In my 20s, I lived in a small village called Malana. Our family had a three-storey house on the outskirts, where there were very few other homes around us. This made our house feel quiet and peaceful, but it also meant we were far from many conveniences. The market, where we bought our groceries and other essentials, was a twenty-minute walk away. Since we didn’t own a vehicle, going to the market was often a challenge, especially when we had heavy bags to carry back home. At that time, I had just finished my studies and was looking for a good job. I didn’t have much work, which made the days feel long. My father worked for the government, and his job provided us with a stable income. This was a blessing, as it meant we could meet our basic needs without any major financial worries.
Our bungalow was close to an abandoned railway station which seemed quite haunted at night. The air around it felt thick with a creepy silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. The locals of the village whispered stories about the abandoned station being haunted, tales passed down through generations that sent shivers down the spine. People made many jinn stories about the station from which only Allah (SWT) knows which ones were true.
They said that long ago, the station was crowded with people, filled with travelers and passengers. But after a tragic accident that claimed the lives of several passengers, the station was left empty and became haunted. At night, people claimed to see ghosts and jinns wandering along the platform, waiting for trains that would never arrive. Some said they could hear faint echoes of cries and the distant sound of a train whistle, lingering long after the last train had passed.
As I sat on the terrace of our bungalow, sipping my coffee, I often found myself staring at the station which was illuminated by the ghostly light of the moon. Shadows danced along the cracked walls, and the flickering of an old lamppost added a strange and frightening atmosphere. My heart would race as I imagined the stories of the haunted station as it used to make me feel too terrified.
The jungle around the station felt like it was closing in, with the trees swaying as if guarding hidden secrets. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me from the darkness, connected to the tragic past of the place. Every creak of the old wood and gust of wind reminded me of lost souls, their stories mixing with my thoughts as I recited the evening Dhikr of Allah (swt), seeking comfort from the strange energy in the air.
My favorite hobby was to climb to the terrace after the evening prayer, Isha, with a mug of coffee. I loved spending time in the peaceful atmosphere of my village. However, I was feeling a bit anxious because I had to travel to the mountainous areas of Kashmir for my new job. I had been hired as a security guard for an abandoned property. The owner had been having trouble with people trespassing on his land, and he needed someone to keep watch over it. This would be my first job, and I was both excited and nervous. I had tried really hard to find a job in my own village, but unfortunately, I was unsuccessful.
I thought about the beautiful mountains of Kashmir. I imagined the fresh air and the stunning views, but I also worried about how different it would be from my quiet village life. I hoped I could adapt quickly and do my job well, making sure the property stayed safe and secure. I didn't have any other choice but to take this job. It was really important for me and my family needed the money to be more stable. So, I quickly began packing my things because I had a long trip ahead of me. I gathered my clothes, personal items, and everything I thought I might need. Each item I packed reminded me of my family and why I was doing this. As I finished packing, I thought about the journey ahead. It would be long, but I was determined to make it work. I wanted to provide a better life for my loved ones. I took a deep breath, recited the duas of travelling and made my way to the Bus stand.
I said goodbye to my family and a few friends in the village before heading to the bus depot after the Maghrib Salah prayer. A narrow road just beyond my house led me to the village bus terminal. As I walked away, various thoughts filled my mind. I turned back for one last look at my house, took a deep breath, and then continued walking towards the terminal. In the distance, the railway station appeared to shrink as I took steps closer to my destination.
