"Beware the Sweet Smell" by Pragyan Parui
Genre: folklore, paranormal
They say that when you walk alone at night -- especially through forests or near cremation grounds -- and the air suddenly carries the sweet scent of flowers, stop. Do not follow the scent. Do not linger. Do not breathe too deeply.
For it is not the fragrance of blossoms but a warning.
She is near.
It was on a muggy night, thick with humidity and the weight of impending rain, that Ravi first heard the legend. Around the village bongire, its dying embers glowing faintly, shadows writhed and twisted on the faces of the elders. Their voices, low and deliberate, carried the weight of stories older than memory, woven with the threads of warning and fear.
The children sat cross-legged in a tight circle, their eyes wide as saucers, the flickering light painting ghostly shapes on their cheeks. They leaned forward with rapt attention, holding their breath as if the words themselves might carry some forbidden truth.
"The Kaam Pishachini," one elder began, his voice rasping like dry leaves dragged across stone, "doesn't need to chase you. You'll go to her willingly."
A hushed silence followed his words, broken only by the crackling of a stubborn log in the fire.
Ravi smirked, his skepticism cutting through the tension. "All this fuss over a sweet smell? What's next -- a ghost with halitosis?" His chuckle echoed, too loud against the stillness.
Image Description: A ghostly figure. A woman's face is blended with a skull-like visage. Blue-white whisps form a feminine shape against a dark backdrop. One arm is raised over the head, and one is stretched out to the side. The spectral image has a full skirt.
Credit: Curt Rochon / Unsplash
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. A few murmured prayers under their breath.
From the edge of the circle, an old woman leaned forward. Her cloudy eyes caught the firelight, glinting like tarnished silver. "It's not the smell you fear," she whispered, her voice a brittle thread of sound. "It's what follows."
A week later, Ravi was walking alone through the forest.
He had stayed late drinking with friends in the neighboring town, dismissing their concerns with the same careless grin he'd worn around the bonfire. When they urged him to take the longer, safer road home, he laughed.
"Ghost stories won't stop me," he declared, waving off their warnings. The shortcut was quicker, after all -- a narrow path that slithered like a snake through the dense woods and skirted the edge of the old cremation ground.
The forest enveloped him quickly, the canopy swallowing the moonlight until only slivers of pale illumination filtered through. The air was thick, heavy with the promise of rain, and clung to his skin like an unwelcome second layer.
At first, the night was alive with its usual symphony -- chirping crickets, the rustle of leaves in the faint breeze. But then, without warning, it stopped.
The silence wasn't natural. It pressed against Ravi's ears, heavy and oppressive, as if the forest itself held its breath. His footsteps, once confident, now seemed deafening, each crunch of dried leaves a sharp intrusion into the unnatural stillness.
And then, he smelled it.
A sweet, cloying scent drifted through the air. It wasn't faint or subtle -- it roled over him in thick waves, wrapping around him like a silken cord. Jasmine. The kind his mother used to wear tucked into her braid on festival days.
But there were no flowers here.
The path was flanked by ancicent trees, their gnarled trunks twisting skyward like skeletal arms clawing at the heavens. The scent didn't belong. It was wrong, too strong, too sweet, like rotting fruit masquerading as nectar.
Ravi's heart thudded in his chest. He dropped his cigarette, the faint ember sizzling out in the damp earth.
A sound broke the silence.
It was soft, almost imperceptible -- a giggle. Light and lilting, it danced on the edge of hearing.
Yet there was something else beneath it, something jagged and cruel.
He turned, his breath catching in his throat. She stood there, just beyond the shadows.
A woman.
Her sari shimmered in the faint moonlight, an iridescent silver that seemed to ripple like liquid mercury. Her hair tumbled in dark waves, framing a face so perfect it seemed carved by the gods themselves.
"Are you lost?" she asked, her voice a melody, each word honeyed and sweet.
Ravi swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the humid air. "No, I'm...just passing through."
Her smile widened, revealing teeth that gleamed too brightly. "Passing through? At this hour?" She tilted her head slightly, the motion just a fraction too slow, too deliberate.
The scent grew stronger, suffocating, curling into this nostrils and seeping into his lungs. He wanted to turn, to run, but his body betrayed him. His legs refused to obey.
"Come closer," she whispered, extending a hand. Her fingers were long, too long, tipped with nails that cleamed like polished bone. "I won't hurt you."
Against his will, he stepped forward.
And as he did, her beauty unraveled.
The radiant glow of her skin turned sallow, mottled like decaying fruit. Her luminous eyes darkened, their pupils swallowing the irises until the glowed faintly red, like embers in a dying fire.
Her smile stretched, widening far beyond the limits of humanity. The corners of her mouth split with a wet, tearing sound, revealing rows of jagged, glistening shards.
Ravi stumbled, his knees buckling beneath him. His scream clawed its way up his throat but never reached his lips.
The last thing he saw was her face, grotesque and inhuman, her laughter slicing through the oppressive silence as she lunged.
By dawn, the villagers found Ravi's body near the cremation ground. His face was a mask of unspeakable terror, his eyes wide and glassy. His lips, frozen mid-scream, spoke of horrors untold.
The air was still, heavy with the faint, lingering scent of jasmine.
The path through the forest remains untouched to this day. The villagers know better. They whisper the tale to warn others, their voices low and trembling.
Beware the sweet smell.
For some flowers bloom only in the dark, and their fragrance carries the promise of doom.
Have you ever wondered why legends from different parts of the world speak of similar spirits, like the Pontianak of Indonesia, the Kaam Pishachini of India, the Succubus of Europe, or the Yuki-onna of Japan? What does it say about our shared fears, desires, and the stories we tell to understand the unknown? Or could it be that these are not just stories, but glimpses of something we refuse to see or accept? Something real, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to remind us of its truth?
About the Author
Pragyan Parui is a high school student and a pediatric Crohn's patient. Congratulations to Pragyan for coming in first place in the December Flash Fiction and Poetry contest! You can read more of Pragyan's work on Neobook or on Underground Bookshelf.
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