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The original was posted on /r/ghoststories by /u/_chatswiththemist on 2025-11-06 10:36:16+00:00.

I’ve always been obsessed with old stories — the kind that are whispered at night and never written down. Being a teen author, I thought it would be poetic to return to my roots, to my father’s village, and collect the forgotten tales buried there.

But my father… he never approved of it. He used to say, “Some stories are better left untold.” As a kid, I was allowed there only during festivals, and even then, I wasn’t allowed to wander near the old pond or my grandmother’s abandoned hut.

They said my grandmother was a healer once… others said she was something else. Some villagers still call her “Daayani Ma” — the witch who could talk to shadows. My father hated when anyone mentioned her.

When I finally went back last month, things didn’t feel right. The air was thick, heavier than I remembered. Every night I’d hear the same tapping sound on my window — like knuckles brushing against the glass. One night I opened it, and found nothing but the faint scent of burnt incense and… wet soil.

The next morning, one of the elders looked at me strangely and said,

“You look just like her when she came back.” Since that day, my phone stopped recording properly. Some of the audio I captured has whispers — in a voice that sounds eerily like my grandmother’s.

I came here to collect stories for my book, The Night Speaks: Folklore from Rural India. But I think… some stories are now collecting me.