The Call of the Mountain
Horror Story
The mountains of the Alikadam region in Bandarban are as beautiful as they are perilous. As one ascends, human settlements become sparse, and primeval, nameless trees stand tall, slicing through the mountain’s expanse. Elders from the local Marma and Mro tribes believe that the deep mountain forests have rules of their own. Especially on full-moon nights, when the valleys are shrouded in mist, a supernatural and melodious flute tune drifts down from the peaks. They call this the “Call of the Nocturnal Mountain Spirit.” Anyone who hears this melody falls into a strange trance and begins walking deep into the forest; the mountain lures them to a place from which there is no return.
Seeking an escape from the mechanical life of the city, five friends from Dhaka, Arif, Fahad, Nishan, Zishan, and Turjo, arrived in the Dim Pahar area of Alikadam for a trekking expedition. They were all thrill-seekers and physically fit. After crossing the summit of Dim Pahar, they ventured onto a more rugged trail without a guide. Their goal was to pitch their tents and spend the night in a secluded spot close to the clouds. An elderly Mro man had warned them before they set up camp in a mountain ravine: “My sons, the mountains grow quiet after sunset; you must remain quiet too. If you hear the sound of a flute at night, stuff cotton in your ears. The mountain’s call is extremely dangerous.” Fahad had chuckled to himself at the old man’s words, thinking, “Even in this modern age, people still look for ghosts in the mountains!”
That night, after navigating the ups and downs of the terrain, they pitched their tents in a clearing within a deep ravine of Dim Pahar. A massive full moon hung in the sky. Moonlight reflecting off the mountain’s white mist cast an ethereal glow over the entire valley. Five friends were gathered around a campfire in front of their tent, barbecuing, chatting, and singing. Just past midnight, the mountain air turned sharply cold. The chirping of crickets and the croaking of wild frogs fell silent in an instant. A heavy, oppressive silence descended upon the mountainside.
That was when the sound drifted in from a distant mountain peak.
It was a hauntingly sweet flute melody, filled with a deep, aching sorrow. The tune rode the airwaves, echoing through the crags and crevices of the mountains. The melody was so hypnotic that the coffee mug slipped from Arif’s hand and fell to the ground, yet he didn’t even notice. The music seemed to permeate every cell of their brains, inducing a numbing sensation. The five friends stood transfixed, their eyes wide and unblinking. It felt as though the melody was deeply familiar, as if someone were calling them into the depths of the forest with immense tenderness.
“What a beautiful melody… let’s go see who’s playing it,” Nishan murmured. Without waiting for a response, he began walking toward the dark forest trail, leaving behind the tent’s light and his flashlight.
The other four, Arif, Fahad, Zishan, and Turjo, followed Nishan, as if under a spell. It was as if the flute’s melody had instantly drained away their reason and their innate instinct for self-preservation. Ignoring muddy paths, steep slopes, and sharp rocks, they walked blindly toward the source of the sound. Vines and undergrowth tore at their clothes, and their limbs were cut and bleeding, yet they felt no pain. They simply walked on, staring fixedly into the mist ahead. As they walked, they arrived at a spot in the forest that was far from an ordinary mountain path. The area resembled a natural tunnel, enclosed on all sides by towering, sheer walls of black rock. At the far end of this tunnel, perched on a rocky ledge, stood a figure.
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As the moonlight fell upon the figure, the hypnotic spell clouding Fahad’s mind suddenly snapped. He froze in sheer terror. He tried to shout to his friends, “Stop! Don’t go any further!” but the other four continued to advance, still entranced by the melody.
The figure standing on the ledge was no human. It stood nearly eight feet tall, impossibly gaunt and skeletal. Its skin was pitch-black and slimy, like the wet moss found on the mountainside. With long, clawed hands, it played a flute carved from black bone. But most terrifying of all was its face; it had no mouth or nose, and where eyes should have been, two spheres of intense, blood-red fire burned. Two deer-like antlers protruded from its head.
It was no ordinary apparition; it was a primal, nocturnal spirit of these rugged mountains, a creature that sought the taste of human blood every full moon.
The melody of the flute grew faster and more piercing. Driven by the intensity of the tune, Nishan, Arif, Zishan, and Turjo moved step by step toward the sheer precipice, a drop leading into a dark, thousand-foot-deep chasm.
“Nishan! Arif! Come back!” Fahad rushed forward frantically and grabbed Nishan’s hand, trying to pull him back. But a supernatural force had taken hold of Nishan; with a single violent jerk, he flung Fahad aside. Fahad crashed against the rocks and injured his head.
From that spot, Fahad witnessed a horrifying scene. The mountain spirit stopped playing its flute. As the melody ceased, the four friends came to a sudden halt at the very edge of the gorge, snapping out of their trance. But it was already too late. The spirit let out a laugh, an unearthly, guttural, and demonic sound. The vibrations of that laughter made the mountain rocks tremble.
Extending its long, pitch-black arms, the spirit shoved the four friends with a supernatural gust of wind. With heart-rending screams, Nishan, Arif, Jishan, and Turjo plunged straight into the dark, thousand-foot-deep gorge. Their cries echoed against the crags of the mountain before gradually fading away.
Seized by panic, Fahad began running blindly back along the trail with all his might. The mountain spirit turned to face him and once again raised its black flute to its lips. Remembering the Mro elder’s words, Fahad crumpled the tissues from his pocket and stuffed them tightly into his ears.
The melody wafted through the air once more. Thanks to the cloth and tissue in his ears, the intensity of the sound could not completely numb Fahad’s brain, though the excruciating pain caused blood to stream from his ears. He did not stop, even as he teetered on the verge of collapse from dizziness. Stumbling against rocks and caked in mud, he kept running backward. Behind him, the terrifying flute melody and the inhuman, raucous laughter of the nocturnal spirit continued to echo.
The following afternoon, a group of Marma jum farmers from Alikadam found Fahad lying unconscious and bloodied beside the main road. Blood was trickling from both his ears, and his eyes held the frozen, petrified stare of someone paralyzed by terror. He was immediately admitted to the Bandarban Sadar Hospital. Later, with the help of an army rescue team and local guides, the battered bodies of Arif, Nishan, Zishan, and Turjo were recovered from the deep ravine of Dim Pahar. Although Fahad survived, he lost his hearing forever and could never return to a normal life. Even today, on full-moon nights in the remote hills of Alikadam, fishermen and *jum* farmers keep their doors tightly shut; they know that, shrouded in mist, the nocturnal spirit still sits atop the mountain with its bone flute, waiting for a new traveler.
