In a quiet, forgotten village on the outskirts of Jaipur, Rajasthan, stands a house that has been abandoned for years—Raghav Bhoot Bangla. Once a proud and bustling home, it is now nothing more than a crumbling shell of its former self. The villagers steer clear of the house, not because of any ancient legend or myth, but because of the strange happenings that have plagued it over the years.
Raghav, a successful businessman, once lived in this grand house with his family. But after his sudden disappearance, the house was left vacant. The neighbors reported odd sounds—scratching noises, faint whispers, and the occasional flicker of lights at night. Over time, people stopped talking about the house altogether. It became a place that no one dared to visit. And that’s exactly why Vikram, an ambitious young journalist from Delhi, decided to investigate.
The Story Begins:
It was a sweltering summer evening when Vikram arrived at Raghav Bhoot Bangla. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the desolate village. Vikram was not one to believe in ghost stories or superstitions, but something about this house intrigued him. Armed with his camera and a flashlight, he was determined to uncover the truth behind the whispers that had plagued the house for so long.
The house stood at the end of a narrow, dusty road, surrounded by an eerie stillness. The windows were broken, and the front door hung ajar, as if beckoning him inside. With a mix of trepidation and excitement, Vikram pushed the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the silent air.
Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint smell of decay lingered. Vikram’s flashlight flickered, illuminating the disarray—torn curtains, shattered furniture, and shattered glass scattered across the floor. His heartbeat quickened as he moved deeper into the house. The silence felt unnatural, oppressive, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
Vikram’s camera clicked continuously, capturing the eerie surroundings. But as he walked through the hallway, he felt an unsettling chill in the air. He paused and listened carefully—there was something else.
Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint smell of decay lingered. Vikram’s flashlight flickered, illuminating the disarray—torn curtains, shattered furniture, and shattered glass scattered across the floor. His heartbeat quickened as he moved deeper into the house. The silence felt unnatural, oppressive, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
Vikram’s camera clicked continuously, capturing the eerie surroundings. But as he walked through the hallway, he felt an unsettling chill in the air. He paused and listened carefully—there was something else.
Whispers.
At first, he thought it was the wind, but it didn’t sound like that. The whispers seemed too deliberate, too human. His pulse quickened. He was no longer alone. The voices, faint and indistinct, came from upstairs. Vikram took a deep breath, convinced that his rational mind would prevail.
Determined to document everything, he climbed the creaky stairs, each step groaning beneath his weight. As he reached the top, the whispers grew louder, almost as if they were calling his name. Vikram froze for a moment, his flashlight trembling in his hand.
He reached the first room on the left. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open slowly. The room was empty, except for a large portrait hanging on the wall. It was a portrait of Raghav, the former owner, his face stern, his eyes seeming to follow Vikram’s every move. But that wasn’t what disturbed Vikram the most.
It was the reflection in the glass—something was standing behind him.
Vikram whipped around, heart racing. But there was nothing. Just the empty room. His breath came in shallow gasps as he turned back to the portrait, his eyes scanning it more closely. The reflection was gone.
But the whispers—now they were louder, sharper, almost urgent.
He stepped backward, a cold sweat covering his forehead. The whispers were coming from the end of the hall now, louder and more distinct. They sounded like... sobbing.
Vikram’s instinct told him to leave, but his curiosity drove him further. He continued down the dark hallway, his flashlight revealing cracks in the walls, the peeling paint, the dust that had settled in every corner. He arrived at the last room at the end of the hallway.
The door was closed. He reached out to open it, but as his hand touched the handle, the door creaked open by itself, as if inviting him in. Vikram hesitated, then stepped inside.
The room was strangely cold, and the air seemed thick with an unnatural stillness. The whispers had stopped, but something felt wrong. He turned his flashlight toward the far corner of the room.
There, in the shadows, stood a figure.
The figure was tall, but its features were indistinct, its body wrapped in dark, flowing shadows. Vikram’s breath caught in his throat as the figure took a slow, deliberate step forward. It had no face—just darkness where its face should have been. The air grew even colder as the figure moved closer. The whispers returned, now in full force, and Vikram could hear them clearly: "Leave... now... leave..."
In a blind panic, Vikram bolted from the room, down the hallway, and out of the house. As he stumbled onto the front porch, gasping for breath, he looked back. The house loomed behind him, silent again. But as he glanced toward the window, he saw something that made his blood run cold.
In the window, the face of Raghav stared out at him.
