The Whisper Behind the Door

It was around 11:45 at night when I reached my cousin’s old house in Chakwal. I was travelling from Lahore, and since the bus had been delayed, I got there much later than planned. The place was on the edge of the village, a big old haveli my cousin’s family had inherited from their grandfather. I’d been there before as a kid, but never alone at night.

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‎The moment I stepped inside, the air felt… heavier. Not just cold — heavy. My cousin’s family was out of town for a wedding in another village, so I had the house to myself. He’d left the keys with a neighbour.

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‎When I opened the wooden door, it made a long, slow creak. The sound echoed through the empty hall. I switched on the single bulb above me; it flickered twice before settling into a dim glow. The walls were high, paint peeling off, and shadows stretched unnaturally in the corners.

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‎I walked to the guest room on the left side of the hall. It had an old iron bed, a wooden wardrobe, and a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. The mirror immediately caught my attention — not because it was broken, but because it seemed… too clean. Almost polished, as if someone had cleaned it just before I arrived.

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‎Around midnight, as I was unpacking, I heard the sound. A soft, dragging shuffle… like bare feet moving across the floor in the hallway. I froze. My first thought was that maybe the neighbour had come to check on me. But when I peeked into the hall — nothing. Just shadows and that flickering light.

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‎I locked my door.

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‎At 1:10 AM, I was lying in bed scrolling on my phone when I heard it again — shuffle… shuffle… stop. This time, it was followed by a faint whisper. Not clear words, just a low, broken murmur, right outside my door. My throat went dry.

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‎“Who’s there?” I called out. My voice sounded too loud in the silence.

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‎No answer. Just… a breath. Long, slow, almost right against the wood of the door.

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‎I grabbed the small torch from my bag, switched it on, and stood near the door. My heart was pounding. Slowly, I turned the handle and pulled the door open.

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‎The hallway was empty.

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‎But the light bulb was swinging slightly, as if someone had brushed past it.

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‎I stepped out, my torch cutting through the darkness. The sound of my own footsteps on the old floorboards felt louder than they should have. I checked every room on that side of the hall — empty. But when I returned to my room… the cracked mirror was no longer leaning against the wall.

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‎It was standing upright, facing the bed.

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‎I swear I hadn’t touched it.

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‎My stomach twisted. I quickly dragged it back to the wall and decided I’d sleep with the lights on.

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‎At around 3:25 AM, I woke up to the sound of tapping — soft, steady taps, coming from the mirror. My skin went cold. I sat up slowly, and that’s when I noticed something that made my blood run ice.

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‎In the dim light, my reflection… wasn’t sitting up.

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‎It was still lying down.

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‎I blinked hard, my chest tight, thinking maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks. But then… the reflection smiled.

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‎I didn’t stay to see more. I grabbed my bag, ran to the door, and didn’t look back.

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‎When I reached the neighbour’s house, shaking, he looked at me strangely and said, “Beta… you stayed in the guest room?” I nodded. His face went pale.

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‎“That room has been locked for years. Since my brother’s son died there.”