The Visitor of Obscurity. It was a cold winter night.

Thick mist covered the town like a spooky cover. The moon stowed away behind overwhelming clouds, and the quiet of the farmland felt unnatural. As it was, the stir of dry takes off and the far off hoot of an owl broke the stillness. At the edge of the town stood a rotting house, once an amazing domain of an effective proprietor. Presently, it was an overlooked antique, broken and crumbling—half devoured by nature and time. The villagers called it “Shonar Bari”, in spite of the fact that nothing brilliant remained around it. Its wooden entryways squeaked indeed without wind, and at night, unusual lights were some of the time seen glinting from its upper floors—despite no one living there for decades.

Rahul, a 24-year-old new graduate from the city, had continuously been intrigued by the powerful. He arrived in the town to spend a little time with his grandma. After hearing ghostly stories from local people near the house, his interest burned. Not at all like the scared villagers, Rahul accepted most apparition stories had consistent clarifications. He was decided to reveal the truth around Shonar Bari.

“No one goes close that put after dark,” cautioned Dadu, his grandma. “Many attempted to demonstrate their bravery. Not all returned the same—some never returned at all.”

Rahul essentially grinned. “Ghosts do not panic me, Dadu. In the event that there's anything in that house, I'll discover it.”

That evening, Rahul pressed an electric lamp, a scratch pad, a thermos of coffee, and a computerized camera. The mist had thickened, twisting around his legs like dim fingers. As he drawn closer to the house, an unnatural stillness encompassed him. Indeed, the crickets had gone calm. The enormous wooden entryway half open, moaning marginally as in the event that challenging his entry. He pushed it tenderly and ventured inside. Tidy and rot ruled the discussion. The dividers were recolored, the backdrop peeling off in strips. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like overlooked skeletons. Rahul clicked on his electric lamp and started investigating, each step reverberating within the hollow silence.

Within the drawing room, blurred representations gazed at him from a split outline. Their eyes appeared to take after his every move. Rahul set up his camera on a tripod and started reporting the space.

Hours passed. To begin with, everything was calm. He made notes, took pictures, and indeed snickered at his possess uneasiness. But as midnight approached nearer, a chill settled in—far colder than the winter discussed exterior. That's when he listened. Strides. Moderate, consider the passage. Rahul solidified. “Hello?” He called out. No answer. He pointed his electric lamp toward the entryway, but it flashed once, twice—then passed on. The batteries were unused.

Abruptly, within the pale moonlight that leaked through the split window, he saw a shadow standing by the entryway. Tall. Unmoving. Confronting absent.

His heart beat. “Who's there?”

The figure didn't reply. Instep, it gradually turned. Its confront was a blur—no eyes, no mouth, fair two empty attachments and a blood-like substance trickling from where its lips should've been.

Rahul faltered back in fearfulness. He attempted to run, but his feet felt established to the ground. He felt a cold, undetectable constraint grasping his lower legs. A whisper crawled into his ears:

“You shouldn't have come.”

The figure started moving toward him, floating fair inches over the ground. The whispering developed louder, a blend of voices—some crying, a few shouting, others chuckling frantically.

Rahul closed his eyes and shouted, but no sound came out. His body trembled wildly. On the divider beside him, words started to seem in a dim ruddy fluid:

“Now you're one of us.”

He opened his eyes—and the room was purge.

The camera had fallen. The notepad lay open close to him. He snatched it and ran. Or thought he did. But everything around him twisted—hallways extended, entryways vanished. The chateau had changed.

No matter which entryway he opened, he returned to the same room.

He was caught.

By first light, the villagers took note of his absence. A look party was sent to the mansion. They found the entryway wide open, the interior cold as ice. Rahul was gone.

As it were, his camera remained, the focal point split. His scratch pad was found in a corner of the room, pages torn and doused.

On the final intaglio page, a message was scribbled in spiked handwriting—one that didn't coordinate Rahul's slick script:

“He opened the entryway. Presently we are free.”

No one enters Shonar Bari any longer.

Since presently, they say, the house strolls with Rahul's eyes.