The real based horror scary story of Ramna park.
Ramna Park is the emerald heart of Dhaka, but once the sun dips below the horizon and the heavy humidity settles, the air there changes. It's no longer a place for morning joggers; it's a place where the shadows have teeth.
Here is a story of what happens when you stay past the final bell.
The Bell at Ramna Park
Tanvir wasn't a believer in the supernatural. He was a pragmatic university student who had simply lost track of time while studying under the ancient banyan trees. When the park guards rang the final bell signaling the gates were closing, he was deep in the northern thicket, far from the main entrance.
By the time he packed his bags, the twilight had turned into an unnatural, ink-black darkness. The streetlights from the nearby roads seemed miles away, their glow muffled by the dense canopy.
The Following Shadow
As Tanvir hurried toward the gate near the High Court, he heard it: shhh-shhh-shhh.
It was the sound of something heavy being dragged through dry leaves. He stopped. The sound stopped. He looked back, but the twisted roots of the banyan trees looked like tangled limbs in the dark.
"Is someone there?" he called out. His voice felt thin, swallowed by the trees.
No answer. Only the smell of stagnant pond water and something metallic—like old blood.
The Lady by the Lake
He decided to take the shortcut past the central lake. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the moon like a dark mirror. That's when he saw her.
A woman stood at the water's edge. She wore a white sari, but it wasn't the crisp white of a celebration; it was the dull, stained white of a shroud. She was facing the water, her back to him.
"Excuse me, sister," Tanvir said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "The gates are locked. We need to find a guard."
The woman didn't move, but she began to hum. It was a low, mournful Bhatiali tune, the kind boatmen sing on lonely rivers. Slowly, she began to turn.
The Face in the Dark
Tanvir froze. As she turned, he realized her feet weren't touching the grass. They were hovering inches above the mud, and—his blood ran cold—her heels were facing forward.
When she finally faced him, there was nothing where a face should be. Just a smooth, pale expanse of skin, like a scar that had healed over eyes, nose, and mouth. Yet, from somewhere inside that blank head, a voice whispered:
"Why are you leaving so soon? The roots are hungry."
The Escape
Tanvir didn't scream; he couldn't. He ran. He sprinted toward the perimeter fence, the sound of dragging leaves now right at his heels. He felt cold, spindly fingers—like wet branches—brush against the back of his neck.
He scrambled over the spiked iron fence, tearing his shirt and slicing his palms. He landed on the pavement of the main road, gasping for air as a rickshaw cycled past, its bell ringing a cheerful, grounding sound.
The Aftermath
When Tanvir looked back through the bars, the park was silent. But there, standing just inside the gate, was the woman. She wasn't reaching for him anymore. She was simply pointing at the ground where he had been sitting just minutes before.
The next morning, Tanvir returned with a friend. At the base of that banyan tree, he found his notebook. It was shredded into a thousand pieces, and arranged in the center of the mess was a single, fresh hibiscus flower—the kind often left at graves.