Ravi hadn’t slept a wink. The child’s whisper kept circling in his head: “Leave before he comes…”
By morning, his curiosity outweighed his fear. Whatever was inside that locked room, whatever shadow lurked in his photos — he needed answers. Otherwise, the images, the whispers, the memory of that pale face would haunt him forever.
Armed with his camera, a new flashlight, and a crowbar borrowed from the villager who rented him the room, Ravi walked back to the Silent House.
The locals shook their heads when they saw him go. One old woman grabbed his wrist and muttered in Hindi, “Beta, don’t enter that place again. Some doors must remain closed.”
But Ravi only forced a smile and kept walking.
---
The Silent House looked the same as yesterday — cold, damp, its hollow windows staring at him. Yet as he pushed open the iron gate, he felt the air heavier, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.
Inside, the silence pressed harder against his ears. The courtyard swing creaked again, though the air was still. Ravi swallowed his fear and went straight inside.
This time, he didn’t waste time with photos. He climbed the stairs directly, every creak of the wood like a warning drumbeat. The hallway stretched long and dark. At the end stood the locked door.
The door that was less rotten than the others.
The door that had whispered.
The door that had shown him a pale face.
He placed the crowbar against the frame. His heart thundered as he pushed. The wood groaned, resisting. For a moment, he thought something inside was holding it shut. Then, with a crack, the lock broke.
The door creaked open.
The smell hit him first — a damp, sour stench of rot and something metallic. He raised his flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a room smaller than he expected.
It was a child’s room.
A broken crib sat in one corner. Faded wallpaper of stars and moons peeled from the walls. A stuffed toy bear, its face torn, lay on the floor. And on the far side…
A rocking chair.
Moving.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Though no one sat on it.
Ravi’s hand tightened on the flashlight. “Hello?” he whispered.
That’s when he saw her.
A little girl. Pale skin stretched over her bones, hair tangled, eyes too large and black. She stood by the crib, staring at him. Her lips trembled as she spoke in that same whisper he’d heard yesterday.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
Ravi staggered back, his voice caught in his throat. “Who… who are you?”
The girl didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed at the rocking chair.
“It’s too late. He’s here.”
The chair stopped.
The room’s temperature dropped so suddenly Ravi’s breath turned to mist. From the shadows behind the chair, something began to rise.
Tall. Wrongly shaped. Its limbs bent at unnatural angles, its head too long, too featureless. A black figure, darker than the dark around it. As it moved, the walls themselves seemed to shiver.
The girl screamed: “RUN!”
The figure lunged.
Ravi bolted out of the room, down the hallway, the sound of heavy, distorted footsteps behind him. His flashlight flickered as if the air itself was trying to snuff it out. He stumbled down the staircase, almost falling, clutching the railing for dear life.
He reached the main hall, gasping, when he heard another sound.
The front door slammed shut.
He ran to it, pulled, pushed, kicked — it wouldn’t budge. It was as though the house itself had locked him inside.
Behind him, the figure descended the stairs. Slowly. Patiently. As if it knew escape was impossible.
The little girl’s whisper echoed through the hall:
“Don’t look at him. Don’t look at his face.”
But Ravi couldn’t help it. His eyes darted toward the figure as it stepped into the dim light.
And for a fraction of a second, he saw.
The creature had no face — yet its darkness shifted, forming many faces. Screaming mouths, hollow eyes, distorted expressions, as though it carried all the souls it had devoured.
Ravi’s knees buckled. His vision blurred. He realized then what the villagers meant by “The Silent House.” It wasn’t just abandoned. It was a prison. A cage for something unspeakable.
The little girl appeared again, right beside him. She wasn’t solid — her body flickered like smoke. She tugged at his arm. “This way. Hurry.”
She led him not toward the door, but to a crack in the floorboards. Beneath the broken rug, a hatch. A cellar.
The figure roared, the walls trembling. Ravi pulled open the hatch and slid down into the dark.
---
The cellar was cramped and foul, lined with broken jars and rusted tools. He landed hard, twisting his ankle, but forced himself up. The girl was gone. He was alone.
Then his flashlight beam landed on the wall.
Words.
Dozens of words scratched into the stone with desperate hands. Some were in English, some in Hindi, some in languages Ravi couldn’t recognize. But all said the same thing in different ways:
“He comes for the curious.”
“The faces are his.”
“Don’t stay.”
And beneath them, in fresh, wet scratches — as if written only hours ago — were the words:
“He already saw you.”
Ravi dropped the light, his chest tightening. His camera pressed against his ribs, still strapped to him. He switched it on with trembling hands, desperate for proof, desperate to understand.
The last photo appeared on the screen.
It wasn’t of the cellar. It wasn’t of the door upstairs. It wasn’t even of the girl.
It was of him.
Taken from behind.
A hand — long, black, claw-like — rested on his shoulder.
Ravi screamed, throwing the camera against the wall.
The cellar filled with the sound of movement, heavy breathing, and the scrape of claws against stone. He turned wildly, but the light flickered out. Darkness swallowed everything.
The last thing he heard was the little girl’s whisper, soft and fading, as though she were far away.
“I told you to leave…”
Then — silence.
---
The Silent House still stands at the edge of the village. Locals warn strangers not to go near. They say sometimes, on rainy nights, the sound of a camera shutter echoes faintly from inside.
And if anyone dares look through the broken windows, they might see a pale face staring back.
But whether it’s the girl’s… or Ravi’s… no one knows.
