The Curse of Netidhopani Ghat: A Sundarbans Ghost Story

1. The Whispering Creek
The dawn felt wrong, shrouded in a ghostly mist that clung to the water. Our motorboat, the Bhutbhuti, felt trapped in the suffocating embrace of the mangrove jungle that rose like a wall on either side of the narrow creek. The water was the color of slate, its surface unnaturally still, as if holding its breath. The constant, reassuring chug of the engine seemed to be swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Our guide, a local boy named Robin Khatua, stood motionless at the prow. Usually, he was a fountain of stories about the Sundarbans, but today he was unnervingly quiet. His sharp, vigilant eyes scanned the impenetrable foliage, searching for something unseen.
“What’s the matter, Robin-da? So quiet. Are you scared?”
The voice belonged to Prabir Biswas, known to us as Dipu. He was the youngest and most arrogant member of our team, an expensive DSLR camera dangling from his hand. To him, the Sundarbans was nothing more than an adventure park.
Robin didn’t turn. His voice, when it came, was as cold and flat as the water. “The Sundarbans doesn’t forgive those who don’t fear it, Dipu-bhai.”
Dipu scoffed. “Come on! That’s just old superstition. Hey Sourav, are you getting any signal on your thermal camera?”
Sourav, our team’s tech guru, was hunched over a laptop connected to a thermal camera. He was a man of science, but in this primal, ancient place, his logic was beginning to fail him. “There are some unusual cold spots under the water,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. “The temperature has dropped by four or five degrees in several spots. This isn’t caused by a current or a school of fish.”
Suddenly, he stiffened. “Wait… what is that?”
On the monitor, a vast, vague shape flickered for a moment directly beneath our boat. It was no ordinary shadow. A bead of sweat trickled down Sourav’s forehead.
Dipu leaned in. “What is it? A dolphin?”
“No,” Sourav’s throat was as dry as kindling. “It’s much, much bigger than a dolphin.”
I, Amber Chakraborty, had been silent until now. As the organizer of this expedition, the idea to photograph the full moon lunar eclipse at the infamous Netidhopani Ghat had been mine, posted in our Facebook group, “Culture, History, and Nature of the Sundarbans.” Legend said that on this night, the veil between our world and the next grew perilously thin. In my hand, I clutched an old brass compass—a trusted backup in case GPS failed deep in the Sundarbans. But now, its needle was spinning erratically, trembling as if having a seizure.
The boat’s captain, an old man in his fifties, was muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with a primitive fear. He whispered to Robin, “Khatua-dada, this place is not good. Let’s turn back before the sun sets. There is evil in this water.”
Robin simply shook his head. It was too late to turn back. We had almost arrived.

2. The Cursed Temple
As evening descended, the boat docked at Netidhopani Ghat. The place felt like it had been surgically removed from the living world. A dilapidated stone jetty, slick with green algae, led to the shore. To one side stood a decaying watchtower; to the other, a path disappeared into the deep jungle, at the end of which the spire of an ancient temple was just visible. The air was thick with the oppressive smell of rot and damp earth, all of it wrapped in a bizarre silence that pressed in on our eardrums.
As we unloaded our gear onto the broken jetty, Dipu jumped ashore first. “Wow! What a location! This will be a great shot.” Just as he raised his camera, an icy breeze swept through us. There were no sounds from the jungle—no birds, no insects.
My gaze was fixed on the temple. It felt less like a building and more like a living entity, watching us with the weight of a thousand years of fatigue and curses. “A group of sixteenth-century sailors,” I whispered, “took refuge here during a storm.”
“And then vanished!” Dipu finished with a smirk. “Amber-da, you’re getting overly romantic.”
We made our way to the temple. Its roof had partially collapsed and vines choked the walls. The entrance was a black maw. The moment we stepped inside, the air grew colder, as if we had walked into a freezer. Even our powerful flashlights couldn’t fully penetrate the darkness.
On a far wall, I noticed some strange engravings—not any script I recognized, but a series of symbols that resembled agonized human faces. I raised my camera to take a picture. Through the viewfinder, I saw it clearly: a long, distorted shadow detached itself from a pillar at the far end of the chamber, and it seemed to be watching us. My breath caught in my throat. I blinked, and it was gone.
“Did you see something?” Sourav asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Just a trick of the light,” I lied, my own hands trembling. I pressed the shutter, deciding to look at the photo later.

3. The Price of Disbelief
We built a campfire just outside the temple. The firelight danced across our faces, casting long, menacing shadows that made the atmosphere even more mysterious. Robin looked up at the sky and said, “The eclipse will begin soon.”
Dipu, however, had grown restless. “I’m going in alone to explore,” he announced. “Let’s see what this ghost of yours is all about!”
“Don’t be a fool, Dipu!” I yelled. “The place isn’t safe.”
Robin’s voice was hard. “Do not go inside now. Especially not alone.”
But Dipu wouldn’t listen. “You’re all a bunch of cowards. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said, and with his flashlight cutting a swath through the gloom, he vanished into the temple’s darkness.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. There was no sign of Dipu. A cold dread began to settle over us. Robin and I started calling his name. “Dipu! Dipu!”
Our only answer was the sound of our own voices echoing off the temple’s dead stone walls.
Suddenly, a scream erupted from the temple’s depths. It wasn’t human. It was the sound of an animal being slaughtered—a raw, agonizing cry that froze the blood in our veins.
The three of us rushed inside, our flashlights frantically searching the darkness. We found Dipu slumped at the base of a pillar, his eyes wide with terror, foam frothing at his lips. His flashlight lay a few feet away, its beam flickering weakly.
Sourav grabbed him, shaking him. “Dipu! What happened? What did you see?”
Dipu’s gaze was unfocused. His lips trembled, but no sound came out. After a moment of struggle, he managed to choke out a few broken words. “Cold… hands… ice-cold hands… on my neck…” He gasped for air. “And… the whispers… not one voice… so many… all saying… There is no way back.”
In that moment, the disbelief of a skeptic like Dipu was shattered, and with it, the courage of the rest of us. We were no longer on an expedition. We were standing at the threshold of a cursed past.

4. The Pirate’s Sin
We carried Dipu outside and laid him by the fire. He was shivering uncontrollably, lost in a fever. After what had happened, I could no longer stay silent. I pulled an old, leather-bound diary from my bag.
“This is my great-grandfather’s diary,” I said, my voice low and heavy. “He was a historian who studied the folklore of the Sundarbans. He was researching the legend of those missing sailors.”
All eyes were on me.
I flipped through the brittle pages. “The legend is far more terrifying than we imagined. These weren’t ordinary sailors. They were Portuguese pirates who had looted a sacred idol from a temple in Chittagong. That idol was cursed.”
I took a deep breath. “They took shelter here during the storm, but they had a darker purpose. They believed they could use the power of this ancient place to transfer the idol’s curse onto the temple itself. They tried to awaken the primitive power that resides here.”
“But what happened?” Sourav asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“The ancient power they sought to control sensed their greed. It demanded a sacrifice, and before their ritual was complete, it consumed them whole, trapping their souls here forever.”
Just then, Robin Khatua pointed a trembling finger at the sky. “The eclipse is starting!”
We all looked up. The black shadow of the Earth was beginning to creep across the face of the moon. The air grew colder, the atmosphere more terrifying. And from within the temple, the whispering began again—this time louder, more urgent, like the combined moans of a hundred damned souls.

5. The Darkness Unleashed
The lunar eclipse was total. For a few minutes, the world was plunged into an eerie, blood-red darkness, lit only by the flickering flames of our campfire.
And that’s when it happened.
A blinding green light erupted from the temple’s maw, accompanied by the tormented shrieks of a hundred souls. The sound was physically painful. We saw shadowy, smoke-like figures pour out of the temple and surround us. They had no faces, only dark, human-shaped voids.
Dipu, delirious with fever, screamed at the horrific sight. He scrambled backward and fell hard against the temple floor. As he fell, his weight dislodged a loose flagstone, revealing a dark cavity beneath.
A small, wooden box lay inside. The cursed idol.
For a moment, Sourav’s scientific curiosity—or perhaps greed—got the better of him. “I just want to see what’s inside,” he muttered, moving toward it.
“No!” Robin and I shouted in unison. “Don’t touch it!”
But before he could be stopped, the green light from the hole intensified. The box began to tremble. The ghostly shadows of the pirates shrieked in terror, as if they too feared the power sealed within.
From the box, it wasn’t an idol that emerged, but a formless, tangible darkness. It had no shape, yet its presence felt like a vacuum, swallowing light and sound. The campfire flames sputtered and died. The souls of the pirates swirled around it, as if trying to force it back.
In a moment of brilliant desperation, I raised my DSLR, aimed at the entity, and fired the flash repeatedly.
The intense bursts of white light seemed to cause the darkness pain. It recoiled, its assault momentarily halted.
“This is our chance! Run!” Robin yelled.
We grabbed Dipu and scrambled towards the jetty, the furious roar of the unbound entity and the frustrated cries of the pirates echoing behind us. We piled onto the boat, screaming at the captain to start the engine. With a lurch, the Bhutbhuti spun around and sped away from the cursed ghat, leaving the darkness of Netidhopani to its eternal hunger.

Another story https://shobdoneerin.com/2025/07/06/phosphine-a-scientists-last-night-in-the-sundarbans-forbidden-creek/

Another one https://shobdoneerin.com/2025/07/05/the-artists-curse-a-tale-of-demonic-possession/