Desi Horror Stories

Winged Lady

Hunaid had heard of the Pakshin. How could he not have? The entire city was buzzing with horrifying tales of the Winged Lady, as she had been nicknamed. There were those who swore that they had seen her. The growing legend said that she never landed on the ground. Using her extremely large wings, she flitted about from one high place to another; treetops, roofs, hoardings, traffic signals—these were the places she perched on. She appeared after dusk and lay in wait of unsuspecting young men. She would follow them until they were alone and would then swoop down and attack. So far, she had claimed ten victims, enough to keep the city in a state of terror after dusk.

Now as Hunaid hurried home from his unexpected delay at office, he had his heart in his mouth. Despite the chill of the night, his shirt was soaked in his sweat. The bus had dropped him at the usual spot, where he hoped to find an autorickshaw to get home, but this night, fortune hadn't favored him. There were no autorickshaws. With a deep breath, Hunaid started walking the one kilometer stretch as briskly as he could.

It was when he left the main road and entered the smaller street that he heard the rustling above his head.

The sound was quite clear—it was a flapping of the wings; there was no doubt about it. His feet went numb for an instant, and he might have stumbled and fallen if his momentum hadn't carried him forward. He suddenly became aware of how desolate the street was. It was his usual street, but he hadn't ever seen it so empty. Even the usual dogs foraging in the dustbin by the corner of the street weren't present. In fact, it was so silent that he could not even hear the chattering of the nocturnal pests and insects. What had driven them away?

Moments later, there was the flapping of the wings again. Then there was a loud thud, the sound of something falling on something. Hunaid visualized what was happening. The Pakshin had left her previous perch and landed on another one. She was following him!

His feet fell mindlessly now. He knew two things, things that he had heard from the alleged witnesses of this demon—one, that you shouldn't run in her presence for running agitates her all the more; and two, that you should never turn to look at her in the face, for she takes that as an immediate invitation. Hunaid hoped he'd manage these cautions for a few minutes more. His house was not far, though it seemed like miles to him, but if he kept on, he'd reach in one piece.

Just then, he froze. There was a puddle in his path, lying undisturbed, and he was just about to step on it. But before he could, he chanced to look into the still water. There he saw her reflection. The Pakshin! She was indeed there, right above his shoulders now, perched on the roof of a street-side stall which was now shut down like all others. In that reflection, he saw the feathered demon lying in wait, her hooked beak as large as a coconut and now open in anticipation, its wings steady but prepared to launch into flight at any instant, and her yellow eyes glistening in the moonlight, which shone even in the murky water of the puddle.

Hunaid gasped. So, it was true! It was true!

He broke into a run because there was nothing else he could do. He ran for about twenty steps, when he was stopped again. It was something that was thrown in his path.

Only for a second did he turn to look. And he yelled again, this time almost breaking his throat. The thing that had been thrown in his path was something that looked like a mass of mangled flesh. Red and still warm, punctuated only by some bonelike things jutting out of it. Hunaid screamed like he never had—the thing looked like something the Pakshin might have been feasting on. And now it was his turn.

He did not know how far he ran. It was probably only minutes, though it seemed like ages. But he did reach the door of his house. He ran inside without a pause and relaxed only when he was under its roof.

His wife was on the couch, sitting unperturbed. "Nazneen, you won't believe what happened," he said. But his wife didn't even turn. And that was when he went cold, colder than he was. The door. The door was still locked from inside. How had he entered then?

Quick as a flash, he ran out again, passing easily through the locked door and retraced his steps.

And then he came to the lump of flesh that had fallen in his path earlier. Attached to it was a shiny bit of plastic—it was his company ID-card. He let out an ear-splitting scream that only he could hear.

The bloodcurdling hoot from above made him look up. There she was, the Pakshin, the murderer of his flesh, still feasting on the remnant of his arm, and staring at his ghost with a glint in her yellow eye.