Broken Promise a Kerala Horror Story | झूठा वादा ब्रोकन प्रॉमिस | Real Horror Story in Hindi

In the quiet village of Velloor, deep in the heart of Kerala, something happened that the locals still whisper about.
This is the story of Hari, a 42-year-old farmer, living a seemingly peaceful life with his wife, Meera. But peace is fragile—especially when your past refuses to stay buried.
It began on a humid evening, just as the sun disappeared behind the hills. Hari was walking back home through a narrow path between rubber trees. That’s when he first felt it… a presence. Cold. Watching. He paused. Looked behind him. Nothing. But he heard something.
A whisper.
"Hari..."
Soft. Almost gentle. Almost familiar. But no one was there.
From that night on, the hauntings began.
He’d wake up at exactly 2:13 AM, gasping for breath. His room would be freezing. The smell of jasmine lingered in the air… mixed with something foul—like something decaying.
It wasn’t long before he started seeing her.
A woman. Dressed in a white saree. Standing at the foot of the bed. Pale skin. Long black hair soaked and clinging to her face. Her eyes—lifeless, dark pits. Her head tilted, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her face n body skin was ripped from so many places. Maggots and flies hovering over her wounds.
She never moved.
Never blinked.
Just stared.
And then… one night… she whispered:
"Why did you leave me, Hari?"
He began losing touch with reality. He would hear anklets jingling at night—but not the graceful sound of someone walking. No… they dragged. Like they were tied to a broken body.
He’d see her reflection in mirrors. In puddles. In the windowpane. One night, he woke up to find himself standing outside—kneeling at the edge of an unmarked grave, his fingernails bloody, as if he’d been digging.
And the name he kept repeating… was Revathi.
Meera—his wife—watched helplessly as her husband unraveled. She went to the temple, spoke to priests, and finally approached a local tantric. The man listened and said just one thing:
"The spirit is not just angry. She’s in love. But her love has turned into something else… Something twisted by betrayal."
With trembling hands, Meera searched through Hari’s old letters. Hidden in an old trunk, she found the name: Revathi. A woman from a near by village. A girl Hari had once loved… long before he met Meera.
Meera and the priest summoned Revathi’s spirit to find out her intentions.
After a long struggle Revathi’s spirit showed up. She was in pain, weeping but her eyes was in rage and she was all determined to take Hari along with her.
With trembling voice and immense pain she told meera that her and Hari, They had an affair, hidden from the world . Since they were from different village and community ,there was no scope of marriage so one day they decided to meet at a banyan tree outside the village and elope together to a far away place n live happily.

But Revathi… didn’t.
The villagers said she ran away. But the truth was darker. She had taken her own life. Under the old banyan tree by the pond. The same spot where Hari used to meet her.
Her soul had never left.
That night, Meera prepared for the final confrontation.
Hari, weak and half-conscious, sat surrounded by incense and sacred threads. The house was cold, silent. Until… it wasn’t.
A gust of wind blew out the candles. And she was there.
Revathi.
Soaked, shivering, beautiful in a tragic way. Her voice echoed from all directions.
"He was mine first," she hissed.
The lights flickered. The walls wept blood. The mirrors shattered.
But Meera did not flinch.
She held a small flame in her hand, chanting prayers. Even as the ghost screamed, even as the house trembled.
And then… silence.
Revathi stood before Meera. Her face changed—not twisted with rage, but filled with sorrow.
"I waited for him," she whispered. "He never came. I died waiting."
Meera stepped forward, her voice steady but soft.
"He was a coward. But what you’re doing now… this isn’t love. It’s pain. And you need to let him go."
Revathi looked at Hari one last time. He stirred, opened his eyes—red and swollen—and whispered, "I’m sorry, Revathi. I never meant to hurt you."
The ghost smiled. For the first time.
"Goodbye, Hari," she said.
And she vanished.
Forever.
After that night, the hauntings stopped. The air in the house felt lighter. Hari never spoke of Revathi again. He aged quickly, though—like someone who had carried the weight of two lifetimes.
As for Meera… she often sits by the window at night, listening to the wind.
Some say… if you walk by the old banyan tree on a moonless night, you might hear the faint sound of anklets… and a woman’s voice… softly humming a lullaby that was never meant to end.
Not all ghosts seek revenge.
Some just want to be remembered
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