Do You Believe in Ghosts?

We were sitting in the backyard one evening, tossing jokes like frisbees into the dusk. One of my friends, smirking with a cup of chai in his hand, leaned in and said, “Do you believe in ghosts?” We all laughed, shaking our heads, brushing the idea away like smoke. I chuckled louder than the rest, thumping my chest, “If a ghost ever dares show up, I’ll invite it in for tea.” The night roared with laughter. None of us knew that someone was listening.

That night, I went home to an empty house. My parents had left to visit relatives, and I volunteered to stay back. I liked the quiet. I needed the quiet. Or so I thought.

It began just after midnight. A whisper of air passed through the room like a sigh trapped in glass. I dismissed it. The walls creaked — old houses do that. The fan above trembled as if shivering from a cold no one else could feel. The silence deepened, turning the ticking of the clock into thunder.

And then — it started. The door stirred. mNot a knock. Not a bang. Just the slow, deliberate turn of the handle — a movement too smooth for wind, too careful for chance. I froze. “Probably the wood expanding,” I told myself. I stood up, went to the door, opened it. Nothing. Empty hallway. Dim bulb. Stillness.

But the next night, it came again. Same time. Same sound. Only this time… the door moved wider. I didn’t speak of it. Not to my friends, not to anyone. I didn’t want them to think I was mad. I tried to outstare the fear. I stayed up. I locked the door. I played music. I even slept with the lights on. But nothing helped.

The third night, I heard it. A whisper. Not words at first — just breath against the air, like someone trying to remember how to speak. And then, as I pulled the blanket up to my ears, I heard it clearer than my own heartbeat. My name. Soft. Drawn out like a breeze curling around the letters.

I leapt from bed, switched every light on. Nothing there. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the room had one more presence than it should. I began doubting myself. Was I hearing things? Imagining sounds? Creating horror from loneliness?

I stopped sleeping. Shadows moved when I didn’t. Mirrors reflected more than just me. I caught glimpses of a figure — not always visible, but felt. Always at the edge. Always waiting. Always staring. Then came the night I spoke to it. It was 2:13 AM. I sat on my bed, trembling. The door began its now-familiar stirring. This time, I didn’t wait. I opened it. Faced it. “Who are you?” I whispered. No answer.

But the whisper came again, right beside my ear, as if lips hovered an inch away. “You called me…” My heart pounded. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean it…” “You laughed,” the voice said, calm as a still lake. “You mocked…”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, breath catching in my throat. “I didn’t know… I didn’t think it was real. I— A silence fell. A thick, crushing pause. And then… a sound I hadn’t expected. A sigh. Low. Sad. Hollow.

“You humans forget that words echo,” it whispered. “Even the ones thrown as jokes.I dropped to my knees, eyes wet, palms pressed. “I was a fool. I regret my words. I beg for forgiveness.” Nothing replied. The room remained frozen.

Then — slowly — the chill lifted. The door creaked once more… and closed. The shadows retreated to corners. The mirrors showed only me. For the first time in nights, the house felt like a home again.

I didn’t die. I wasn’t possessed. But something left me that night — some weight, some darkness. The ghost, or whatever it was, never returned. But I remember it. Not as horror. Not as fiction. But as a warning.

Words are not leaves to be scattered. Some fall where spirits sleep. Now, when someone asks, “Do you believe in ghosts?” — I don’t laugh. I just smile quietly. Because I once spoke to one,And I lived to whisper about it.