The last few days—a mix of multiple power cuts and an otherwise welcome absence of one’s roommate, all while it rains and thunders—haven’t really been favourable for this someone who cannot fall asleep before the w(b)itching hours.
Now, only a rare few can claim that they’ve never overthought the possibility of finding someone lurking under their bed in the dark, or tried convincing themselves that suffocating under a quilt is the only and ultimate shield against all conceivable evil. And let’s face it, The Conjuring has left a scar so deep that it’s practically a chasm that widens every time you pass by a quad mirror after a late-night group chat assembly, or in the case of the other 1%, a study in the Abhimanyu Hall.
Though I’ve always approached the supernatural with a dose of skepticism (and “Hanuman Chalisa”), life has a way of challenging beliefs. My experiences in cantonments infamous for eerie midnight sounds and unexplained pet-deaths have done little to soothe my doubts. Add to that, the harrowing memories of the Burari case, a life-changing Google search that informed me of the reality of the Warrens’ existence, and the intriguing tales from a friend’s father, who volunteers with the IPS (not that one). From houses overlooking British cemeteries with dark histories to local legends and unsettling occurrences both in my house and now this delightful campus, the debate over the existence of an afterlife and otherworldly forces has been a recurring topic of my nocturnal discussions.
Being honest, my generic obsession with the Warrens’ Connecticut museum still persists, but the story that lingers most in my mind isn’t one from a far-off land, nor from the annals of history. It’s a tale from Panikhar, a remote village in Jammu & Kashmir, known for its bone-chilling cold and treacherous terrain. This incident occurred a few years ago, involving a paltan-on-patrol in the dead of winter. They were no strangers to the quiet that often blankets the region, but that night, something far more sinister awaited them.
It began as a routine “Adjutant Sahab toh humesha raat kaali karate hain” evening, with the soldiers trudging through the snow-covered landscape, their breath visible in the freezing air. As they neared a cluster of dilapidated houses, they heard it—a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the mountains. It was a woman’s voice, shrill and desperate, followed by the unmistakable sound of a mob.
The soldiers sprinted toward the commotion, finding a scene straight out of a nightmare. A group of locals, their faces twisted in fear and anger, were gathered around a bonfire. In the centre was a woman, her hair wild and her clothes in tatters, tied to a tree. The mob, chanting in a mix of Urdu and Kashmiri, seemed intent on burning her alive. The soldiers, horrified, rushed to intervene, and a fierce struggle ensued.
The locals, fueled by some primal fear, resisted the soldiers’ attempts to free the woman. Amidst the chaos, the woman’s cries became more frantic, her eyes wide with terror as though she were seeing something no one else could. It was clear she was not in her right mind—her words were a jumble of incoherent pleas and curses, her movements erratic and desperate. She seemed to be hallucinating, her gaze fixed on some unseen terror.
After what felt like an eternity, the soldiers managed to overpower the mob and cut the woman loose. But just as they did, something inexplicable happened—she vanished. One moment she was there, the next
she was gone, leaving the soldiers staring at an empty space where she had stood. The fire still crackled, the mob now silent and in shock, but the woman was nowhere to be found.
In the days that followed, the soldiers tried to make sense of what had happened. Initially, they assumed it was a tragic case of a mentally ill woman being accused of witchcraft—a not uncommon occurrence in rural India, where fear and superstition often lead to violence. But the more they discussed it, the more unsettling the story became. Some of the soldiers reported seeing her in their dreams, standing by the stake, her eyes filled with a malevolent rage. Others claimed to have heard her screams echoing through the mountains on quiet nights.
The tale spread through the ranks, becoming something of a legend among the paltan (so much so that 27 years later, the unit still holds daily evening Gayatri Mantra jaaps). The locals, too, whispered of the incident, speaking of similar occurrences in the area over the years—stories of women who vanished, of haunting cries in the night, of men driven mad by what they had seen. It was as though the entire region was cursed, its people caught in a cycle of fear and violence that blurred the line between the living and the dead.
But was it truly a haunting? Or was it something far more tragic—a case of paranoia spiralling out of control, fueled by the harsh realities of life in a conflict zone? The woman’s behavior, her hallucinations, her disappearance—all could be explained by mental illness, exacerbated by the isolation and brutality of her environment.
There have been numerous such documented cases of mentally vulnerable individuals being exploited or misunderstood, leading to their persecution. One of the most infamous is the case of Anneliese Michel, a German woman who underwent 67 exorcisms in the 1970s because her parents and priests believed she was possessed. In reality, she suffered from severe psychiatric conditions, but the cultural context and the fear of the supernatural led to her tragic death. Similarly, the Salem Witch Trials of the 17th century were fueled by mass hysteria and paranoia, resulting in the execution of 20 innocent people, many of whom were simply misunderstood or mentally unwell.
If only solving mental illnesses were as simple as sprinkling “Gangajal,” right?
Psychological research also supports the idea that our minds can create or amplify fears, especially under stress. The Stanford Prison Experiment and the Milgram Experiment both demonstrate how easily people can be influenced to act irrationally or violently when placed in certain situations. Fear, particularly fear of the unknown, can distort our perception of reality, making the paranormal seem all too real.
Returning to Panikhar, the woman’s sudden disappearance might be less about the supernatural and more about the mind’s tendency to fill in gaps with terrifying possibilities. The soldiers, already on edge from their surroundings and the violent confrontation, could have easily misinterpreted a moment of confusion or a trick of the light. But the fear they felt was real, with a way of lingering that could turn even the most rational minds toward thoughts of the paranormal.
Speaking of rationality—In AIL (get the joke?), where ghost stories are as routine as late-night PD sessions, our guestroom with its shadowy corners is a frequent feature. Students on my side of the living quarters have reported seeing ghostly apparitions and hearing unsettling noises, while there have also been multiple witnesses to chairs moving into place and doors locking themselves—a spectacle I initially chalked up to internship stress and overactive imaginations.
In conclusion, whether examining the Burari tragedy, the tale I just narrated, or our own campus lore, the boundary between reality and the supernatural remains only as blurry as my 20/40 vision. So, the next time you hear a mysterious creak or feel an unexpected chill, think—could it be a ghost seeking vengeance? Or just your inner main character trying to audition for the next big role in the Scream series? (Apologies, Warner Bros.; no more reference monopoly)
Either way, the Paranormal-Paranoia divide remains as captivating as it is unsettling, offering a thrill that stays long after the lights (and the knives) are out.
Also, pro tip for those with shattered UPSC dreams- No matter what anyone says, you will always have the option of joining at least the IPS (Indian Paranormal Society). Cheers.
This article has been written by Anushka (3rd Year).
