Abhishek and Anwar were the kind of best friends who did everything
together—school projects, cricket matches, mischief, and most recently,
attending the State-Level Rural Games held in a nearby village.
The event was vibrant—kabaddi, kho-kho, archery, and food stalls lined with
spicy chaat. So caught up in the fun, they didn’t realize it was almost
nightfall when they started their journey back.
A group of local woodcutters heading the same way offered to walk with them.
The path led through a dense stretch of forest known as Torchwood Trail.
On the way, the woodcutters shared hushed, chilling stories of the Torch
Ghosts—spirits with flaming torches that roamed the path at night,
seeking warmth from the living, or dragging those who ran from them into the
trees.
“They only come after dark,” one said grimly, “and if you see their light—never
stop. Never look back.”
Abhishek and Anwar laughed it off nervously, blaming the tales on old
superstition. The next day, the final match was even more exciting. They stayed
late again, caught up in the roaring cheers and celebration. But by the time
they began their walk home, the sun had long disappeared behind the hills.
This time, they were alone.
The path was darker than they remembered. Crickets chirped, and every rustle
of wind made the trees whisper like voices. The earlier stories now echoed in
their heads like chants.
Halfway through the woods, they saw it.
A flicker of orange light. Then another. Then… floating torches—with
no hands holding them—drifting slowly toward them in total silence.
Their breath caught. No time to think.
They ran.
Through mud, over roots, their legs burning, hearts thundering louder than
their footsteps. Behind them, the lights moved faster—gliding, chasing, always
the same distance behind.
Anwar tripped. Abhishek yanked him up without stopping. They didn’t scream,
didn’t look back.
The lights followed all the way to the village gate. Just as they stumbled
through the arch, gasping for air, the torches vanished like sparks in the
wind.
The villagers found them pale, shaken, and speechless.
From that night on, they never used that trail after dark again. And if
anyone asked why, they’d just say, “If you see a torch without a hand—run.
And never look back.”
Because not all stories are made up.
Some just haven’t caught you yet.
Omkar Hosalli
English Language Teacher
GHS Hullatti
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