ghost-story

I. The bus from Khulna let Rafiq off at a crossroads that did not deserve the name. There was no signpost, no tea stall, and no huddle of rickshaws waiting for fares. Only a stretch of cracked asphalt swallowed on both sides by paddy fields gone the color of old bruises under a sky thick with the promise of rain. The conductor had shouted “Kaladuba bazaar!” and shoved Rafiq’s bag out before the bus had even fully stopped. Then the bus was gone, its taillights dissolving into the haze, an...

One Rokib had been riding for Pathao for two years and three months. By his mother’s calculations, which measured time not in prayers but in nights, he had been drenched in the rain exactly four hundred and twelve times. Dhaka’s rain has a personality of its own. It does not just fall; it makes an announcement. It beats down on corrugated tin roofs as if it is running late for an appointment, turning Mirpur Road into a rushing river the color of over-milk tea. Rokib knew every single...

A series of strange incidents are said to have taken place around a closed jute mill. Why does the siren suddenly sound at night? How could a man who died several years ago ask someone to open the door? Written by Lutful Kaiser. When that famous jute mill in Rajshahi was established, the surrounding landscape was not as it is today. For certain reasons, the name of the mill is being kept confidential. Built on nearly 49 acres of land in the 1970s, the huge jute mill gradually became the center o...