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I didn’t believe in chudails. Not really.
That changed in the hills of Uttarakhand.
It was late October when I reached a small village near Chopta. I had gone there alone, hoping to escape the noise of the city and spend a few quiet days trekking through forests of deodar and oak. The locals were friendly, but reserved—especially when I told them I planned to stay in an old forest rest house about 2 kilometers uphill.
An old man at the tea stall looked at me for a long moment and said,
“Don’t go out after dark. And if you hear someone calling your name… don’t answer.”
I laughed it off. Thought it was just another hill superstition.
That night, I settled into the rest house. It was isolated—no electricity except a dim solar lamp, no mobile network, just the sound of wind brushing through trees and distant animal calls. Peaceful, honestly.
Until around midnight.
I woke up to the sound of anklets.
Soft at first. Chhan… chhan… chhan…
I thought maybe it was a dream, or someone from the village passing by. But then I remembered—the rest house was completely cut off. No one had any reason to be there at that hour.
The sound grew louder. Closer.
It stopped right outside my door.
My heart was pounding, but I stayed still. The old man’s warning echoed in my mind.
Then I heard it.
My name.
Soft. Almost loving.
“Rohit…”
My blood ran cold.
No one in that village even knew my name.
Again.
“Rohit… come outside…”
The voice sounded like someone I knew. Familiar. Comforting. For a split second, I felt an urge to open the door.
But something felt… wrong.
The voice was too perfect. Too smooth. Like it was trying to imitate human emotion.
I didn’t respond.
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then the anklets started again—but this time, they circled the house. Slow, deliberate steps. As if whatever was outside was walking around, searching for a way in.
I couldn’t help it. I moved toward the window.
And I looked.
I wish I hadn’t.
Under the pale moonlight, I saw a woman standing a few feet away from the house. Long black hair covering her face, wearing a white saree that looked damp—like it had been dragged through mud and water.
She wasn’t moving.
Just standing.
Then… her head tilted. Slowly.
And she began to turn.
But her body didn’t move.
Her feet… her feet were facing the wrong way.
Backward.
My breath caught in my throat.
The stories flooded back—the chudail. A spirit of a woman who died tragically, wandering forests, luring men with a familiar voice, revealing her true form only when it was too late.
As if sensing me watching, she raised her head.
I couldn’t see her face clearly—but I felt her looking straight at me.
Then she smiled.
Not a normal smile. Too wide. Too stretched.
And then—she started walking toward the window.
But her feet remained turned backward.
Chhan… chhan… chhan…
I stumbled back, nearly knocking over the lamp. I shut my eyes, covering my ears, repeating to myself: Don’t respond. Don’t look. Don’t react.
The anklets stopped right outside the window.
Then came a soft whisper, right next to the wall.
“So you won’t come out…”
A pause.
Her tone changed. No longer soft. Now… irritated.
“That’s alright.”
A long silence followed.
I don’t know when I fell asleep, or if I even did.
When morning came, everything felt… normal.
Birds chirping. Sunlight pouring in. No sign of anything unusual.
I convinced myself it was a nightmare.
Until I stepped outside.
There, in the damp soil near the window, were footprints.
Deep. Clear.
Facing the wrong direction.
Leading toward the house.
But none… leading away.
I left that same day.
The old man at the tea stall didn’t seem surprised when I told him.
He just nodded slowly and said,
“She must have liked you. Not everyone gets called.”
I asked him what would have happened if I had opened the door.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said quietly,
“People who do… are found days later. Deep in the forest. Drained. Like something has taken everything from them.”
I don’t go to the hills alone anymore.
And sometimes… late at night… when everything is silent…
I still hear anklets.