Whispers of the Haunted Heart
Part 4: Whispers in the Walls
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The storm outside had turned into a steady drizzle by morning, but inside the mansion, time itself seemed to have stopped. Meera didn’t know whether it was midnight or dawn. The darkness that lived within these walls didn’t follow the sun.
She woke up on the couch in the main hall, wrapped in an old blanket. Aarav sat beside her, motionless, his eyes fixed on the fireplace though no fire burned there.
For a moment, Meera simply watched him. There was something heartbreakingly calm about his face, as if pain had long since made peace with him. But beneath that calmness—something else flickered. A shadow.
When he noticed her awake, his lips curved slightly. “You should rest more. The house… drains energy from those it remembers.”
Meera sat up slowly, rubbing her temples. “The house remembers me? Or it remembers… her?”
Aarav’s eyes met hers. “There’s no difference.”
The words sank like ice into her chest. “You’re saying I am her. The woman in the photograph.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You always come back. And every time, you forget.”
Meera felt the room spin. “Forget what?”
Aarav hesitated. “Everything. Me. This place. The truth. You live again, and I’m left waiting… cursed to stay here, watching century after century pass.”
Her throat tightened. “Then why bring me back here? If this place is cursed, why not let me live free?”
Aarav’s voice was almost a whisper. “Because love doesn’t die, Meera. It only hides in the walls until it’s found again.”
The moment hung between them, heavy and fragile. But before she could respond, a faint sound interrupted—the soft creak of footsteps.
They weren’t alone.
Meera’s head snapped toward the corridor. “Aarav…”
“I hear it,” he said, already standing. “Stay here.”
But Meera followed anyway. The footsteps were slow, dragging, echoing through the old hallways like someone—or something—was walking barefoot across the wooden floor.
The air grew colder with each step. The portraits lining the corridor seemed to twist, their eyes following her. A faint whisper rose, so low she couldn’t make out the words. It came from inside the walls.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
Aarav nodded grimly. “They’ve started again.”
“Who?”
“The ones who never left.”
The whispering grew louder, forming fragments of words—broken, mournful voices:
“Help us… help… he lied… he lied…”
Meera’s pulse raced. “They’re talking about you.”
Aarav stiffened, his expression unreadable. “Don’t listen to them.”
But the walls shuddered violently as if rejecting his command. The floorboards beneath Meera’s feet creaked and cracked. From a nearby wall, a faint outline appeared—like the shape of a hand pressing from the inside.
Meera screamed, stumbling back. The wall bulged, then splintered as a whisper turned into a scream.
“GET OUT!”
Suddenly, the air filled with a deafening wail. Candles blew out one by one. The hall plunged into darkness, and the sound of breathing—heavy, ragged—surrounded her.
Aarav grabbed her wrist. “Come!”
They ran, the sound of unseen footsteps chasing behind them. As they reached the end of the hall, Meera saw movement—shadows crawling across the ceiling, merging into twisted human shapes.
They weren’t ghosts of smoke or mist. They looked real.
“What are they?” Meera gasped.
Aarav’s jaw tightened. “Regrets,” he said. “Souls bound to this house. People who died because of love that went wrong… like ours.”
Before she could question, one of the shadows dropped from the ceiling, landing right in front of her. It had hollow eyes and a mouth that opened in a soundless scream.
Aarav stepped forward, placing himself between her and the creature. His hand rose, glowing faintly blue, and the air trembled. The shadow shrieked and vanished into smoke.
Meera stared, breathless. “What did you just—”
“I told you,” he said, turning to her, “I’m not entirely human anymore.”
Her stomach lurched. “What are you saying?”
Aarav’s face softened, sorrow clouding his eyes. “I was once alive. Until the night I lost you. I tried to bring you back… but the ritual cursed me instead. Now I belong to this house, just like the dead that whisper through its walls.”
Meera felt her world tilt. He’s not alive. He’s trapped. And yet… the warmth she felt when he looked at her was real. The way her heart ached for him was real.
“You did all that… for me?” she whispered.
He nodded once. “Every time you are reborn, I find you. Every time I fail to save you. The house makes sure of it.”
Meera’s chest burned with emotion. “Then maybe this time we change it.”
Aarav’s expression darkened. “You don’t understand. The curse demands a life for love. To save you… someone must die.”
Before Meera could respond, a soft hum filled the air—familiar, melodic, heartbreaking. It was a lullaby.
She froze. “That song…”
Aarav’s eyes widened. “You remember?”
Meera pressed her hand to her temple. Images flashed behind her eyes—herself in a crimson dress, laughing with Aarav under candlelight, then screaming as fire engulfed the room. The same lullaby playing in the background.
She staggered back. “I saw it… the fire… we were here.”
Aarav’s voice broke. “You died in my arms that night. And I’ve been waiting ever since.”
The house groaned again, walls trembling as if feeding on their pain. From the shadows, faint figures began to rise—men, women, children—all whispering her name.
“Meera… Meera…”
Their faces were pale, hollow, lifeless. Some reached for her as if begging for release. Others stared with burning hatred.
Terrified, Meera clutched Aarav’s hand. “What do they want from me?”
“To finish what began long ago,” Aarav said. “To end the cycle.”
“How?”
Before he could answer, the ground beneath them cracked, and a cold wind surged upward, extinguishing every light. The whispers turned into one unified voice—deep, echoing, inhuman:
“SHE MUST REMEMBER, OR SHE MUST DIE.”
Meera screamed as darkness swallowed them whole.
And for a heartbeat, she saw herself again—not as Meera, but as the woman in the photograph, holding a candle, turning toward a shadow that looked like Aarav, whispering one final word before the flames consumed everything:
“Why?”
Then everything went black.
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Heartfelt thanks to everyone for staying with the story till the very end. If I’ve made any mistakes while writing, I hope you’ll kindly overlook them. Every single comment from you is truly precious to me, because a writer’s greatest inspiration comes from the readers’ response. How you felt about the story, which part touched you, or where it could have been improved—sharing these thoughts will add new colors to my future writings. Your love and feedback are the fuel for my pen, so please don’t forget to leave a comment.
