"Eyes see, but lips deny.
Whispers crawl, yet laughter buries them.
In a village where every smile is painted,
Truth rots beneath the teeth."
The sun dipped low, setting the mud walls aglow with a golden haze. The group sat together in the village square, still shaken from what they had seen in the abandoned house. No one dared bring it up—not until Kabir broke the silence.
"Look," he said, voice too steady to be natural. "We all imagined it. Old houses play tricks. Light, dust, nerves. That's all."
No one replied.
Before the tension could stretch further, a small cluster of villagers approached. Women in bright saris, men with wrinkled faces, all smiling as if they had been rehearsing it.
"Did you find anything, sahab?" one of the older women asked cheerfully.
Aman stood. "There were people inside that house. Two women. We saw them."
The villagers laughed—a soft ripple, like water disturbed by a stone.
"There are no women in that house," said a young man with a tilak on his forehead. "That house has been empty for thirty years. Everyone knows this."
Radhika frowned. "But we all saw it—"
"Sometimes outsiders see things," the old woman interrupted, smile never faltering. "Shadows. Dust. Your city eyes are not used to our air."
Meghana crossed her arms. "You're saying six of us hallucinated together?"
The villagers only smiled wider, as though they hadn't heard the question.
The group walked away, unsettled, but the villagers' laughter followed them—low and constant, echoing in the narrow lanes. Kabir turned back once and swore he saw the old woman's lips moving though no sound came out. Yet in his ears, the laughter still rang.
That night, they gathered in the small hut Abhay had been staying in. Shadows from the lantern flickered across the walls.
"I don't like it," Zoya muttered. "They're lying. They know something's wrong, but they're covering it up."
"Or they've all gone mad," Aman offered.
Abhay, sitting in the corner, said quietly, "Maybe they want us to go mad too."
Everyone looked at him. It was the longest sentence he'd spoken in days.
Just then, a knock rattled the wooden door. Everyone froze. Kabir stood, opening it with more force than necessary.
A villager stood there—a young man, broad shoulders, calm face. He smiled politely. "Forgive us. The elders asked me to bring food. Rice and lentils. You must be tired."
His tone was gentle, his hands steady as he offered the bundle of food. But his eyes—his eyes did not blink once.
Kabir took the bundle reluctantly. "Thanks."
Before leaving, the villager added, "And sahab, about that house… there is nothing there. Don't go again. Nothing waits for you."
The door closed. The group stared at each other.
"Did you hear that?" Zoya hissed. "Don't go again. He practically admitted—"
Kabir cut her off. "He admitted nothing. Just… don't overthink." But even his voice shook.
Later that night, they tried asking around again. Different villagers, same result.
To one farmer: "That house? Empty."
To a woman fetching water: "We don't speak of it. Because there is nothing to speak of."
To a child: the child laughed and repeated: "Nothing there, nothing there, nothing there," like a broken song.
Every smile looked painted, every denial rehearsed. The group began to feel like intruders not into a village—but into a performance.
Back in the hut, as everyone argued, Abhay whispered something that went unnoticed at first.
"They weren't laughing when we weren't looking."
"What?" Radhika asked.
Abhay repeated, "When their backs were turned, their mouths weren't smiling. Only when they faced us."
Meghana exhaled sharply. "So they're… putting on a show? For us?"
Kabir slammed his palm against the wall. "Or maybe we're the joke. Maybe they want us to lose our heads."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
When darkness finally swallowed the village, they lay awake on their mats. One by one, they drifted into uneasy half-sleep.
Then, faint at first, a chorus of laughter floated in through the cracks of the hut. Not cheerful laughter. Not mocking. But hollow, endless.
It grew louder, circling the hut.
Meghana sat up, clutching her blanket. "They're outside. They're… laughing around us."
Kabir stood, but when he peeked through the window, the streets were empty. Not a soul in sight.
Yet the laughter grew louder still.
Radhika pressed her palms to her ears, whispering frantically: "Stop, stop, stop—"
And just as suddenly, it ceased.
The silence was worse.
When dawn broke, the villagers greeted them with the same smiles, the same bright voices.
"Did you sleep well, sahab?" one asked.
"Peaceful night, wasn't it?" another added.
The group exchanged glances, their throats dry.
Because outside, on the dirt near their hut, were dozens of footprints circling it in perfect rings.
"A smile can be a mask,
Laughter can be a knife.
When the world insists there is nothing—
Ask yourself what it gains by your silence."