The Haunted House and the Ghost Who Wasn’t

After an argument with my wife in the evening, I stormed out of the house. Every time she opens her mouth, it’s the same old rant—"My life is ruined because of you. I turned down so many good proposals, only to end up with a useless fool like you!"

Today, I finally snapped back. How long was I supposed to stay silent? As if I was the only one who wanted this marriage. Was her mouth stuffed with cotton during the wedding? Fed up, I left the house in anger.

Who even came up with the idea that men are fools? If I ever met the person who said that, I’d stuff a sack of cotton over their head and throw them into the river.

Lost in these thoughts, I was walking aimlessly when I heard a heated argument among four men. Even if I couldn’t solve my domestic problems, I was always ready to fix external ones. I approached them.

One of them was saying, "If you’re so brave, why don’t you spend a night in that house and come out alive in the morning? I’ll pay you two lakhs cash and even salute your feet. I promise."

The mention of money caught my attention. I butted in, "Gentlemen, what’s all this commotion about at this hour?"

One of them replied, "What’s it to you? You got the guts to spend a night in that factory’s abandoned house?"

I calmly said, "What’s the big deal? I’ll stay there for a night."

Another man exclaimed, "Have you lost your mind? That’s not just any house—it’s haunted! A powerful ghost lives there, strong enough to make a full-grown man disappear!"

I smirked and asked, "How many of you here are married?"

When no one answered, I continued, "I’ve been living with a live Shaakchunni (a female ghost from Bengali folklore) on my back for five years, and you’re trying to scare me with ghosts? Let’s see how strong your ghost really is."

Their eyes widened in shock. One stammered, "You—you’re something else! Five years with a Shaakchunni? And she hasn’t done anything to you?"

I laughed loudly. "Oh, I wasn’t talking about an actual ghost. I meant my wife. She’s worse than any Shaakchunni. Anyway, if you pay me two lakhs, I’ll stay the night."

"You’ve got no fear for your life?"

I sighed. "I used to. Not anymore. Besides, getting humiliated by my wife every day is worse than dying by a ghost’s hand. At least the suffering will be less."

"But what’ll happen to your wife if something happens to you?"

"If I die, she’ll remarry. Let her. I just want the two lakhs."

"You sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright then. Spend the night there. Tomorrow morning, we’ll come back with journalists, hand you the cash, and escort you home with full honors."

"Fine. Just get me a torchlight and a pack of muri-chaanachur (puffed rice with spicy mix)."

One of them blinked. "What do you need muri-chaanachur for?"

"I’ll be awake all night. You expect me to stay hungry? I already left home after a fight without eating. Should I starve to death before the ghost even gets me?"

As promised, they brought me muri-chaanachur and a torch, then led me to the house.

It wasn’t fully dark yet. The moment we reached the gate, the four started trembling.

After pushing me forward, they said, "We’ll see you in the morning—if you survive. And no tricks, or you won’t get the money. Last chance to back out."

"I’m a man of my word. Come morning, you’ll hand me the cash."

I stepped inside and latched the gate. The four outside scrambled away like frightened mice.

Checking my watch, I moved further in. The house was a half-built, abandoned structure, crumbling with neglect.

It wasn’t as terrifying as they made it seem. Years of disuse and dry leaves made the atmosphere eerie, but nothing more.

Holding the muri-chaanachur under my arm, I turned on the torch and ventured deeper. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but wild dogs or snakes could be a problem. I picked up a sturdy wooden stick—just in case.

The five-battery torch provided enough light. I scanned the area. The construction seemed abruptly abandoned.

Suddenly, my foot hit an iron rod, producing a loud clang! The entire house seemed to shake—along with my heartbeat.

I took a deep breath and kept walking.

Why are people so scared of this place? If there was a ghost, it would’ve shown up by now. Maybe it’s asleep—even ghosts need rest.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, I spotted a shadowy figure in the corner. Dressed in a black robe, it stood motionless, staring at me.

I always heard ghosts wear white. Maybe this one wears black to avoid laundry.

I shone the torch directly at it. The figure flinched and hid behind a wall.

Whatever. I’m hungry.

I sat on a wooden plank, tore open the muri-chaanachur, and started eating.

If only I had green chilies and mustard oil, it’d be perfect.

Just as I took a bite, the shadow reappeared.

"Want some?" I asked with a full mouth. "It’d taste better with chilies and oil, but it’s not bad."

The ghost just stared blankly.

"You understand Bengali? Do you speak my language? Want to eat or not? I won’t ask again."

The shadow hesitated, then slowly approached.

"Stop pretending. Hunger trumps fear. Sit."

The ghost sat. After a few bites, I asked, "How long have you been here?"

In a raspy voice, it replied, "A year and a half."

"You’re half-dead yourself. Why scare others? People avoid this place because of you."

The ghost chuckled bitterly. "What choice do I have? I married with dreams, and look where I am now."

Pity stirred in me. "Instead of lurking here, why not find work?"

He hung his head.

"Tell you what," I said. "I’ll give you one lakh—on one condition."

His eyes lit up. "What condition?"

"Use the money to start a business. Scaring people won’t feed you forever. Earn honestly."

"You’d really give me a lakh?"

"Not me—someone else will. Long story. But promise me: no more haunting after tonight."

After some hesitation, he agreed.

We talked all night, sharing our miseries.

The next morning, the four men returned, shocked to see me alive. True to their word, they handed me two lakhs. Journalists interviewed me, and I became locally famous.

As for my wife? Well, hear it from her yourself:

"What should I cook today? Your favorite chicken curry and biryani? Oh, and I ironed your office clothes."

That night, fleeing an argument did two people a favor—the "ghost" and, well, you can guess the other.

The End.