Indian Creepypastas [Animated/Narrated Video & Text]

The Sixth Cigarette - Indian Creepypasta/Indian Horror Story

<see animated video above>

Many years ago, when I was a medical student, I took part in charity camps sponsored by my college.

6 months after my mother's tragic passing, five of us went on a camp to one village in the neighbouring district.

Our names are not relevant; what's important is what happened to us that night.

After a long day of treating patients in a dilapidated school building, my colleagues and I grabbed some fried fish and rice from a roadside stall and devoured it on the spot. We took a leisurely stroll back to our lodgings, admiring the paddy fields and coconut groves at night.

"Did you notice how many roadside shrines they have in this place? This is exactly the sort of village where people will claim there's a demon or a deity living in every rock and tree," one of my colleagues commented.

I agreed. Watching the windswept expanse of cultivated land and the forested mountains silhouetted in the creeping shadows of the night filled me with a sense of awe and fear.

The howling wind instilled a sense of foreboding, as if dangerous creatures from the spirit world lurking within the gloom were poised to emerge from the encroaching darkness at any moment.

I also sensed grief for my mother.

The lighthearted banter surrounding me served as a comforting shield, warding off the lurking terrors and sorrow.

Upon arriving at our lodgings, the five of us were dismayed to find the power was out.

"Great," the oldest member of our group groaned.

"The mosquitoes will eat us alive. I was hoping for a good night's sleep before another long day tomorrow," I said.

"Let's at least have a smoke before we face what I'm sure is going to be a hellish night," someone else suggested.

"Great idea," I agreed.

Gathered in the gloom, we shared cigarettes and took turns igniting them in a fleeting dance of sparks.

No one spoke.

The nicotine flooded our veins, easing our aches and exhaustion.

Enveloped in the inky darkness, the glowing embers at the tips of our cigarettes served as our sole beacons of identification.

After a while, one of my buddies asked, "Is anyone smoking two cigarettes?"

"No," we all chorused.

And then we began counting silently. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

A sixth smouldering crimson star. The cherry-red tip of the lit cigarette crackled softly.

"Who is that?" I asked, fear evident in my voice.

The light moved to someone's mouth, and the person inhaled the smoke with a rasping breath, followed by a chill inducing sound.

I would recognise that sound anywhere. I had heard it several times in the wards. I had heard it escape my mother's lips. The death rattle of someone about to leave their earthly form.

We all instinctively took a step back.

The light continued to bob up and down, accompanied by a haunting guttural noise.

My heart pounded in my chest, and I could hear the others breathing rapidly.

We extinguished our cigarettes under our feet, one by one. All five of us.

But just before the sixth one vanished, a sinister cackle echoed through the darkness, sending us fleeing in terror into the night.

As I bolted, I thought I heard it say, " I see her. She is all alone."