The Haunting Whisper of the Green Shadows

Arif had always loved the mist-draped hills of Sylhet, where his family owned a small tea estate. The hills breathed with a life of their own – the whispers of swaying leaves, the rustle of the underbrush, and the occasional call of a distant bird. But the workers often spoke of something else – something older than the trees and darker than the jungle night.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold, Arif found himself walking alone through the winding paths of the tea garden. The leaves rustled in the cool breeze, and the shadows stretched long, twisting into shapes that seemed almost alive. He had grown used to the sounds of the jungle, the chirping of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, but tonight felt different – heavier, as if the very air around him carried a weight.

He paused by an ancient tree, its trunk gnarled and twisted, its roots like the fingers of a giant clawed hand. As he reached to pluck a leaf, he heard it – a faint, low whisper, like the sigh of a forgotten soul. He froze. The sound grew louder, closer, weaving through the trees, echoing off the thick foliage. He spun around, his breath catching in his throat. There, just beyond the edge of the clearing, a figure stood. It was tall, shrouded in shadows, its eyes glowing like twin embers in the dark.

Arif stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest. The figure stepped closer, its movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring each step. As it drew nearer, Arif saw its face – pale, expressionless, with eyes that seemed to pierce through his very soul. It whispered again, the sound like dry leaves brushing against each other, filling the night with a sense of ancient dread.

He turned and ran, his feet pounding against the soft earth, the air thick with the scent of damp leaves and fear. The whispers followed him, growing louder, more insistent, until he burst into the clearing where the estate’s main house stood. He slammed the door behind him, his chest heaving, his mind racing.

In the days that followed, Arif tried to convince himself that it had been his imagination – a trick of the shadows, a play of the wind. But every night, as he lay in his bed, he could still hear the whispers – growing louder, closer, each night more insistent than the last.

It was a week later that the workers found his empty jeep at the edge of the tea garden, its engine still warm, the driver’s side door left ajar. The whispers had claimed him, the jungle had taken him, and the tea garden remained silent, its shadows forever whispering his name.