NAME = MD SOHAIB ANSARI

DEPARTMENT= ELECTRICAL ENGINEERING

ROLL NO= 24101102095
REGISTRATION NUMBER= 241010120463
SEMESTER= 4TH
SUBJECT= TRADITIONAL KNOWLEDGE
1)The Mirror Curse
In a sleepy English village nestled between foggy hills, there stood a forgotten
antique shop owned by an elderly woman named Elspeth. Locals whispered
that she had once been a witch, and her shop held relics better left
undisturbed. Most paid her no mind, but curious tourists often wandered in,
drawn by the scent of aged wood, the glimmer of brass, and the pull of the
past.
One rainy afternoon, a young woman named Claire stumbled upon the shop
while traveling alone. Inside, she found shelves crowded with porcelain dolls,
tarnished lockets, and dusty books. In a corner stood a tall, ornate mirror
framed in blackened silver, carved with twisting ivy and weeping faces. It was
beautiful—and haunting.
“How much for the mirror?” Claire asked.
Elspeth’s smile faltered. “That mirror… is not for sale.”
But Claire insisted. Something about the mirror captivated her, as though it
whispered to her mind. Eventually, Elspeth relented, but with a warning:
“Never look into it in the dark. And never let it reflect your back.”
Claire laughed nervously and paid in cash.
That night, in her Airbnb cottage, Claire propped the mirror in her bedroom.
She admired it from across the room. It made the room feel grander somehow.
She remembered Elspeth’s warning, but dismissed it as old superstition.

At midnight, the power went out. The room filled with darkness, lit only by a
flickering candle. Claire got up, forgot the mirror entirely, and turned around to
face it—back to the glass.
The temperature dropped.
She felt something behind her.
Turning quickly, she saw not her reflection—but herself, staring back with a
twisted grin and hollow eyes. The mirror version raised its hand—and reached
outward, its fingers brushing the inside of the glass.
Claire screamed. But no sound came.
The candle blew out.
The next morning, the Airbnb owner found the room empty—no sign of Claire.
Only the mirror remained, propped against the wall.
If you stare into it long enough, they say you can see her inside—still
screaming, still reaching for help that will never come.
And the mirror?
It’s back in Elspeth’s shop now.
Still not for sale.
2)Whistling at Night

In the remote mountain villages of the Philippines, there is an old superstition

passed down through generations: Never whistle at night.
They say whistling after sundown calls to spirits that roam the dark—some
playful, some cruel, and some that simply don’t want to be disturbed.
Lena, a city-born teenager, had heard the warnings from her grandmother
every summer she visited. But this year, 16 and restless, she rolled her eyes at
the old beliefs. Spirits? Curses? Please. She had a smartphone, a Spotify
playlist, and a healthy dose of skepticism.
One humid evening, the power flickered out—again. The family lit candles and
settled in, the jungle outside alive with the hum of cicadas and the occasional
howl of a stray dog.
Out of boredom, Lena stepped outside into the sticky night air, the candlelight
from the hut glowing faint behind her. She whistled absentmindedly—a
cheerful, modern tune—just to see what would happen.
At first, there was only the echo of her own breath against the trees.
Then she heard it.
A whistle, faint and breathy, coming from the forest.
She froze. “Hello?” she called, but no one answered.
She turned to go back inside—and the candlelight was gone.
The hut was gone.
The path was gone.
Only darkness and trees, and the whistling, growing closer, mimicking her tune
—but slightly off-key, as if whoever (or whatever) was copying didn’t quite
understand the melody.
Panicked, Lena ran, tripping over roots, calling for her parents. But the forest
twisted around her, unfamiliar, foreign. Shadows shifted. The whistling was
beside her now, then ahead, then all around.
Finally, she stopped, gasping, crying. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to
call you!”
The whistling stopped.
Silence.
A cold breath whispered at her neck.
And then—nothing.
They found her the next morning, curled up in the clearing behind the hut,
eyes wide open, her voice gone.
She never spoke again.
But sometimes, at night, when the wind is still, her family hears whistling from
the trees—an eerie, off-key version of Lena’s tune.
And they never whistle at night anymore.
Neither should you.
3)The 13th Step

In the heart of an old Appalachian town stood the crumbling remains of

Ashbrook Asylum, long abandoned after a mysterious fire in the 1950s. The
building had collapsed in on itself, but the grand front staircase still stood—
twelve weathered stone steps leading up to a charred entryway.
Locals had a rule: Never count the steps at night.
Because sometimes, they said, there was a 13th step.
Lena and her friends—Drew, Cassie, and Malik—were skeptics. On a chilly
October night, they dared each other to climb the infamous staircase. They
brought flashlights, snacks, and bravado. Urban legends didn’t scare them.
Ghosts weren’t real.
“Let’s do it,” Drew said. “And count out loud so we know.”
Lena hesitated but followed. Together, they stepped onto the stairs, one by
one, counting as they went.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three…”
The wind picked up. Their flashlights flickered.
“Four…”
“Five…”
The temperature dropped. The trees whispered.
“Six…”
“Seven…”
Something rustled in the brush, but they laughed it off.
“Eight…”
“Nine…”
Cassie paused. “Wait. I thought this thing only had twelve steps?
“Keep going,” Malik said, a nervous edge in his voice.
“Ten…”
“Eleven…”
They reached the top and looked down.
“One… two… three…” Lena counted silently, eyes wide.
There were thirteen steps now.
A thirteenth that hadn’t been there before—a dark, cracked stone slab that
seemed to absorb light instead of reflect it.
Suddenly, Drew stumbled backward down the stairs. He hit the ground hard.
“What the hell? Something pushed me!”
Cassie turned pale. “We’re leaving. Now.”
But Malik was staring at the thirteenth step. “I see… someone,” he whispered.
They all looked. A figure stood at the top of the stairs—pale, in a patient’s
gown, with blackened eyes and a slit grin.
It raised a finger to its lips.
The lights went out.
Screams echoed through the hills that night.
Only Lena made it back.
She was never the same.
She walks with a limp now, her eyes always scanning behind her.
She never talks about what she saw on the thirteenth step.
But every year on the anniversary, people say they hear footsteps on the old
staircase. Thirteen of them.
And then silence.
So if you ever find yourself in Ashbrook after dark… don’t climb the steps.
And if you do?
Don’t count them.You might not like what comes after twelve.
4)The Salt Omen

In the quiet village of Elder Hollow, where fog clung to the trees like old
memories and the wind whispered secrets through the branches, there was an
old superstition: Spill salt, and death will soon follow. The townsfolk would
always toss a pinch over their left shoulder if they knocked over the shaker,
whispering a prayer to ward off misfortune.
No one believed it more than Agnes Blackthorn, the oldest woman in the
village. She’d lived through three husbands, two wars, and one particularly bad
storm that tore through Elder Hollow like the wrath of God. She said the salt
warned her each time—always spilled, always followed by loss.
One cold autumn evening, a newcomer arrived in the village. Jonas Harker, a
writer from the city, rented the old Crowley house on the hill—a place most
locals avoided, believing it was “marked.” He laughed off the superstition,
calling it “quaint.” That was his first mistake.
One night, as he was making dinner, Jonas accidentally knocked over the salt.
It spilled in a perfect line across the table. Amused, he flicked some over his
right shoulder and continued cooking. A loud knock at the door interrupted
him. It was Agnes.
“I felt it,” she said, without greeting. “The salt. You spilled it.”
Jonas chuckled. “You can feel spilled salt now?”
She didn’t laugh. “Did you toss it over your left shoulder?”
“I tossed it. Doesn’t matter which shoulder.”
She stared at him, a cloud darkening her eyes. “Wrong shoulder,” she said.
“You just invited the Dead to your right.”
That night, Jonas couldn’t sleep. The wind howled louder than usual.
Floorboards creaked as if someone walked the halls. At exactly 3:13 a.m., he
heard a slow, scraping sound coming from the kitchen.
He rose, heart pounding, and walked in. The salt lay scattered on
5)The Black Cat

In the narrow streets of Marrowbridge, where chimneys lean like old drunks
and rain falls in silence, people speak in hushed tones about the black cat—a
creature said to walk between the worlds of the living and the dead. Its eyes
are like lamps in the fog, its coat slick as shadow, and its presence always
means one thing:
A curse has chosen you.
Long ago, a widow named Elsbeth Crowe lived at the edge of town, in a house
with too many locks and too few windows. Her husband had vanished one
winter’s night, and the next morning, a black cat was seen sitting on her
doorstep, staring at the door as if it had known him.
“Bad omen,” the neighbors whispered. “It’s the Devil’s pet.”
Elsbeth didn’t chase the cat away. She fed it. Named it Morrow.
From that day on, strange things happened. Milk soured as it poured, clocks
ticked backward, and birds flew into windows—always hers. People began
avoiding her. Children held their breath when they passed her gate.
But Elsbeth was unbothered—until the dreams began.
Each night, she saw her husband, soaked and pale, standing at the edge of her
bed. “He waits where I went,” he would say. “And the cat watches the way.”
She grew afraid of Morrow. Tried to chase him off. Threw stones, set traps—
but every morning, the cat was back, unharmed, perched on the windowsill.
Watching.
One night, she snapped.
She grabbed the cat, stuffed it in a sack, and threw it into the river.
It came back the next day, bone-dry, eyes gleaming. That night, Elsbeth
vanished. The only trace left behind was a set of wet footprints leading from
her bed to the front door.

Morrow was found asleep on her pillow.

Now, in Marrowbridge, when a black cat crosses your path, you don’t speak.
You don’t move. You wait for it to pass, and when it does, you say the old
words:
“Not today, not my soul.”
And if it stops and stares at you—don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t run.
Because if it follows you home, it means someone you love has been taken in
your place. And the cat is just… checking in.
6)Friday the 13th

They say bad luck walks freely on Friday the 13th. Most shrug it off as
coincidence—nothing more than numbers and nonsense.
But in the town of Black Hollow, no one scoffs at that date. They remember.
Because once, not long ago, it came true
The Rule was simple: on Friday the 13th, no one leaves their home after
sundown. Shops closed early. Schools were empty. Curtains were drawn tight.
Even the church bell stayed silent.
Only outsiders ever asked why.
And one day, an outsider arrived—Lena Moore, a journalist from the city,
chasing folklore for her podcast "Cursed and Curious."
She arrived on a cold November 13th, ready to record.
The townsfolk begged her to leave by sundown.
“It’s tradition,” said the innkeeper.
“It’s survival,” whispered the priest.
Lena laughed it off. “What happens if I go out?”
The priest stared at her. “Then it sees you.”
“What sees me?”
He said nothing
That night, with her recorder in hand, Lena walked the empty streets. Her
boots echoed off the cobblestones. The wind had died. Even the crickets were
silent.
“Reporting live,” she said into the mic, “from the superstitious little town that
believes Friday the 13th is cursed. I’m about to prove—”
She stopped
A figure stood at the end of the street.
Tall. Thin. Wrapped in black. No face.
Just a smooth white mask with a painted X over the mouth.
It tilted its head.
Lena blinked.
It was closer.
She turned and ran, but every time she glanced back, the figure was closer—
without walking.
When she finally reached her inn, the doors were locked. Lights out. No one
answered.
She backed away—heart pounding—then tripped.
The recorder clattered to the ground, still on.
There’s a minute of silence on the tape.
Then static.
Then a whisper:
“You shouldn’t have come.”
They found the recorder the next day.
Lena was never seen again.
Now, in Black Hollow, the story is told to every traveler, every child, every soul
passing through:
On Friday the 13th, don’t walk the streets. Don’t look behind you. And
whatever you do—don’t speak to the Silent Man.
Because he only comes for those who ignore the warning.
7)The Lucky Penny

In the small town of Ashmere, where rust-colored leaves carpeted the streets
and every mailbox had a story, there lived an old man named Harlan Fitch. He
was a quiet man, alone, with a limp in his walk and a gleam in his eye. He never
missed Sunday service, never spoke out of turn.
And he always carried a penny.
Not just any penny—an old, worn copper coin from 1922, smooth with age and
polished from decades of rubbing. He called it his lucky penny.
“They say find a penny, pick it up, and all day you’ll have good luck,” he’d say
with a crooked smile. “But this one? This one’s better. It gives luck... if you feed
it.”
No one really understood what he meant.
Until the day he died.
When they found him, he was sitting peacefully in his rocker, clutching the
penny in one hand, a rusted coin jar beside him. But around the room were
pictures—hundreds of them—of people who had gone missing over the years.
Some were strangers, others were locals. None had ever been found.
On the table was a single note:
“The penny giveth. But luck demands balance.”
The townsfolk were rattled. Some said he’d gone mad. Others thought he’d
been cursed. But the penny—that penny—vanished.
A week later, a boy named Ollie found a penny on the sidewalk near the old
post office. It gleamed in the sunlight, older than any coin he’d ever seen.
1922.
He picked it up.
That day, his mother got a promotion. His broken bike chain mended itself. His
bully tripped into a mud puddle during recess. Ollie couldn’t stop smiling.
Until his dog disappeared.
No trace. No sound. Just... gone.
The next day, his grandfather fell down the stairs and broke his neck.
One by one, the blessings came—and so did the tragedies.
Ollie tried to throw the penny away. It came back.
He buried it. It was in his pocket the next morning.
He finally understood what Harlan meant.
The penny gives luck—but it must be fed. Something always goes in return. A
job for a friend. A gift for a life.
Now, when children in Ashmere find a penny, they don’t touch it. They step
around it. They whisper a small rhyme
“Shiny, lucky, copper red,
Leave it be, or trade the dead.”
And if someone’s foolish enough to pick it up?
Well… they get very lucky.
8)The Itchy Palm

In the coastal town of Brinehaven, where the air always smelled like salt and
secrets, folks believed in signs. Red skies at morning, broken mirrors, howling
dogs before dawn. But nothing stirred more whispers than an itchy palm.
“If your right palm itches,” they’d say, “you’re about to receive money.”
“But if it’s the left,” old folks warned, “you’ll lose something... or someone.
Marla Dunn, a struggling antiques dealer, laughed at such things. She ran a
dusty little shop near the docks, full of cracked porcelain and forgotten clocks.
She believed in hard work, not omens.
Until one summer evening, her left palm itched.
It was fierce—like a swarm of tiny needles dancing just under the skin. She
scratched and scratched, but nothing eased it.
That night, a storm rolled in.
And her sister Nina, who had gone sailing, never returned.
The boat was found, half-sunken and empty, not a single footprint on deck.
Marla tried to ignore it. Coincidence, she told herself. Just a bad feeling, that’s
all.
But a week later, the itch returned.
Same palm. Same burning crawl beneath her skin.
The next morning, a man tripped in her shop and shattered a rare Victorian
mirror—worth thousands. Gone.
That night, she dug through her grandmother’s old journals, hunting for
explanations. In one fragile page, she found it, scrawled in fading ink:
> “Left palm itches = payment in grief. Scratch it, and you seal the trade.”
Marla froze. She’d scratched it—every time.
The next time the itch came, she didn’t scratch.
She wore gloves. Sat on her hand. Smeared cooling balm across her skin.
Anything to resist the urge.
The itch worsened.
Her vision blurred. Her head pounded.
Then the whisper came.
Just one word, from nowhere:
“Scratch.”
She didn’t. And that night, nothing bad happened.
But the itch didn’t go away.
Days passed. Weeks. Her entire arm began to twitch. She couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t think.
Finally, in a moment of weakness, she gave in—and scratched.
The relief was immediate. Euphoric.
Until her phone rang.
Her childhood home—where her father still lived—was on fire. Total loss. No
survivors.
Now, Marla lives quietly, gloved even in summer, her hands tucked deep in her
coat. She never scratches. Not anymore.
And if you ever pass through Brinehaven and feel a sudden itch in your left
palm, don’t ignore the old saying:
“If the left palm itches, keep it still. Or fate will take what it will.”