I couldn’t believe my luck when I stumbled upon the perfect apartment in the heart of the city. I had just moved here for work, and finding a decent place to live had been a nightmare. But then, it appeared—a spacious apartment with a mesmerizing view, and the rent was absurdly low. It felt like a dream, too good to be true, but I signed the lease without second thoughts. Little did I know that my dream home was about to turn into a nightmare.
It all began innocently enough, with minor disturbances. Objects moved on their own, doors whispered open, and eerie sounds echoed within the walls. At first, I brushed it off as mere imagination, but that gut feeling of unease grew stronger by the day. It was as though an unseen presence lurked around me, a darkness I couldn’t shake.
Then, the day came when I discovered a hidden room behind a loose shelf in the living room. The room reeked of ancient secrets, a magnetic pull drawing me inside. But once I stepped through that threshold, I knew something was horribly wrong. The air grew thick, whispers surrounded me, and I realized I couldn’t leave—the door had locked itself from the outside. I was trapped.
Within the room, I saw it—ominous symbols etched into the wall, a mark of some unholy ritual. I didn’t know much about such things, but the symbols began to glow, like a portal into the unknown. I shut my eyes, praying for it to disappear. When I dared to open my eyes again, the room had changed, but not for the better. The symbol had vanished, and the whispers ceased, but a malevolent presence lingered. It felt like a switch had been flipped, plunging me into a world where the supernatural was all too real.
The disturbances escalated, no longer ignorable. The entity, a sinister shadow, haunted my every step, even when invisible to my eyes. It was a relentless stalker, and my fear knew no bounds. Always lurking, around the corner of my sight. I believe it fed on my terror, growing stronger by the day. I lived in constant dread, its cold breath on my neck a chilling reminder of its presence.
Being desperate, I tried everything—sage, prayers, even calling in a priest. But nothing worked. The entity seemed to get stronger the more I attempted to banish it, feeding off my fear and growing more powerful. It became an inescapable companion, a shadow that reveled in my torment.
One harrowing night, I woke up to find the entity at the foot of my bed, a dark, pulsating mass. I felt its breath on my neck, but my voice was stolen, rendered useless. It had silenced me. After that night, I knew I had to escape the apartment. The entity had merged with me, following my every move. It was no longer just a presence in the walls; it had become a part of me. I sensed it wherever I went, and I couldn’t bear it any longer.
Weeks passed, and the entity’s power grew, its presence more overwhelming. I couldn’t sleep, haunted by nightmares and constant anxiety. My desperation led me to research the apartment’s history. Old newspapers and conversations with long-term residents unveiled a dark past—a history riddled with arcane rituals and mysterious disappearances, stretching back to the early 1900s. Previous tenants had experienced paranormal activity, but nothing compared to my ordeal.
At that point, I knew that I had to take action. I couldn’t continue living in constant fear, and I couldn’t let the entity control my life any longer. I started to research exorcisms and contacted a few experts in the field. But I wasn’t satisfied with any of them. They all seemed like conmen trying to make a quick buck out of someone’s misery. Then, one day, when I shared my situation at work, one of my colleague from India mentioned knowing a powerful tantric practitioner in his community, someone who had a solid reputation for dealing with the supernatural. I was skeptical, but I was desperate, so I begged him for that practitioner’s contact info.
Finding this guy was like chasing a ghost on the internet. He was a digital phantom, but I was hell-bent on ending this nightmare. Eventually, I tracked down his physical location. What happened next was a crazy negotiation session where he tried everything to talk me out of it. He wasn’t like those other frauds; he wasn’t in it for the money. Instead, he gave me this bizarre list of stuff I had to get. Just before we split, he handed me this pair of weird, long pajama-looking white clothes while scolding me for being reckless. Then he switched to complaining about his boss at work and started cussing in his native tongue, which made it sound like his boss was even creepier than my entity.
I went back to a motel instead of my place, I scratched my head looking at the list. I called my friend who seemed to get it when he looked at it. It had stuff like coconuts, lemons, eggs, and a bunch of colorful powders. So, I crashed at the motel while my buddy went shopping for this crazy shopping list. He came back with a stash of weird supplies—bright powders, dry wood, twigs, and leaves.
Our trip back to my place felt like a setup for some freaky ritual. The tantric dude was already waiting for us in the apartment, and he’d created this intricate design with the colored powders. In the center, there was a fire in a metal container, and lemons were scattered all around. Three eggs sat in front of him, their shells smudged with yellow and red powder dots.
As soon as I walked in, he motioned for me and told me to sit cross-legged on this wooden plate. Let me tell you, it tested my patience. I seriously thought about signing up for yoga after that ordeal. He tied this red thread around my wrists, made me wear this amulet on a black-thread necklace, and smeared stuff on my forehead that felt like talcum powder, red powder, and some earthy black goo that smelt like wet soil when it rains.
Then, the ritual kicked off. He placed a small brass idol on a plate in front of him and started chanting while pouring different liquids on the idol using this fancy copper spoon. It was brutal, man, like I felt like I was getting stabbed by a thousand needles. I did what he said, adding stuff to the fire, squashing lemons, and tossing them towards these strange symbols on the walls.
The big climax came when those three eggs, wrapped in leaves, were in a clay pot. The whole room got dead silent as the tantric dude focused on them. Minutes felt like hours, and then it happened—an eerie crack, like the eggs were bleeding and the pot they were in filled with blood like liquid. Then he rubbed his hands a clapped twice really loud like a couple of gunshots, I shook in terror from the noise.
With eerie calm, the dude grabbed the pot with that blood-like liquid and dipped a dried twig into it. I was frozen as he went behind me, drawing symbols on the wall with the red liquid. Then, he tossed a lit camphor into the pot, muttering some weird words. Out of nowhere, the liquid burst into these blue flames like a freaking blowtorch. Just as sudden, it all vanished, leaving behind a clear, water-like substance, but there was less of it. The eggs and leaves were gone, like poof!
He scooped some of the liquid with that copper spoon, poured it into the fire, and it started billowing thick white smoke. Then, something crazy happened—my pain vanished, and I felt this wave of calm wash over me. But that peace didn’t last long. He turned his attention to a clay pot with a weird, marked neck, filled with charcoal-looking stuff and placed it in my palms. My chest was on fire like being pierced by a red hot steak, and I couldn’t speak, just dry heaves into the pot. I puked up this dark, slimy goo mixed with eerie blue glowing strands.
Quick as lightning, he grabbed and sealed the pot, and that crushing weight on my chest disappeared, replaced by a soothing calm. My buddy and I exchanged relieved looks, knowing something profound had just gone down. Meanwhile, the dude wrapped the clay pot with red thread, cinching it so tight I thought it might burst. He covered it with a red cloth, securing it with more bindings, so tight it looked like it might explode.
Finally, he declared the ritual done and ready to bounce. Before he split, he emphasized that I had to keep wearing the amulet and thread, and he gave me spares, just in case. He gave me the address of a temple where I could get more bindings, handed me a card with some deity’s picture and weird words on the back, and tossed me a bit of red powder wrapped in a torn newspaper scrap. His parting words were a warning: “Don’t come back more than three time, you leave house and find new. Until then stay his house, very good food” he said, nodding at my buddy with a sly grin. I tried to give him some money, he profoundly refused and instead told me “You too curious. Don’t. Very bad habit. Stop”
Then while departing, he left behind a business card—for a landscaping company, of all things. I joked about not being able to afford a house, unwittingly inviting his reproachful comparisons to wealthier folks my age. He scolded me, saying my matrimonial future depended on how diligent I was.
I grabbed everything important to me, put it all in a large box, and moved out. Even though he told me I could come back three times, one time was already too many for me. So I moved all of it to my motel room. A couple of hours later, my friend came back with enough food to feed an entire village for a month. I really had to have him sit down and explain to him that I had zero intentions of moving in with him, nor did I feel bad about it. The next day, I had a moving company move my stuff into storage. I left that room and the stuff inside untouched.
I moved out of the motel soon after that and never looked back at my old apartment again. But the experience left a lasting impression on me. I realized that there are things in this world that we can’t explain, and that sometimes we have to confront our fears head-on in order to overcome them.
Now, I’m more cautious about the places I choose to live, and I always make sure to research the history of a building before I move in. I still have nightmares about the entity and the small room, but I know that I’m stronger for having faced them. They also stop if I keep that photo card and paper sachet under my pillow, so I’ve made it a habit before I go to sleep.
So, if you ever stumble upon a too-good-to-be-true apartment deal in the city, think twice before signing that lease. There might be some darkness lurking behind those walls. Be wary of that hidden room, because some secrets are better left buried, and the malevolent entity inside is something you never want to meet face to face.
If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, don’t hesitate to reach out for help. There are people out there who can assist you, no matter how terrifying the situation may seem. And remember, sometimes the scariest things are the ones that we can’t see.