Sometimes, life leads you to places where you witness things beyond imagination. Things that shatter the beliefs you carried since childhood—things that linger and haunt you until your last breath. Just a few days ago, I experienced something so strange, so terrifying, that I still struggle to believe it was real. At times I convince myself it was nothing but a hallucination, a cruel trick of my exhausted mind. But certain fragments—pieces of undeniable evidence—whisper otherwise. Something truly happened that night. Something… paranormal. And it began with nothing more than a handful of birthday balloons.
The Curse of the Birthday Balloons:
After a three-day vacation, I returned to Dhaka. From Mohakhali Bus Stop, I requested a taxi through the Uber app and reached my apartment safely by evening. The moment I unlocked the door and stepped inside, I was greeted by an unsettling sight: a floor scattered with birthday balloons. Just a few days earlier, on August 29th, we had celebrated my roommate Shuvo’s 23rd birthday in that very apartment. Friends had come over, laughter filled the rooms, and we left behind those balloons as playful remnants of the celebration. Shuvo and I were the only ones living there, but he was away on vacation with his family. That evening, the apartment was mine alone.
I went to my room, changed clothes, showered, and rested. Night had already fallen, and soon I stepped out for dinner, then bought some dry food before returning home. As I entered, the balloons caught my eye again. For a moment, everything felt eerily off, though nothing had visibly changed. The balloons—those harmless, colorful orbs—seemed strangely alive, as if something unseen had breathed into them. My chest tightened. Just then, my phone vibrated—it was my mother, calling because I had forgotten to inform her of my return. We spoke for a while, and her voice grounded me. My fear faded, the balloons slipped from my mind, and I collapsed into bed, exhausted.
The next morning at 7 a.m., my alarm dragged me out of sleep. Still drowsy, I went to freshen up. But when I opened my bedroom door, I froze. The balloons were there—clustered near my doorway, blocking my path. They had been in the drawing room the night before. Perhaps one had burst, and the others drifted with the air pressure? Trying to rationalize, I carried them back to the drawing room and brushed it off as coincidence.
That evening, I returned from work only to find the balloons waiting near my bedroom door once again. Irritation mixed with unease. Determined, I counted them—thirteen in total. None had burst. I forced myself to drag them back to the drawing room again. That night, nothing else happened. Yet, the following morning, there they were once more, stationed by my door like silent sentries. I muttered to myself, half-laughing, “Guess these balloons like me too much.” Still, unease gnawed at me. The windows were closed. No air could have pushed them across the apartment. Something was wrong.
That night, curiosity outweighed fear. I left my bedroom door open and pretended to work at my PC, determined to watch. Hours passed. Then, glancing up, I saw them again—thirteen balloons hovering in the doorway. My stomach twisted. I had missed their arrival. I could feel it then: a suffocating presence in the air, as though the apartment itself was breathing. The balloons weren’t balloons anymore—they were vessels. My fear swallowed me whole. I stayed awake until dawn, paralyzed, until the first light of day burned away the terror and allowed me to collapse into uneasy sleep.
By noon, I woke, shamefully recalling how terrified I had been despite seeing nothing tangible. Still, my curiosity burned brighter. I had to know. That evening, an invisible dread settled over me. The walls seemed to hum with warning: Leave this place. But I couldn’t. I wanted answers. I scrolled the internet, searching for stories about balloons, about spirits. The hours slipped away. Then I noticed the clock—it was 12:50 a.m. A thunderstorm loomed outside, clouds groaning, lightning flashing across Dhaka’s August sky. Rain was imminent. I rose to close the windows.
And then it happened.
In the drawing room, as I pulled a window shut, my breath caught in my throat. There—amidst the scattered balloons—stood a little girl. She wore a white frock, her back turned to me, giggling softly as she nudged the balloons. My heart hammered violently. “Ke okhane?” I whispered hoarsely—“Who’s there?” She didn’t respond. She just played, weightless and silent. Then, without warning, the electricity cut. The room fell into suffocating darkness. Only the lightning illuminated her. And when she turned to face me, I wished the darkness had stayed. Her face was no longer human. Burnt, twisted, flesh like melted wax—eyes glowing with an unnatural red. She smiled. Not with innocence, but with the glee of something long dead and furious. Her laughter echoed through the storm, blending with thunder like the voice of hell itself.
I tried to scream. Tried to run. But I couldn’t. Something unseen pressed against my throat, paralyzing me. My body froze as though invisible chains bound me. The last thing I remember was collapsing into the dark as lightning split the sky.
I woke at noon, head throbbing from where it had struck the floor. Shards of torn latex surrounded me. Every balloon had burst overnight. Slowly, trembling, I pieced together fragments of memory. Relief came only from the fact that I was still alive. Somehow, I had survived.
A few days later, I abandoned that apartment. Before leaving, I spoke to the caretaker. His words chilled me more than the encounter itself. Three years ago, a little girl had died there on her birthday. A fire accident. Her parents survived, badly burned, but the girl perished before reaching the hospital. The caretaker lowered his voice and added: “People said the fire started with hydrogen balloons. They are cheap but dangerously flammable. One spark… and it becomes an inferno.” No one had seen exactly how it happened, but whispers of exploding hydrogen balloons lingered like a curse.
Now, I understand. The haunting wasn’t random. The balloons weren’t toys. They were her tether—her memory, her prison. And I was her chosen victim. I fear that anyone who dares celebrate a birthday there will face the same fate. Perhaps one day, no one will live in that apartment. Perhaps it will stand abandoned, marked forever as another cursed, haunted place in Dhaka’s restless city.
And somewhere in Dhaka tonight, another balloon drifts silently toward someone’s door…