In a small forgotten village, hidden deep within the dark forests of Nepal, there was an ancient house that no one dared to enter. The villagers whispered that it was cursed—that those who stepped inside the house of Whispering Shadows were never seen again.
The house stood at the edge of the forest, its wooden walls rotting, windows broken, and the air around it thick with a cold, unnatural silence. Many said that, after sunset, strange whispers could be heard coming from inside—voices that didn’t belong to any living soul.
For years, the house remained untouched. Until one day, a young boy named Ravi, curious and fearless, decided to uncover the truth.
Ravi was known for his bravery. He never believed in ghosts or curses. He laughed when people told him to stay away from the haunted house. "Ghosts are just stories to scare children," he said. So, one chilly evening, under the full moon, Ravi set out towards the house with nothing but a flashlight and his phone.
As he crossed the rusted gate, the air grew colder. The wind stopped. Even the crickets went silent.
He pushed open the creaking door. The inside was covered in dust and cobwebs. Old portraits of strange, pale faces hung on the walls. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he moved. The house smelled of damp wood and something rotten.
“Is anyone here?” Ravi called, half-laughing.
The only answer was a soft whisper. It was so faint he thought it was the wind. But then it came again—closer this time. A low whisper of voices, speaking words he could not understand.
His flashlight flickered. The air grew icy. The whispers became louder.
“Who’s there? Stop playing games!” Ravi shouted, his voice shaking slightly.
Suddenly, the old grandfather clock in the corner began to chime—though its hands showed midnight and it had no working parts. With every chime, the whispers grew louder and clearer. Now they were calling his name.
“Raaaviii... Raviiii... come closer... come home...”
The floor beneath him creaked. He felt something cold brush against his neck. Terrified, he turned to run but the door slammed shut by itself. He banged on it, screaming, but it wouldn't open.
Then, from the darkness, shadows began to move. They crawled across the walls, across the floor—shapes without faces, without form, whispering, whispering, always whispering.
One shadow—taller than the rest—emerged. It had hollow eyes that glowed faintly red. It raised one long finger and pointed at Ravi.
“Stay,” the voice whispered. “Forever.”
Ravi’s heart pounded. Desperate, he pulled out his phone to use the light. The screen blinked—no signal, battery 1%. Before the phone died, the screen flashed one last image: his own face—but behind him, a shadowy figure stood, smiling.
The phone went black.
Something cold gripped his ankle. He screamed, kicking wildly, but invisible hands pulled him toward the darkness. His flashlight rolled away, spinning, the light catching glimpses of twisted faces on the walls—faces that looked like they were alive.
Ravi’s last scream echoed through the house as the shadows swallowed him whole.
The next morning, the villagers found the house just as it had always been: empty, silent, forgotten. Only Ravi’s flashlight lay near the door. He was gone without a trace.
Some say on moonlit nights, you can still hear whispers near the house—calling his name.
The villagers no longer speak of the place. The house still stands. Waiting. Watching. Whispering.
Moral:
Sometimes curiosity can open doors that should never be opened.
