Pishachini: Extremely Gorgeous Turns Horrible Pishachini
Horror fiction is a genre of speculative literature intended to frighten or disturb its audience by exploring dark subject matter, supernatural entities, or psychological terror. It often uses monsters, apocalyptic events, or folk beliefs to create an eerie atmosphere.
Horror fiction stories focus on evoking intense fear, dread, and suspense in readers. They typically involve supernatural elements like ghosts or monsters, or psychological terrors rooted in human fears.
These stories build tension through eerie atmospheres, such as haunted houses or dark forests, often disrupting normalcy with shocking events. Common motifs include vampires, witches, zombies, or madness, drawing from folklore and cultural anxieties.
Pishachini: Extremely Gorgeous Turns Horrible
No one in Chandrapur could explain how the girl first appeared.
She arrived one monsoon evening, walking out of the jungle road like a dream that had lost its way into reality. Her sari was pale ivory, untouched by mud. Her hair fell in a black river down her back, gleaming though the sky was bruised with clouds. Her eyes—large, shimmering, impossibly alive—made people forget the rain soaking their clothes.
She asked for water.
Three shopkeepers fought to serve her.
From that night, the village forgot itself.
Men who had never missed a morning prayer skipped temple to wait near the banyan tree where she liked to sit. Fathers quarreled with sons. Husbands stared too long and were slapped in public, yet returned the next day as if pulled by invisible threads. She never touched anyone. She only smiled—slow, private, devastating.
People began to dream of her.
Not ordinary dreams. Visions.
She would stand beside their beds, whispering their names with a voice that felt like warm breath on the ear. When they woke, their pillows were wet with blood from bitten lips.
Within a week, the first body was found.
Ramesh, the schoolteacher, hanging upside down from the neem tree, eyes wide open, tongue swollen black. There were no marks on his body except a single thin line circling his ankles—as though something had gripped him there.
The elders said it was suicide. They were wrong.
By the second death, the dogs refused to go near the banyan tree. They whimpered, tails tucked, fur bristling at empty air.
By the third, the old widow Kamla Devi screamed from her courtyard, “She walks backwards!”
No one listened.
Until Arun saw it himself.
He had been a skeptic all his life—a lawyer in the city, returned to Chandrapur only because his mother lay dying. He noticed things others missed. The way the girl never ate, never blinked when smoke from incense burned around her. The way the jasmine flowers she wore blackened by morning.
One night, driven by something he could not name, Arun followed her.
She walked toward the forest path, the same road she had arrived from, the moon tracing silver over her shoulders. Her anklets made no sound.
Then, for half a second, her reflection passed over a puddle.
Her feet were facing the wrong way.
His blood turned to ice.
The scriptures his grandmother once read flashed back into his mind—words he had laughed at, dismissed as village superstition.
Pishachini.
A female spirit born of violent death, feeding not on flesh but obsession. Beautiful beyond measure, her power was not in claws or teeth but in desire. She entered men’s dreams, hollowed them, drank their will until their bodies became empty skins.
Arun ran to his mother’s room, shaking her awake.
“She isn’t human,” he whispered. “She walks backwards.”
His mother stared at him with eyes clouded by fever. Then she smiled—a broken, terrified smile.
“She was my sister.”
The words collapsed inside his chest.
Years ago, before Arun was born, his aunt Meera had been the most beautiful girl in Chandrapur. Promised to a wealthy man from the city, she was raped and strangled by drunk villagers on this very forest road. The case vanished. The men married, had sons, became respected elders.
“She died screaming my name,” his mother said. “Now she is answering them.”
That night, the village gathered around the banyan tree with torches and sacred ash. The girl stood in the center, smiling as always, rain misting her hair. Her eyes found Arun.
For the first time, she spoke his name aloud.
“Brother.”
The smile cracked.
Her jaw split open wider than any human mouth could. Her face peeled back like wet paper, revealing skin the color of ash, eyes burning like furnace coals. Her hair lifted, floating, writhing as though underwater. The air filled with the stench of rot and old blood.
The torches went out.
Screams replaced prayers.
What followed was not a massacre—it was a harvest.
Men collapsed clutching their chests, veins blackening beneath their skin as if something were draining them from the inside. Their mouths opened in silent begging. Shadows crawled along the ground toward her, tearing free from their owners like ripped cloth.
By dawn, thirteen men lay dead.
The banyan tree was bare, its leaves reduced to gray dust.
The forest road was empty.
Only Arun remained alive near the clearing, his clothes soaked in someone else’s blood, the echo of her voice still crawling through his skull.
“I am not finished.”
They found him weeks later wandering the highway, whispering to himself, eyes fixed on things no one else could see. Every night he wakes screaming, convinced someone is standing at the foot of his bed—beautiful, waiting.
And sometimes, in villages far from Chandrapur, a woman appears from nowhere.
Extremely gorgeous.
Asking only for water.
Pishachini: When Beauty Learns to Feed
The girl first arrived in Devpura during Navratri.
The entire town was wrapped in lights, drumbeats rolling through the streets like a heartbeat. Amid the crowds dancing before the Durga idol, she stood alone—silent, radiant, untouched by sweat or dust. Her red lehenga glowed as if lit from within. Men lost rhythm in their steps just looking at her.
She never spoke.
She only smiled.
That night, three boys from the college hostel dreamed the same dream.
They were standing in a mirror-lined corridor. She walked toward them, her anklets ringing softly, though they could not see her feet. Her smile grew wider with every step until her lips stretched past her cheeks, splitting the illusion of beauty like cracked porcelain.
They woke screaming.
By morning, two were dead—found sitting upright in their beds, eyes melted into dark hollows, faces twisted in frozen adoration. The third boy, Suresh, survived but could not speak. He spent hours staring into mirrors, tracing invisible footprints on the floor.
The town priest declared it hysteria.
The fourth death came that evening.
Ramvilas, a respected businessman, was discovered in his locked bedroom. Every mirror in the room had shattered from the inside, glass embedded in the walls like thrown blades. His face was peeled into a grin so wide the skin had torn at the corners.
That was when the old temple caretaker, Bhola Baba, whispered a word no one wanted to hear.
Pishachini.
Not a ghost.
Not a demon.
A hunger that wears beauty as bait.
He said she was born of betrayal—of a woman murdered after being promised love, her spirit too enraged to pass on. Such entities do not kill quickly. They empty their victims first, draining desire, obsession, and memory until the body is just a hollow container.
Devpura tried to trap her with mantras, red thread, iron nails hammered into peepal trees.
She laughed.
They could hear it—soft, musical, echoing from inside their own heads.
Suresh finally wrote something on the hospital wall using his bloodied fingernail:
SHE HAS NO SHADOW.
That night, the town went dark.
The electricity failed. The festival lights died. In the pitch blackness, footsteps moved through houses—backwards footsteps. Doors opened without sound. Men woke unable to scream as fingers colder than winter wrapped around their ankles.
By dawn, Devpura was silent.
Forty-seven men were dead.
The girl was gone.
Months later, in another town miles away, a new face appeared at a bus stop—long hair, soft eyes, a smile that promised everything men were missing in their lives.
Someone offered her water.
And the hunger began again.
