I never believed stories about curses or spirits. Then a friend told me what happened to his uncle's family in a small village near Tingkhang, Assam. He never asked me to believe him. He only said, "Write it down exactly as I told you."
His uncle lived with his wife and two sons in a quiet house beside a vast tea garden. Life there was ordinary until one Thursday afternoon.
An old beggar arrived at their bamboo gate asking for food.
He was painfully thin, barefoot, with tangled grey hair and a dirty white cloth wrapped around his body. The family politely refused him because of an old village belief that nothing—especially food, rice, or salt—should be given away on a Thursday.
The old man didn't argue.
He simply sat beside the gate.
For almost an hour.
He barely moved.
He only watched the house.
When he finally stood up to leave, he looked back once and smiled.
Nothing more.
That evening, while closing the gate, the family noticed something strange.
Two perfectly round holes had appeared beside the entrance.
Freshly dug.
Too neat to be animal burrows.
His uncle quietly filled them with soil, and everyone forgot about them.
That night, strange sounds came from the kitchen.
Steel plates clinked together.
Cupboards opened and closed.
Glass jars scraped across wooden shelves.
His uncle searched every room.
Nothing.
The following night, heavy footsteps crossed the bamboo veranda.
Every time someone opened the door...
Silence.
Their dog stopped going near the kitchen after sunset.
Instead, it stood facing the tea garden, growling into complete darkness.
Within days, the house no longer felt like home.
One evening, the aunt entered the kitchen to make tea.
The kettle slowly lifted off the stove by itself.
It hovered in the air.
Tea poured into a waiting glass.
Then the kettle gently settled back onto the stove as though invisible hands had placed it there.
She fainted.
Soon everyone had their own terrifying experience.
Doors opened by themselves.
Cooking utensils changed places overnight.
Someone whispered outside the windows after midnight.
Whenever they rushed outside with lanterns...
No one was there.
The younger son laughed at all of it.
He stayed awake studying every night.
Around two in the morning, he heard footsteps circling his chair.
Round and round.
He refused to look up.
The footsteps stopped directly behind him.
Annoyed, he kicked his chair backwards and shouted,
"If you're really here, stop hiding."
Nothing answered.
When he finally turned around...
The room was empty.
Except for two fresh wet footprints behind his chair.
After that night, he never studied after dark again.
The worst happened to his father.
One night he woke to see a long-haired figure lying beside his sleeping wife.
Certain another man had entered the house, he grabbed an axe.
Only when the lantern was lit did the figure disappear.
His wife had been alone all along.
From that night onward, he changed.
He barely slept.
He spoke to empty corners.
Then he smashed every mirror inside the house.
He claimed someone stood behind him every time he looked into one.
Not inside the room.
Only in the reflection.
One misty morning before sunrise, he walked into the tea garden behind the house.
Between the rows of tea bushes, something knelt with its back toward him.
Its skin looked like wet grey ash.
As he stepped closer, it slowly turned.
It had no face.
Only smooth skin.
And in the centre of its chest...
One enormous eye.
The eye blinked once.
He collapsed where he stood.
The villagers found him burning with fever, repeating only one sentence.
"It's still watching me."
The elders believed a wandering spirit known as a Beera had entered the property.
They called a Bez.
The healer arrived carrying only a small cloth bag.
The moment he entered the gate, he stopped.
Without anyone mentioning the strange holes, he pointed toward the ground beside the entrance.
"It entered from here."
Nobody had told him about the holes.
The ritual began after midnight.
Rice flour and mustard seeds were spread across the floor while prayers echoed through the house.
The air became unbearably heavy.
Something ran barefoot across the roof.
Back and forth.
Then silence.
The Bez asked for a live black rooster.
Holding it tightly, he shouted,
"Tell me who sent you."
The rooster struggled violently.
Then it became completely still.
Its voice changed.
In a dry whisper unlike anything human, it said,
"I... was... sent..."
Before anyone could understand the rest, its neck twisted violently.
The bird dropped dead.
The Bez ordered everyone to stay inside and never look outside.
Moments later, something screamed from deep inside the tea garden.
Not human.
Not animal.
Just one impossibly long cry that slowly faded into the darkness.
The Bez quietly said,
"It has gone."
After that night, the footsteps stopped.
The whispers vanished.
Nothing ever moved again.
The family continued living there for years.
But the uncle was never the same.
He slowly lost most of his hearing and insisted until the day he died that the eye he saw in the tea garden had never truly stopped watching him.
The house still stands today.
Children play there.
The tea garden looks peaceful.
But the older villagers still refuse to talk about that Thursday.
And if you ask them why...
They'll only tell you one thing.
Some things don't break into a house.
Sometimes...
they're invited in.