The Ghostly House

"The Ghostly House"

Author: \[Raju Ahmed]

The village was called Shalban. A quiet, green-shrouded little village. But it wasn’t just any ordinary village. To the north of the village stood an old, crumbling mansion. It was dubbed "The Haunted House" by everyone. Ever since childhood, I had heard stories about how no one dared go near that house after dusk. Strange noises—sometimes laughter, sometimes crying, and often the sound of footsteps—were said to be heard from there. Villagers believed the mansion once belonged to a landlord named Haripada Roy. But one night, his entire family was mysteriously murdered. Since then, they say, a restless spirit has haunted the house.

My name is Tirtha. I live in the city, but my ancestral home is in this village. During my summer break from college, I came to visit. I’ve always had a fascination with ghost stories, so the first chance I got, I decided to see the haunted house with my own eyes.

My grandfather warned me, “Tirtha, don’t go near that house. Many people have gone there and never come back. I laughed, “Grandpa, there’s no such thing as ghosts these days. It’s all just fear created by people.”

The next afternoon, I set out toward the mansion with my village friends, Raju and Shyamal. The sun was beginning to dip in the west. We reached the house—its walls cracked, windowpanes shattered, and the courtyard overgrown with weeds. A chill ran down our spines as a sudden gust of wind swept by.

“Let’s go inside,” I said.

Raju stepped back. “I’m not going in, man. My mother says even looking at that house makes you impure!”

Shyamal was a bit braver. He said, “Come on, Tirtha. Let’s see what’s really inside the haunted house.”

The two of us slowly stepped inside. The door creaked open with an eerie groan, as if someone was entering after many years. Inside, everything was in ruins—a broken cot, an old cupboard, and cobwebs hanging in the corners. As we entered one of the rooms, the wind slammed the door shut behind us. A deep voice echoed—

“Why have you come...?”

Shyamal jumped. “Tirtha, did you hear that?”

I replied with a dry throat, “Maybe the wind… or some animal.”

Just then, a shadow in the corner began to stir. It slowly took the shape of a man—an old figure with white hair, blood-red eyes, and a strange, eerie smile.

He whispered, "You still have time... leave now..." Shyamal ran to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. When I turned, I saw the shadowy figure coming toward us. “We... we only came to look!” I shouted.

The shadow paused, then slowly said, “There is no peace for me… no one listens… no one knows how I died…”

Gathering courage, I asked, “Are you Haripada Roy? Were you the landlord?”

He nodded. Then he said, “My own kin betrayed me. My brother, my friends—they all deceived and killed me. My spirit still wanders… seeking justice…”

We stood frozen in place. Haripada Roy’s spirit looked at us and said, “Tell everyone the truth. Let my soul find peace. Let people stop fearing this house. It was once a place of love—destroyed by greed and hatred.”

Suddenly, the room’s light flickered. And without warning, the door creaked open again. As quickly as we could, we fled. The next day, we told the villagers everything. Many didn’t believe us, but a few elders said, “We always knew the landlord didn’t die a natural death.”

The villagers came together to clean the house. A small memorial was built in Haripada Roy’s name. And strangely, from that day onward, no one heard strange noises from the house again. It no longer frightened anyone. The house still stands today. Though weathered by time, a sense of calm now rests there.

Whenever I visit the village, I stop in front of the house. I feel as though someone is quietly smiling—perhaps finally at peace.

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---The End---

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