An Indian folktale from Shimla.
Chapter 1
The monsoon rains lashed against the weathered wooden walls of their Shimla home that night. Inside, Maya shivered despite the crackling fire in the hearth. The damp air clung to her like a shroud, mirroring the despair that had settled over their marriage. Unlike ordinary women, Maya had a special gift. She could understand what animals and birds spoke. Of course, no one believed her.
A sudden, mournful howl pierced the wind, sending shivers down her spine. It wasn’t the usual cry of a stray dog, but a long, mournful wail that seemed to echo through the very pines surrounding their house.
Intrigued, Maya crept closer to the rain-streaked window. In the distance, barely visible through the sheets of water, a pack of jackals huddled on a nearby ridge. Their voices, carried on the wind, seemed to take on an almost human quality. ‘…beside the waterfall… pale fingers clutch… ring whispers fortune untold…’ The chilling words sent a tingle down her spine, a spark of hope amidst the growing darkness in her life.
Driven by a desperate yearning for something better, Maya grabbed a shawl and slipped out into the storm. The wind howled like a banshee, tearing at her hair as she navigated the rain-slicked path. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the air, a sharp contrast to the stale familiarity of their small home. Finally, she reached the base of the cascading waterfall, its roar a constant presence in the storm’s symphony. There, beneath a gnarled rhododendron bush, a skeletal hand, bleached white by the elements, protruded from the churning water. A silver ring, gleaming like a captured moonbeam, adorned the bony finger.
The stench of decay hit Maya like a physical blow. Repulsion clawed at her throat, but the whispered promise of wealth echoed in her mind. Gritting her teeth, she lunged forward. The ring was cold and slick, refusing to budge. Panic gnawed at her. With a surge of desperation, she did the unthinkable. She clamped her jaw down on the skeletal finger, the sickening crunch of the dead man’s bone echoing in the storm’s roar. Finally, with a sickening twist, she bit off the finger as the ring yielded and came free. She spat the finger away.
Suddenly, a twig snapped in the distance. Maya spun around, heart hammering in her chest. The darkness of the forest seemed to press in on her, the wind carrying the unsettling rustle of unseen movement. But there was nothing to be seen, only the relentless rain and the ever-present roar of the waterfall.
Shaken, Maya clutched the ring and stumbled back toward their home. Unbeknownst to her, a pair of glowing eyes watched from the hill top. It was of her husband, Ravi.
Chapter 2
Few minutes later, Maya climbed up the hill and arrived home. She stumbled through the doorway, the storm clinging to her like a second skin. Rain dripped from her hair, soaking the floorboards.
‘Where were you?’ Ravi asked, hidden behind the shadows.
Relief flooded her at the sight of Ravi, his face etched with worry. But as her eyes met his, the warmth in his gaze vanished, replaced by a chilling horror.
‘Ravi,’ she gasped, her voice hoarse from the wind and the ordeal. ‘I found the place, just like the jackals said. There was a ring…’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the dawning realisation in his eyes.
Ravi didn’t speak. He didn’t want to understand. The image of Maya by the waterfall, her face contorted in a feral snarl, the silver ring glinting in her hand, was burned into his memory. The stench of death, faint but undeniable, clung to her clothes.
‘What have you done, Maya?’ His voice was a ragged whisper, devoid of the warmth that used to reside there. ‘You bit into a man’s flesh!’
Shame washed over Maya, hot and suffocating. How could she explain the jackals’ message, the desperation that had driven her to such extremes? ‘It wasn’t like that, Ravi,’ she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. ‘The ring was stuck. I…’ The words wouldn’t come. How could she confess the horrific act that had secured her prize?
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Ravi looked at her with a mixture of fear and pity. ‘You can’t stay here anymore,’ he finally said, his voice breaking. ‘A woman who ate of a man’s flesh is a cannibal!’
‘Ravi, please!’ Maya reached out to him, but he flinched back as if from a predator. ‘Don’t you understand? We can use the money, start fresh. We don’t have to be like this anymore.’
He shook his head, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. ‘The money… what good is it if it costs us our souls?’ His words were a hammer blow to Maya’s heart.
The storm raged outside, mirroring the turmoil within. As dawn broke, casting a pale light on the rain-soaked Himalayas, Ravi packed a single bag. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, wouldn’t offer a goodbye kiss. He simply deposited her at her parents’ doorstep, the weight of the ring a leaden burden in her hand.
Chapter 3
Maya slumped onto the damp wooden bench in her childhood garden, the weight of the ring a dull ache in her palm. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a world washed clean and strangely hopeful. Tears had cleansed her face, leaving behind a steely resolve. Ravi’s fear was a reflection of his own limitations, not a measure of her worth.
A chorus of caws broke the silence. A murder of crows descended upon the ancient peepul tree, their movements purposeful. Maya watched, a spark of defiance igniting within her.
These weren’t ominous harbingers of doom; they were messengers, just like the jackals. In her childhood, her grandmother had spoken of the crows, how they carried the whispers of ancestors, guardians watching over the family. Perhaps, the jackals too, were part of this unseen network, voices in the wilderness guiding her.
As one, the crows cawed in a rhythmic pattern, their voices carrying across the quiet garden. This time, the message was unmistakable. ‘Beneath your feet near the peepal’s tree,’ they cawed, their voices echoing with a strange authority. ‘Hidden wealth lies, a family’s legacy waits.’
A slow smile spread across Maya’s face. This wasn’t just about wealth anymore. It was about reclaiming her life, her agency, her future. She wouldn’t crumble under the weight of a misunderstanding.
‘Alright, birds,’ she declared, her voice ringing with newfound confidence. ‘Let’s see what secrets you have for me.’
She called her parents, skepticism initially etched on their faces. But Maya, fueled by a quiet determination, recounted the entire ordeal, from the jackals’ message to the chilling encounter by the waterfall. Her parents, seeing the strength and clarity in their daughter’s eyes, readily believed her. They remembered the stories too, the whispers of the crows passed down through generations.
Together, guided by Maya’s memory of the disturbed earth, they began to dig beneath the peepul tree. Hours passed, filled with focused determination and the chatter of uncovering a long-held family secret. Finally, their shovels hit something solid.
With trembling hands, they unearthed a weathered wooden chest, its intricate carvings hinting at the riches within. As they pried it open, a gasp escaped their lips. Inside, nestled amongst shimmering jewels and a cascade of gold coins, lay proof that the whispers were true. The jackals’ message, the crows’ guidance – it had all come to pass.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Maya stood amidst the unearthed treasure, a newfound sense of power coursing through her veins. This wasn’t just about the wealth; it was about rewriting the narrative.
The dead man’s ring, once a symbol of desperation, now glinted in the fading light, a reminder of her strength, her resilience. It was a trophy, not of a barbaric act, but of her ability to navigate the darkness and emerge stronger. She looked at her parents, their faces brimming with pride and affection.
‘We don’t need Ravi,’ she declared, her voice firm. ‘We have each other, and now, we have a future to build, a future guided by the whispers of our ancestors and the strength we carry within.’
The crows circled overhead, their caws no longer ominous, but almost celebratory. The whispers of the night had led Maya not to a monster, but to a new beginning, one founded on independence, self-reliance, and the unwavering love of her family, all guided by the watchful eyes of the crow spirits. The jackals’ cryptic message, a spark in the storm, had ignited a fire within her, leading her to a treasure far greater than gold – the power to rewrite her own destiny.
Read similar Indian folktale and horror stories about haunted places in India’s Most Haunted.
Click to Buy India’s Most Haunted to read more such Indian folktale of horror and macabre.
The Dead Man’s Ring – An Indian Folktale Retold by South Asia’s top horror writer, K. Hari Kumar, author of India’s Most Haunted published by HarperCollins India.
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