The Haunted Secret of the Cremation Ground | A Spine-Chilling Horror Story

 

At the edge of the city lay an old cremation ground that no one visited after sunset. The air there was always cold, carrying the smell of ash and burnt wood. Locals believed the spirits of the uncremated dead wandered between the pyres, waiting for peace that never came.

One night, Karan, a journalist chasing a big story, entered the cremation ground with a camera and a torch. The flames of half-burnt pyres flickered without wind. As he walked deeper, he heard chanting mixed with distant cries. His torchlight revealed shadows moving where no bodies lay.

Suddenly, a figure rose from the ashes—a man with a charred face and hollow eyes. “Why did you come?” it whispered. Karan tried to run, but the ground felt soft, as if hands were pulling him down. Bells rang from nowhere, and the fire burned blue.

Dozens of spirits appeared, circling him, their bodies covered in ash. They spoke in one voice, “This is where souls are trapped.”

At dawn, villagers found Karan’s camera near the pyres. The last footage showed him screaming as ash covered the lens. Since then, the cremation ground burns even when no fire is lit—and someone is always watching.

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The Dreadful Postman of the New Moon Night | A Spine-Chilling Horror Story

 

On every new moon night, the small town of Bhairavpur fell unnaturally silent. Doors were locked, lights turned off, and no one checked their mail. The reason was simple—the postman came only on Amavasya.



Raghav, a newcomer to the town, laughed at the warnings. One Amavasya night, he heard a slow knock at exactly midnight. Standing outside was a postman in an old uniform, his face pale and eyes empty. Without a word, he handed Raghav a letter addressed in his own handwriting.

Confused, Raghav opened it. The paper was cold and smelled of ash. It read: “You have been selected.”

The postman smiled, revealing blackened teeth, and pointed behind Raghav. The room darkened, and shadows crawled across the walls. Chains rattled as whispers filled the air—names of people who had disappeared years ago.

Raghav tried to scream, but no sound came out. The postman stepped inside, leaving wet footprints that burned into the floor. “Delivery is never late,” he whispered.

By morning, Raghav’s house stood empty. Only one letter lay on the table, addressed to the next resident—already written, already waiting.



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