বেরিয়ে যাই!”

কিন্তু অমিত তখনো বিশ্বাস করতে চায় না। ও বলে, “ওসব কিছু না, হ্যালুসিনেশন হচ্ছে।”

তখনই তারা দেখতে পেল শ্মশানের চুল্লির ধারে এক সাদা শাড়ি পরা নারী বসে আছে, তার চুল মুখ ঢাকা। নারীর মুখ দেখা যাচ্ছিল না, কিন্তু তার বুকফাটা কান্না বাতাস ছিন্ন করে কানে আসছিল।

ভয়ংকর মোড়

অমিত সাহস করে তার দিকে এগিয়ে গেল, আর তখনই সব বাতাস থেমে গেল। এক মুহূর্তের জন্য সব শব্দ স্তব্ধ। সে নারীর মুখটা হঠাৎ ওপরে উঠল। কুৎসিত, পোড়া মুখ—যেন জীবন্ত কেউ আগুনে পুড়ে ছাই হয়ে গেছে!

বাপন চিৎকার দিয়ে দৌড় দেয়। অমিত পাথরের মতো দাঁড়িয়ে পড়ে, তার চোখ স্থির সেই নারীর চোখে। এক অদৃশ্য টান যেন তাকে নারীর দিকে টানছে। সে হাত বাড়ায় নারীর দিকে—আর তখন নারীর মুখ বিকৃত হয়ে গর্জে ওঠে, “আমার চিতায় কে এসেছিসss…”

তারপর আর কিছু মনে নেই অমিতের।

পরদিন সকাল

গ্রামের লোকজন ভোরে দেখতে পায়, শ্মশান ঘাটে অমিত অচেতন অবস্থায় পড়ে আছে। তার শরীর ঠান্ডা, কিন্তু জীবিত। ডাক্তার বলে সে মানসিক আঘাত পেয়েছে—তার মস্তিষ্ক স্বাভাবিকভাবে কাজ করছে না। সে শুধু একই কথা বলছে, “আমি চিতায় যাইনি... আমি চিতায় যাইনি...”

বাপন আর কখনও গ্রামে ফেরেনি। সে পরে সাংবাদিকদের জানিয়েছিল, সেই রাতের অভিজ্ঞতা তাকে আজও তাড়া করে বেড়ায়।

হারাধন কাকার ব্যাখ্যা

গ্রামের বৃদ্ধ হারাধন কাকা জানায়, সেই নারীর নাম ছিল কুন্তলা। সমাজের চাপে একদিন সে শ্মশানে আত্মাহুতি দেয়। বলা হয়, তার আত্মা আজও খুঁজে ফেরে তার যন্ত্রণার প্রতিশোধ। কেউ যদি রাতে তার চুল্লির ধারে আসে, তাকে সে ভুলিয়ে নিজের যন্ত্রণার অংশ বানায়।

শেষ কথা – শ্মশান ঘাটের ভয়ংকর ইতিহাস

আজও চণ্ডীপুরের সেই শ্মশান ঘাটে কেউ রাতে পা দেয় না। গ্রামের ছেলেমেয়েরা বড় হয় এই গল্প শুনে, আর শহরের লোকেরা আসে ভিডিও করতে—কিন্তু কেউ ফিরে যায় না আগের মতো। এই বাংলা ভূতের গল্প শুধু একটি গল্প নয়—এটি একটি সতর্কবার্তা।

আপনি কি সাহসী? আপনি কি নিজে গিয়ে দেখতে চান সেই শ্মশান ঘাট? মনে রাখবেন, প্রতিটি শ্মশানের আছে তার নিজস্ব ইতিহাস, আর কিছু ইতিহাস না জানা থাকলেই ভালো।

বাংলা ভূতের গল্প,ভৌতিক গল্প, শ্মশান ঘাট, ভূতের অভিজ্ঞতা, ভূতের গল্প বাংলা, ভয়ংকর বাংলা গল্প, The Mysterious Night at the Cremation Ground

The Whispering House

The Whispering House

In the fog-drenched hills of Northern England, there stood an abandoned house known only as "Whistler's Hollow." Locals avoided it, whispering tales of madness and death that clung to it like ivy. The house had stood empty for decades—its windows shattered, its roof sagging, and its blackened chimney looking like a finger pointing toward the sky.

For Emily Radcliffe, a rising young photographer from London, the house was a perfect subject for her latest project on "decay and memory." Ignoring the warnings from the villagers in nearby Elmsbridge, she drove to the Hollow alone one grey afternoon in October.

From the moment she stepped out of her car, she felt it—the silence. It wasn’t the quiet of nature, but something else, something deliberate. The air felt heavy, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

With her camera slung over her shoulder, she stepped inside. The wooden door creaked like a scream held too long. The house smelled of wet earth and mold. Dust danced in the shafts of cold light that filtered through broken glass.

She began to take photos—of the staircase that curled like a serpent upward, the fireplace lined with ancient soot, the cracked mirror in the hall that reflected everything but her.

That was the first sign.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. But when she stood in front of the mirror, raising her camera, her reflection didn’t move. It stared back, slightly out of sync, a smirk forming on its lips a second before her own did.

A chill rolled down her spine.

"Just the atmosphere," she muttered, trying to convince herself. "Old houses are full of strange reflections."

She continued deeper into the house. In what remained of the living room, she found a child’s toy—a porcelain doll missing one eye. She took a photo of it, then heard something faint behind her.

A whisper.

She turned quickly. No one. But the whisper came again, closer this time. Words she couldn’t quite make out, spoken in a rasp that sounded wet and broken.

"Who’s there?" she called, her voice more defiant than she felt.

No answer. Just a giggle, distant but wrong—too cold, too calculated.

She gripped her camera tighter and ascended the stairs. They groaned beneath her weight, almost as if protesting her presence. At the top was a long hallway of closed doors. She tried the first—it was locked. The second creaked open, revealing a child’s bedroom untouched by time. The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips. Stuffed animals were scattered across the bed.

On the wall, scrawled in something dark, were the words: “Still here.”

Emily raised her camera, but it wouldn’t click. The battery, fully charged that morning, was suddenly dead. She checked her phone—black screen. No signal. No power. Nothing.

The whisper came again, this time from behind her.

She spun around. The hallway was empty, but the door at the end was now ajar. Heart pounding, she walked toward it, each step echoing like thunder. She pushed the door open.

Inside was a study, its walls lined with decaying books. An old desk sat under a curtained window. A single candle flickered on its surface, though no wind stirred. No one had lit it.

Then she saw the journal.

Its cover was bound in cracked leather, initials faded: A.B.

She opened it. The entries were frantic, rambling, the handwriting deteriorated with each page.

"The whispers never stop. They come at night, and now during the day. They speak in voices I know—my wife, my son, but they are dead."

"I tried to leave, but the house won’t let me. Every door leads back here. Every window shows only fog."

Emily turned the page. The final entry read:

"If you're reading this, it already knows you're here."

The candle extinguished.

The temperature dropped sharply, her breath turning to mist. Something moved in the corner of her vision—a shadow, quick and low. She turned toward the door and saw it was no longer there. The wall was solid.

Panic surged through her. She began pounding on the walls, screaming, but her voice was swallowed by the silence.

Then came the scratching. From within the walls. Like nails. Or claws.

She backed away until she hit the desk. The whisper returned, now inches from her ear.

"Emily..."

She turned, tears brimming in her eyes. Nothing. Just the empty room.

And then she saw herself—standing in the mirror behind the desk. But it wasn’t her. The reflection smiled wide, unnaturally wide, its eyes hollow. It lifted a finger and pressed it to its lips.

Shhh.

Emily screamed.

She woke up lying on the floor, the morning light piercing the grime-coated windows. Her camera sat beside her, battery inexplicably full. Her phone was charged. The front door was open.

She ran. She didn’t stop until she reached Elmsbridge.

The villagers saw the look in her eyes and said nothing. They had seen it before.

Emily never returned to Whistler’s Hollow. But sometimes, when she looks into a mirror, she catches a glimpse of a smile that isn’t hers… and hears a faint whisper in the back of her mind:

“Still here.”

The House on Hollow Hill

 

The House on Hollow Hill

Everyone in the village of Elmsworth knew about the house on Hollow Hill. It wasn’t just abandoned — it was avoided. Children were warned not to wander near it, and old-timers would cross themselves when its name was mentioned. People said the house had been cursed ever since the Wilkins family vanished one stormy night forty years ago.

But for seventeen-year-old Maya, curiosity always won over caution. She had heard the stories, yes, but stories were just stories. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Besides, she needed a subject for her final photography project, and the old Victorian house with its crumbling windows and overgrown yard was perfect.

One foggy afternoon, camera in hand, Maya climbed the steep path to Hollow Hill. The house stood like a forgotten relic of another time — paint peeled from its wooden frame, and the iron gate swung with a long, sorrowful creak in the wind. The silence was so heavy, it seemed to press against her ears.

She stepped inside.

The air was thick with dust and something else — something damp and sour, like decay. The floors groaned beneath her feet as she made her way through the entrance hall. Tattered wallpaper peeled in long strips. Cobwebs hung like curtains from the ceiling. But her camera captured everything beautifully: the eerie beauty of abandonment.

As she climbed the stairs, she heard a sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She froze. It was coming from the end of the hallway. A door stood slightly ajar.

Maya swallowed her fear. Just the wind, she told herself. She pushed open the door.

Inside was a child’s bedroom. A small wooden rocking horse sat in one corner, and faded wallpaper with dancing bears covered the walls. In the center of the room, a little girl sat with her back to Maya. Her black hair was matted and tangled, and she wore a tattered white dress. She was gently tapping something against the wooden floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Maya’s breath caught. "Hello?" she whispered.

The girl stopped tapping.

Slowly, she turned around.

Her eyes were solid black.

Maya stumbled backward, tripping over the threshold. She scrambled to her feet and ran down the hall, down the stairs, through the entrance, and out into the fog. She didn’t stop until she reached the safety of the village.

No one believed her. Her photos showed only empty rooms.

But Maya couldn’t forget the girl’s face — pale as bone, with eyes that looked like deep wells into something ancient and wrong.

---

Maya didn’t sleep that night.

At 3:17 AM, she awoke to the sound of tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It came from her window. Slowly, she turned her head.

The girl was standing there, outside her second-floor window, her black eyes locked on Maya's.

The window shattered inward.

The girl vanished.

The next morning, Maya’s mother found her unconscious on the floor, a deep cut on her cheek. She said she must’ve fallen from bed and hit the nightstand. But Maya knew better.

Over the next week, things got worse. She saw glimpses of the girl in mirrors, in the corners of rooms, in shadows that didn’t belong. And always the tapping. It followed her — at school, on the bus, in the shower.

She returned to Hollow Hill.

She had to end this.

---

Armed with a flashlight and her camera, Maya made her way back to the cursed house. The air was even colder this time. She called out into the darkness, “What do you want?”

The tapping came again — this time from the walls around her. The sound moved, circling her like footsteps.

In the child’s bedroom, the girl stood waiting.

“I saw you,” Maya whispered. “Why are you following me?”

The girl blinked. And then, in a voice that sounded more like the rustling of dead leaves, she said, “Help me.”

Maya’s fear warred with something else — pity.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

The girl pointed to the closet.

Inside, Maya found a loose floorboard. She pried it up.

A small skeleton lay inside, curled up like a sleeping doll.

Tears stung Maya’s eyes. “Oh God… is this you?”

The girl nodded.

And then, around her, the house changed.

The walls bled shadow. Screams filled the air. For a moment, Maya saw them — the Wilkins family, terrified, trapped, as the house consumed them. A dark shape moved behind them, a shadow with glowing red eyes. It wasn’t just a haunted house — it was alive.

It had taken them.

The little girl looked at Maya and whispered, “He’s still here.”

A shadow fell over them both.

Maya turned and saw it — tall, thin, twisted, its eyes burning with ancient hate. It was the thing that fed on the house, on fear, on pain.

She ran.

This time, it chased her.

The walls stretched, the doors vanished, the house moved to trap her. But she held tight to the girl’s remains, bundled in her jacket.

She burst through the front door just as the shadow lunged.

Sunlight hit her face.

The creature shrieked and vanished.

Behind her, the house groaned. It shuddered like something alive and dying. Then, it was still.

Maya buried the girl in the village cemetery, under a tree that bloomed even in winter.

No one else ever saw the house again.

Some say it sank into the earth. Others say it still stands, hidden from view, waiting.

But Maya never forgot the little girl, or the thing that lived in the walls.

Sometimes, late at night, when the wind howls just right…

She still hears the tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.