We were telling each other spooky stories. She decided to tell me what happened with her great grandmother. She began telling the story which was passed down to her by her parents-
In the quiet solitude of a forgotten village in southern India, my great-grandma, a woman in her early twenties, found herself alone in our ancestral home. The aromatic essence of murukku lingered in the air as she tended to the traditional South Indian snack, unaware that the tranquillity of the evening would soon be shattered by an otherworldly encounter.
A haunting voice disrupted the stillness, whispering, “Please give me something to eat…please… I beg you.” Initially brushing it off as a common plea from wandering beggars, she continued her cooking task. However, the persistent voice grew more desperate, and the unsettling clatter of a heavy object dropping hinted at an impending disturbance.
Turning towards the source, she was met with an unnerving sight – a hand emerging from the partially open door, fingers barely grazing the floor. “Lady, please feed me,” the voice implored, as the hand ventured further into the house, the voice was very rough and it seemed to be more irritated.
Battling a mixture of fear and curiosity, my great-grandma cautiously peered through the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person connected to the mysterious hand. To her dismay, the outside world remained silent, she saw no man outside. She saw nothing.
The hand’s relentless advance continued, accompanied by eerie noises that echoed through the old halls. Summoning an unexpected courage, my great-grandma decided to confront the spectral intruder. “Okay, you’re in luck. I’m frying some murukku; I’ll feed you,” she declared, the quiver in her voice betraying the tension that hung in the air.
She slowly picked up the kadai( wok ) filled with scalding oil, she approached the disembodied hand. As the hot liquid made contact, a blood-curdling scream reverberated through the house. The hand recoiled, crashing against the floor. Rushing to the window, my great-grandma anticipated witnessing the aftermath.
To her horror, there was nothing but the impenetrable darkness outside. The forest beyond the house seemed to guard its secrets closely, and the fading echoes of footsteps and cries hinted at a retreating specter. The mysterious figure had vanished, leaving behind an unsettling emptiness.
After a few suspenseful moments, my great-grandma cautiously approached the door. There, on the floor, lay a charred hand, severed at the elbow – a grotesque memento of the supernatural encounter. She chose to bury it in a secluded corner of the backyard, a silent witness to a night of unexplainable horror.
Word of the chilling tale spread through the village, passed down through generations with hushed reverence. The burnt hand, now buried in the backyard, became a symbol of the unknown, a reminder that some mysteries defy explanation, and that the thin veil separating the living from the spectral is sometimes breached in the most unexpected ways.
Yep…now I know the story too and I tell this story to every kid who wants a scary story :)