In a small, quiet village nestled beside a winding river, there stood an ancient banyan tree whose roots spread like the fingers of time itself. The villagers believed the tree was older than memory — older than the oldest living elder, perhaps even older than the village itself. Its massive trunk twisted toward the sky, and its hanging aerial roots swayed like ghostly curtains whenever the wind passed through.
The tree stood near the riverbank, where mist would gather at dusk and fireflies flickered like wandering souls. During the day, children sometimes played at a safe distance, and fishermen rested beneath its shade. But when evening fell and the sky turned crimson, no one lingered there. The villagers whispered that once darkness settled, a cursed spirit roamed beneath its branches.
Long ago, when the village was ruled by a wealthy and cruel landlord, tragedy had taken root there.
The landlord was known for his riches and influence, but inside his grand house lived a woman who knew only suffering — his wife. She had been married into wealth but imprisoned in silence. The villagers rarely saw her, but sometimes, on still nights, they claimed they heard faint cries carried by the wind.
One stormy night, her cries stopped forever.
Rumors spread quietly at first. Some said the landlord had beaten her in a fit of rage. Others said she had tried to escape. But by morning, it was announced that she had fallen ill and died suddenly. No one dared question the landlord openly.
She was buried in haste.
Soon after her death, strange things began to happen near the banyan tree by the river. At first, it was small disturbances — footsteps in the mud with no owner, faint weeping sounds after midnight, shadows moving against the direction of the moonlight. Then someone claimed to have seen a woman in a red sari standing beneath the tree, her long black hair covering her face.
From that day forward, the banyan tree was no longer just a tree. It became a place of fear.
Women avoided the path after sunset. Even the bravest fishermen returned home before dark. The elders would warn the young: "When the rain falls and the wind grows silent, do not walk alone by the river."
Years passed, but the legend refused to fade.
One monsoon evening, after hours of relentless rain, the clouds finally parted. The village lay soaked and glistening under the pale glow of the moon. The river flowed heavily, murmuring secrets against its banks.
That night, a young woman named Rozina found herself in an unfortunate situation.
Rozina was known in the village as kind but stubbornly brave. Her mother had fallen ill suddenly, and the local healer lived across the river. With no man available at home to accompany her, Rozina made a difficult decision. Ignoring her mother's weak protests and the whispered warnings of neighbors, she wrapped her shawl tightly around herself and stepped into the night.
The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from rooftops and leaves. The air smelled of wet earth. As she walked along the narrow path beside the river, her heart pounded louder than her footsteps.
She told herself the stories were just stories.
The banyan tree soon came into view, its massive silhouette darker than the night sky behind it. Its hanging roots swayed gently though there was no wind.
Rozina slowed her pace.
Then she saw her.
Under the tree stood a woman in a bright red sari. The fabric shimmered faintly in the moonlight, unnaturally vibrant against the darkness. Her long hair hung loose, covering her face completely.
Rozina froze.
The woman did not move at first. She simply stood there, as if waiting.
A cold sensation crept up Rozina's spine. She considered turning back, but something about the stillness held her in place.
Then the woman slowly lifted her head.
Her hair parted just enough to reveal her face.
Her eyes were red — not glowing, but swollen, as though she had been crying for centuries. Tears streamed silently down her pale cheeks.
In a voice that sounded both near and far at the same time, she spoke:
"My golden bangles… they fell near the roots of this tree. Please, sister… will you pick them up for me?"
The voice was soft. Pleading. Almost gentle.
Rozina's hands trembled. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but the sorrow in the woman's voice pierced her fear. Perhaps, she thought, it was just a traveler. Perhaps someone truly needed help.
Swallowing hard, she stepped forward.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
When she reached the base of the banyan tree, she crouched slowly. The ground was damp, tangled with roots and fallen leaves. In the faint light, she noticed something half-buried in the mud — a glint of gold.
A pair of old bangles.
She reached out.
The moment her fingers touched the metal, the earth beneath her hand shifted.
Suddenly, an icy grip clutched her wrist from below the soil.
Rozina screamed.
The hand was impossibly cold, tightening with unnatural strength. She felt herself being pulled downward, as though the roots of the tree were alive and hungry.
Above her, the woman in the red sari began to laugh — not loudly, but softly, heartbreakingly, like someone who had forgotten how to cry.
Rozina struggled desperately. The bangles dug into her palm. The cold hand tugged harder.
Then everything went black.
The next morning, villagers found Rozina lying unconscious beneath the banyan tree. Her clothes were soaked with mud. Her face was pale, frozen in terror.
Clutched tightly in her hand were the old golden bangles.
She was alive — but something was wrong.
When she finally opened her eyes hours later, she did not respond to light. Her gaze seemed empty, unfocused. Though she could breathe and speak faintly, she claimed she could no longer see.
Some said she had lost her sight from fear.
Others whispered that she had seen something no human was meant to see.
The elders gathered and shook their heads gravely.
"The spirit is still seeking revenge," they said. "She pulls the living toward the roots where she waits. Any woman who walks alone at night risks being taken."
From that day on, fear tightened its hold on the village.
At dusk, doors were bolted early. Mothers called their daughters inside before the sky turned purple. The path by the river became deserted after sunset.
Yet on heavy monsoon nights, when rain drummed softly on rooftops and wind rustled through the banyan's hanging roots, some villagers claimed they still heard it.
A faint sob.
A whisper carried by the river breeze:
"My bangles… return them to me…"
Over generations, stories like this traveled from village to village across Bengal. Sometimes the spirit lived in a tamarind tree, called a Shakchunni — the ghost of a married woman, still wearing her red sari and bangles. Sometimes it was a Gecho Bhoot lurking in tall palm trees. Other times it was a Brahmadaitya said to dwell in sacred wood-apple trees.
But beneath the fear and mystery lay something deeper.
These stories were not always told only to frighten.
In many villages, they served as warnings — especially for women. In times when safety was uncertain and darkness concealed real dangers, tales of spirits and cursed trees kept daughters indoors and protected them from harm.
Perhaps the woman in the red sari was a restless soul seeking justice.
Or perhaps she was a story born from grief, shaped by fear, and passed down through generations as protection disguised as horror.
To this day, if you visit certain riverside villages during the monsoon and stand quietly beneath an old banyan tree, you might feel a sudden chill in the air.
And if the wind grows still…
You may hear the faint clink of bangles beneath the roots.