The Shadows of Bhangarh (Chapter 1 and 2)

 

The Shadows of Bhangarh

Main Characters:

1.  Aarav (Narrator):
The storyteller, now a father. In college, he was quiet, thoughtful, and passionate about photography and history. He’s skeptical but open-minded — the one who documented the trip.

2.  Riya:
Aarav’s girlfriend at the time — intelligent, curious, and brave. She studied archaeology and was fascinated by Indian mythology.

3.  Kabir:
The loud, confident, jokester of the group. Engineering student, loves challenges, never takes legends seriously.

4.  Neha:
Psychology major — analytical and sensitive. She believes that fear itself can manifest realities.

5.  Raghav:
Medical student, calm under pressure, but secretly superstitious. The most logical of the group — yet the first to sense something wrong.

6.  Tanuj:
The prankster and adrenaline junkie. Always recording vlogs for his YouTube channel — “India Unlocked.” His obsession with thrill-seeking will lead to tragedy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1: The Journey to Bhangarh

I still remember that December evening like it happened yesterday.
The desert wind outside our car window had a strange chill to it — the kind that shouldn’t belong to Rajasthan. Even now, as I sit by the fireplace with you, son, watching your eyes gleam with the same curiosity I once had, I hesitate before I tell you this story.

Because some memories are not meant to be retold.
But you’re old enough now. Maybe you deserve to know why I never go back to Rajasthan.

 

We were six — Riya, Kabir, Neha, Raghav, Tanuj, and me.
College students in our final year, taking a winter break before life tore us in different directions.
Riya had always wanted to explore the “haunted” forts of India for her archaeology thesis. Kabir thought it would make for great Instagram stories. Tanuj wanted content for his YouTube channel. Raghav rolled his eyes but came anyway, calling himself “the group medic.” Neha said she wanted to study how fear affected group dynamics.
And me? I just wanted to capture some good photographs and escape city life for a while.

We started from Jaipur, rented a white Scorpio, and hit the highway early one foggy morning. Rajasthan, bathed in pale sunlight, stretched endlessly — dunes, forts, and a strange silence that felt older than time itself.

By noon, the jokes had started.

“So, Aarav,” Kabir grinned, “you’re the historian. Is it true the Bhangarh Fort is cursed by some black magician?”
“Tantric,” Riya corrected, flipping through her notes. “His name was Singhia. He fell in love with Princess Ratnavati and tried to enchant her with a love potion. But it backfired. The potion spilled onto a rock that rolled down and crushed him. Before dying, he cursed the entire fort — that no one would live there in peace again.”
“Classic,” Tanuj laughed. “Boy likes girl, girl says no, boy curses everyone. I should try that sometime.”
“You’ll probably curse your subscribers,” Neha said dryly.

The car burst into laughter, but Raghav didn’t join in. He was looking out of the window, his face unusually tense.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just… it’s weird. I’ve been to Rajasthan twice, but this road feels… heavier. Like it’s pulling us somewhere.”

Riya smiled, brushing off his unease. “That’s the desert for you. It plays tricks on your head.”

We reached Bhangarh village by late afternoon. The fort loomed at a distance — an ancient skeleton against the dying sun. From afar, it looked breathtaking: stone walls glowing gold in the fading light, domes half-swallowed by vines, birds gliding across the ruins.

But as we got closer, that beauty turned uncanny.
The air itself changed — thicker, quieter. Even the wind seemed to whisper.

A weathered board at the entrance caught my attention:

“Entering the fort before sunrise and after sunset is strictly prohibited.
Archaeological Survey of India.”

Tanuj immediately took out his phone.
“Perfect shot! Guys, this is the sign. My viewers will love it.”
Raghav frowned. “It’s not just for show, Tanuj. Locals say people who stay after dark disappear.”
“Ghost stories,” Tanuj smirked. “Every fort has them.”

An old man sitting near a tea stall overheard us. His wrinkled face and sunburnt skin made him look carved from the desert itself.

“Don’t mock the curse, babu,” he said slowly, stirring his tea. “When the sun sleeps, this fort remembers its dead.”
“Remembers?” Neha asked softly.
“Yes,” the old man nodded. “The tantric still roams there — seeking the princess. Seeking anyone foolish enough to disturb him.”

A cold silence followed. Then Kabir laughed it off, paying for tea and waving the man goodbye. “We’ll be back before dark, chacha. Don’t worry.”

But as we entered the fort’s archway, I swear — the air temperature dropped at least five degrees.

 

Inside, the ruins were magnificent — hauntingly so.
Broken temples leaned toward each other like they were whispering secrets. A lone banyan tree stood in the center, its roots curling like claws. The wind carried faint echoes — laughter, or maybe the cries of birds.

Riya’s eyes sparkled. “This place is incredible,” she said, sketching in her notebook. “Imagine — a whole kingdom erased because of love and magic.”
“Or lust,” Neha muttered, running her fingers over the cracked stone. “People always mistake obsession for love.”

Tanuj kept recording, narrating like a professional vlogger:

“Okay, guys! We’re inside Bhangarh Fort — India’s most haunted place! Six friends, one curse, and— hopefully — no ghosts tonight!”

Kabir made a mock howl, and everyone laughed.
Everyone except Raghav.

He was staring at the palace ruins up ahead, where the princess was said to have lived. His lips moved slightly, as if counting something.

“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Listening,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The chanting.”

I stopped breathing for a second. All I heard was the wind. But then — faintly, almost buried in the breeze — there it was. A rhythmic murmur, like Sanskrit verses being recited from deep within the walls.

Riya frowned. “Probably the wind passing through cracks.”
But even she didn’t sound convinced.

 

As the sun began to set, we gathered near the main courtyard to rest. The light was turning orange, painting everything in long, crooked shadows.

Tanuj, of course, wanted one last “epic” video before we left.

“Let’s explore the princess’s palace,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Just a quick look before it gets dark.”
“No way,” Raghav said sharply. “We need to leave now. The sign was clear.”
“It’s not even sunset yet,” Tanuj argued. “Come on, live a little.”

Riya hesitated, looking at me.
And I — foolishly — nodded. “We’ll go in, take some photos, and leave before it’s dark. Promise.”

 

The staircase leading up to the palace was narrow, half-broken, with bats fluttering out from the cracks. The air grew heavier as we climbed, and a strange scent — like burnt sandalwood mixed with decay — filled the air.

Inside, the palace walls were covered in faint carvings. Riya traced one with her fingers. “Look at this,” she whispered. “That’s the tantric’s symbol — a five-pointed yantra. It was used for summoning spirits.”

Before I could reply, Tanuj’s flashlight flickered. He laughed nervously. “Cheap batteries.”

Then — from the far end of the hall — we heard it.
A low, trembling whisper.
A woman’s voice.

“Why… did you come back…?”

Tanuj froze. Riya dropped her notebook. Neha gripped my arm so tightly I could feel her nails.
The voice came again, clearer this time — sorrowful, trembling, and impossibly close.

“Leave… before he finds you…”

The next second, every flashlight went out at once.

And that… was the moment the curse woke up.

Chapter 2: The Palace of the Tantric

Even now, son, when I dream of that night, I can still hear her voice.
A whisper — fragile and pleading — echoing against those stone walls:

“Leave… before he finds you…”

When the lights went out, panic spread like wildfire. Riya fumbled with her phone’s flashlight, Kabir swore under his breath, and Tanuj — ever the fool — tried to record even in the dark.

“Relax, guys! Probably the wind or some villager trying to scare us.”

But no villager would come here after sunset.
Everyone in Bhangarh knew better.

 

The air turned heavy, like breathing through smoke. The scent of sandalwood grew stronger — but it was burnt, suffocating. I could hear Raghav whispering a prayer under his breath.

Then, faintly, the chanting began again.
This time, there was no mistaking it.
A rhythmic, low murmur — Sanskrit syllables, deep and ancient — “Om Dakini pishachayay namah…”

Riya’s voice trembled. “That doesn’t sound good…”
The sound grew louder, circling us — though there was no one around.

Suddenly, Tanuj’s camera light flickered back on, illuminating the far corner of the room.

A shadow moved there.
It wasn’t one of us.

The figure was tall, emaciated, robed in black. His face hidden beneath a matted curtain of hair. But his eyes — his eyes glowed faintly red, like burning embers beneath ash.

“Who’s there?” Kabir shouted, though his voice cracked.

The figure didn’t move.
Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin.

“You came… again.”

And just like that — the light died.

 

We ran.
No plan, no direction — just the instinct to escape.
The corridors twisted in ways that made no sense anymore. The same archways repeated themselves. The same broken statue appeared again and again.

Riya clutched my hand, whispering, “This isn’t possible. We’re going in circles.”
Raghav’s face was drenched in sweat. “He’s binding the space,” he said hoarsely. “We’re trapped inside a yantra.”

Neha gasped. “The symbol on the wall — that five-pointed mark! It’s an energy trap!”

Kabir snapped, “Enough mystic nonsense! We just need to find the exit!”
He sprinted ahead — and then stopped dead.

When we caught up, we saw why.
In front of him stood an archway — an archway that led nowhere.
Beyond it, the floor simply… ended.

Below, there was nothing but blackness.

 

The whispers returned, all around us now. Male voices, chanting in overlapping tones, weaving curses that made the air vibrate.
Tanuj, shaking, lifted his camera again. “If we make it out alive,” he said, “this is going viral.”

And then, the camera screen showed something — something we couldn’t see with our eyes.
Behind us, in the reflection, stood dozens of figures — motionless, robed in dark cloth, faces hidden.
Their eyes glowed red, watching.

“Aarav…” Riya whispered. “They’re all… tantras gone wrong.”

Before I could react, the screen went white — and the camera exploded in Tanuj’s hands.
He screamed, clutching his arm as smoke rose from the shattered device.

And then the room fell completely silent.

That was when we saw her.

A woman in a royal silk saree, faintly glowing in the moonlight that filtered through the broken roof. Her face was pale, eyes lined with endless grief. A faint clinking sound came from her ankles — ghungroos.

“Princess Ratnavati,” Riya whispered, voice trembling.

The apparition looked at us — not with anger, but sorrow.

“Leave…” she said again, voice breaking. “He knows you’re here.”

Raghav took a step forward, bowing slightly. “Please, help us get out.”
She raised a trembling hand, pointing toward the courtyard.

“Run… while the moon still watches…”

And then her face twisted — violently — as if something unseen had grabbed her from behind. Her eyes went wide, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and she was dragged backward into the darkness, leaving a trail of faint light that vanished like smoke.

Neha screamed.
Kabir shouted, “Go! Now!”

We ran — down the broken staircase, across the courtyard, toward the main gate.

But when we reached it — the gate was sealed.
Stone, solid, as if it had never been open.

 

Tanuj, hysterical, started pounding on it.

“Open, damn it! Open!”

Then, suddenly, his body went rigid. His eyes rolled upward, his mouth gaped silently.

Raghav caught him as he fell, but then froze — staring in horror.
Tanuj’s neck began to twist. Slowly. Creaking. Inch by inch.

“Oh God— Aarav, his bones—”

I can’t describe what happened next without shivering.
His face contorted, his skin turned black at the edges, like it was being burned from the inside. His chest caved in with a horrifying crack. And before our eyes, his body was lifted — by something invisible — and slammed into the stone wall with such force that the echo shook the fort.

When he fell, his head turned in a direction no human head should.
His ghungroo bracelet — the one he had bought jokingly earlier that day — jingled faintly, once, and then went still.

Riya fell to her knees, sobbing.
Raghav whispered, “He’s gone… oh God, he’s gone.”

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.
All I could do was stare at the mark that appeared on the wall where Tanuj had struck — the same five-pointed yantra.
Fresh. Pulsating faintly, as if feeding.

That was the night we realized — the tantric’s curse wasn’t just a story. It was a hunger.
And now, it had taken one of us.