The Night of Screams



The village of Dargahpur had always been a quiet corner of the world. Tucked between green hills and thick forests, it was the kind of place where time moved slowly. Life was simple: men worked in the fields, women gathered at the well, and children played barefoot in the dust. For generations, peace ruled here. The biggest excitement was the endless chain of gossip.

But something had changed. As the sun dipped behind the hills and long shadows stretched across the earth, the nights in Dargahpur grew uneasy. Strange noises echoed through the forest. Old doors creaked open on their own. Shadows seemed to move even when there was no light. Some villagers dismissed it as superstition or the imagination of elders. Yet deep down, everyone felt the same chill. And for Aarav, a young schoolteacher, that unease was disturbingly real.

The First Cry

One moonless night, Aarav walked home after tutoring children at the far edge of the village. The forest path was narrow and swallowed in darkness. Even the crickets were silent, as if nature itself was holding its breath. Every rustle made him turn. An owl’s hoot above sent shivers down his spine.

Then it came. The cry.

Not fully human—sharp, raw, filled with hopelessness. It tore through the night, froze him in place, and then faded into silence. Aarav’s heart raced. He tried to convince himself it was just a fox or perhaps mischievous boys. But deep inside, he knew better.

Whispers of the Mansion

The next morning, at the village well, Aarav’s neighbor Mrs. Sharma caught his eye. Her pale face spoke before her lips did.

“You heard it too, didn’t you?” she whispered.

When Aarav hesitated, she pointed toward the forest.

“It came from the old mansion.”

Everyone in Dargahpur knew the place. Half-hidden among trees, its walls were cracked, its windows broken like hollow eyes. For decades, no one dared enter. Stories whispered of people who went inside and never returned the same—if they returned at all.

Into the Shadows

Curiosity gnawed at Aarav all day. By nightfall, he gave in. With a lantern in one hand and a sturdy stick in the other, he walked toward the mansion.

The deeper he went, the heavier the air became. The broken house rose before him, vines crawling over its crumbling walls. He felt watched, as if the house itself was alive. Pushing open the door, the hinges groaned like a wounded animal. Inside, shadows danced across the walls, his lantern flickering with each step.

Then the cry returned. Louder. From inside.

Heart hammering, Aarav followed it down a staircase that sank into the earth.



The Basement

At the bottom, his lantern revealed a sight that chilled him. A young woman sat in the corner, her tangled hair hiding half her face. She screamed and pointed into the darkness.

“Stay back! They steal your soul!”

And then Aarav saw them—shapes clinging to the walls. Small, twisted figures, eyes hollow, movements jerky like broken puppets. Their mouths opened and closed in silence.

One lunged. Aarav swung his stick—but it passed through air. The creature’s glowing eyes fixed on him as others crawled forward. In panic, Aarav grabbed the woman’s trembling hand.

“Run!”

They stumbled up the stairs, the mansion groaning as shadows clawed at their heels. The door burst open and they fled into the forest.

The Warning

Near the edge of the village, they collapsed. The woman’s grip was fierce, her voice a whisper of dread.

“This place feeds on fear. The more you’re afraid, the stronger it becomes. Never go back.”

Before Aarav could ask who she was, she slipped into the shadows—gone, as if she had never been there.

The Echo That Remains

By morning, the village was its usual self: children laughed, birds sang, gossip returned. But Aarav knew the truth. The mansion was alive. And it had seen him.

From that night onward, he avoided the forest at dusk. Yet sometimes, in the dead of night, when the wind rustled through the trees, he heard it again—the faint, chilling echo of screams.

Even within the safety of his bolted home, Aarav knew one dreadful truth:

The darkness had not forgotten him.

Author’s Note

This fictional story is inspired by the eerie legends often whispered in villages. It is an original creation, edited and refined by me.