Once upon a time there was a remote village of Darpanpur, nestled deep in the hills, there stood an ancient house no one dared to enter. Locals whispered about it in hushed voices, calling it the “Whispering House.” The house had been abandoned for decades, its windows like empty eyes, its doors forever creaking even when there was no wind.
No one knew who built the house, but everyone knew the stories—of people who went in and never returned, of strange lights at midnight, and of soft whispers that could drive one mad.
One chilly autumn evening, five friends—Rina, Suman, Prakash, Bijay, and Meena—decided to spend the night in the house as a dare. They were young, bold, and curious, and none of them believed in ghosts. With torches, snacks, and a Bluetooth speaker to lighten the mood, they entered the house just before sunset.
The moment they stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind them with an unnatural force. The air grew cold. The walls were covered in ancient, fading symbols that no one could understand. Dust lay thick, and every step echoed through the hollow silence.
“Probably rats,” Prakash said when they heard faint scratching noises.
They set up in the living room. Laughing, playing cards, and telling scary stories of their own, they felt fearless—until midnight struck.
It started with a soft whisper. At first, they thought it was the wind. But then they realized: the windows were sealed, and the air was still. The whisper came again—closer this time. The words were impossible to understand, but the voice was sharp, icy, and definitely inside the house.
Bijay’s flashlight flickered. The room grew colder.
“Who’s whispering?” Meena asked, her voice trembling.
No one answered.
Suddenly, the music stopped. The speaker, which was fully charged, crackled and died. In the pitch darkness, Rina screamed. Her hand brushed against something cold—something that was not one of her friends.
The flashlights turned back on only to reveal that one of them, Suman, was gone.
“Suman?” Prakash called, panic rising.
No answer.
They searched the rooms, calling his name. Then, on the wall of the hallway, written in dripping black ink, they saw the words: “One by one.”
Meena burst into tears. “We have to leave!” she sobbed.
They ran to the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was as if the wood itself was alive, holding them prisoner. The windows too were unbreakable. Their screams were swallowed by the walls.
A sudden high-pitched laughter echoed around them. Then they saw it—Suman—standing at the end of the corridor. His eyes were blank, his face twisted in an unnatural grin.
“Suman?” whispered Rina.
He said nothing. He opened his mouth wider and wider until it seemed impossible for a human jaw. Then, like smoke, he vanished into thin air.
One by one, they were hunted. Bijay was dragged into the basement by invisible hands, his screams echoing into silence. Prakash vanished into a mirror, his reflection the last thing they saw. Meena was pulled upward—her body vanishing through the ceiling.
Rina, the last survivor, ran into a locked room—the master bedroom. She bolted the door and crouched in a corner, sobbing.
In the darkness, the whispers grew louder. Now she could understand the words:
“Join us… join us… join us…”
From the shadows, pale hands emerged—ghostly, cold, endless. The door creaked open slowly, though no one was there.
In the morning, the villagers found the house silent again. Five sets of footprints led inside—but none came out.
The house still stands, and if you listen closely at night, you can hear them—the whispers of Rina, Suman, Prakash, Bijay, and Meena—trapped forever in the house that hungers for souls.
