Ravi had always been fascinated by forgotten places. As a photographer and aspiring writer, he found beauty in decay — old buildings, rusted gates, cracked mirrors. That’s what drew him one monsoon evening to the outskirts of a small town in Himachal, where locals spoke in hushed voices about an abandoned house.
The villagers called it “The Silent House.”
Nobody lived there for decades. Children dared each other to go near its broken gates, but none ever crossed the courtyard. The elders said voices could be heard after midnight, whispers of the dead. Some claimed a family once lived there, but none could remember their names. Only one thing was clear — anyone who stayed a night inside was never the same again.
Ravi didn’t believe in ghosts. To him, these were stories born out of fear. He wanted the truth. And maybe, if he was lucky, he could capture the essence of this eerie place in his lens.
The house stood at the end of a narrow road. Its roof was caved in, walls covered with moss and vines. The windows looked like dark, hollow eyes watching him. The iron gates creaked open as if welcoming him inside. Ravi adjusted his camera strap, tightened his jacket, and stepped in.
The courtyard smelled of wet earth and rotting leaves. A broken swing hung loosely from a banyan tree, swaying gently though the air was still. He snapped a photo, the shutter sound echoing too loudly in the silence.
Inside, the house was worse than he imagined. The floors were damp, and the wallpaper peeled off in yellow strips. Broken furniture lay scattered. A grand staircase spiraled up into shadows. Dust particles floated in the weak light coming through the cracked windows.
Yet… something felt off.
It wasn’t just silence. It was the absence of life itself. No birds, no insects, not even the drip of water. As if the house existed outside time.
Ravi shook off the chill creeping up his spine and began taking photos. His camera clicked — a broken chair, a shattered mirror, a child’s shoe left in a corner. Everything told a story.
But when he looked at the pictures, something startled him.
In the photograph of the chair, there was a shadow. A long, thin figure standing near the doorway. Ravi turned quickly, but no one was there. He laughed nervously, blaming it on lighting tricks.
Still, his hands trembled slightly.
He moved upstairs. The wooden steps creaked under his weight. At the end of the hallway, there were three doors. The first room was a study, with books rotting on the shelves. The second was a bedroom, the bed broken in half, sheets torn and blackened.
The third door was locked.
He rattled the handle but it wouldn’t budge. Oddly, the door looked newer than the others, less decayed. Almost as if someone had replaced it recently. That made no sense. The house was abandoned.
He lifted his camera and snapped a picture of the door.
Click.
When the photo appeared, his blood ran cold.
A pale hand was wrapped around the doorframe, as though someone inside was holding the edge… watching him.
Ravi stumbled back, dropping his flashlight. The corridor plunged into near darkness. He fumbled for the torchlight with shaking hands, finally switching it on. The door stood as it was — closed, empty.
“Calm down,” he whispered to himself. “You’re letting stories get to you.”
But deep inside, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He decided to leave. He had enough photos, enough material for an article. As he turned back toward the staircase, he heard it.
A sound.
A faint whisper.
Not from outside. Not from his imagination. From behind the locked door.
“…leave…”
Ravi froze. His breath hitched. He pressed his ear against the wood. The whisper came again, clearer this time, almost in a child’s voice.
“…leave… before he comes…”
The words sent shivers through his spine. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his curiosity held him there. “Who’s inside?” he called, voice trembling.
Silence.
Then, slowly, the doorknob turned by itself.
Ravi stumbled back, his heart racing. But the door didn’t open. It stopped halfway, then stilled, as if someone wanted him to know they were there — but not yet ready to reveal themselves.
That was enough. Ravi bolted down the stairs, out into the courtyard, and didn’t stop running until he reached his rented room in the village.
That night, as rain lashed against the windows, Ravi looked through the photos again. Most were ordinary — except the last one.
The photo of the locked door now showed not just a hand, but a face peeking out.
A face pale and hollow-eyed, lips curled into a warning or perhaps a smile.
And in the corner of the image, something else appeared that Ravi hadn’t noticed before. A tall shadow standing behind him, reaching out.
Ravi dropped the camera, his chest tight with fear. He didn’t sleep that night.
By morning, he had made a decision.
He had to go back.
Not out of bravery, but because of something far stronger — the need to know. To find the truth of what lived inside The Silent House.
And to uncover what the child’s voice meant when it whispered:
“…before he comes…”
