The shadow of death

It was 2:03. When Arjun got out of the shaky old rickshaw, there was a lot of silence. The driver quickly turned around and disappeared into the night, murmuring something about not going any further near the old house. Arjun took a look ahead. The silhouette of his ancestral home was obscured by creeping vines, broken windows, and the weight of time at the end of the village lane. He had not been here for more than a decade. The loud, prolonged creak he heard as he opened the rusty iron gate sounded like the house itself groaning. He stopped. A breeze seemed to carry whispers that vanished as soon as he tried to focus on them. The night air was unusually cold for early summer. He entered with a head shake. The residence had not changed. The brass knocker with a lion design is for the same wooden door. The identical veranda with loose tiles. However, dust covered everything, as though time had stopped since his parents left. Arjun entered the house after unlocking the front door. His nostrils were filled with the familiar musty scent of mold, aged wood, and something else—something metallic. He turned on the phone's flashlight. The electricity had been cut off a long time ago. As the beam moved from one corner to the next, shadows moved along the walls. Like an unwelcome guest, every step disturbed the silence. The furniture remained stationary like icebergs. The ceiling was draped with cobwebs. He exhaled. Simple was the strategy. Stay the night there. Check the house's condition. Sell it after having it evaluated. Then depart. But the house wouldn't let him sleep as the night went on. Strange noises started around 3 a.m. The first sound was a gentle knock. Continue to tap. In bed, he froze. This time it came from the old wardrobe, and it was louder. He approached it with courage and flung the doors open. Nothing. He laughed tremblingly. Arjun: "You're losing it." But then his phone's lights started to blink. A second knock came from behind him, this time. He abruptly turned. No one. That's when he saw a new thing: a handprint. Visible but faint on the mirror in front of the bed. He is not. Too much, and covered in what appeared to be dried blood. His spine began to shake. A whisper suddenly broke out in the room. He didn't recognize the voice, but it was loud and terrifying. "You shouldn't have returned..." The temperature went down. His breath came into focus. He also caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye: a shadowy, tall figure at the end of the corridor. Arjun ran out of the room quickly. He sprinted down the stairs, stumbled in the pitch-black, and nearly fell, but he managed to escape the house. His flashlight flashed rapidly. He dashed through the front gate and down the dirt path to Uncle Basu's house, where he had lived since childhood. He slammed the door shut. The door squeaked open, and the light turned on in a matter of seconds. Uncle Basu, groggy but alarmed, opened it. "Arjun? Is that you, God? At this hour, what are you doing here? At first, Arjun didn't say anything. His hands were shaking, and his face was pale. "There's... something in the house," he just said. He was allowed inside, seated, and given water by the elderly man. Basu sighed after a few minutes of silence. He said quietly, "I was afraid this might happen." I warned your father never to return to this location. But you... you don't know everything, do you? Arjun went up. "What tale?" An unspoken fear filled Basu's eyes. Ratan, your great-uncle, the one who lived in that house before your family moved in, did not simply pass away. He is said to have lost his mind. He killed his wife one night and hanged himself in the room you were trying to sleep in. Arjun's heart sank. But why not? "Nobody is aware. The idea that someone in the family had betrayed him became his obsession. And just before he passed away, he said something to you that your father never said: "Blood must pay for blood." Arjun's voice was shaking. "Are you saying that his spirit is still present?" Basu gave a slow nod. On this night every year, someone hears a knock. sights things. Senses things. Your father was skeptical of it. But after that night, he said he would never come back. On this ghastly night, you are the first person in twelve years to enter that house." The table candle flickered violently at once. Although the windows were closed, a gust of wind passed through. The voice then appeared. “Arjuuuun…” Both of them froze. Basu became pale. "He knows that you are here," He handed Arjun an old, rusted iron trident from the corner without saying a word. It was an artifact from a long-forgotten shrine. He dislikes iron. Your only defense is this. Do not return tonight. However, Arjun had already gotten up. He was being pulled inwardly, not by fear but by an odd compulsion. as though the house had not yet finished with him. Despite Basu's protests, he left. The front door was open when he got to the house. It was quiet inside. Too silent. While tightly securing the iron trident, he made his way upstairs. The air was thick enough to almost be liquid. Every breath was full of force. Strange echoes came from each step. He then saw it once more in the mirror in the hallway. the gloom, standing in his direction. However, this time it spoke. "His blood is in you." Arjun raised the trident as he turned to face it. The shadow didn't move at all. "You deserted us. Let us perish. Blood has to pay..." Arjun said, his voice trembling, firmly, "No." "You lost control and died." Nothing had anything to do with my family". The shadow drew nearer. The walls started to leak blood. The floor split. But Arjun did not back down. He frantically lowered the trident into the ground after raising it. The house was shattered by a shrill, irate, and ancient scream. The shadow jerked, screamed, shattered into a thousand black smoke fragments, and then vanished. Then, nothing. The air became clear. The broken windows let in morning light. The curse had... ended. ---Epilogue: Arjun was standing in front of the freshly painted house months later. It reappeared to be alive. He had chosen not to market it. Not in light of what occurred. Some tales and legacies cannot be handed down to strangers. Even though the nights were quieter now, he occasionally thought he heard a whisper when the wind came from the east.