The morning sun had barely touched the peaks of Ramgarh when Vihaan opened his eyes. Sleep had eluded him for most of the night. The flickering light in the abandoned mansion refused to leave his thoughts. Who lit it? Why only for a few seconds? And more importantly, was it a warning or a call for help?
He pushed himself out of bed, the notebook of Nayra still lying open on the desk. The torn page about the mansion stared back at him like an unfinished sentence. He ran his fingers across her shaky handwriting and whispered to himself, "What did you find there, Nayra?"
After a hurried breakfast at the hotel café, he packed his camera, a small torch, and the notebook. His instincts told him that going back to the mansion during the day might reveal what the shadows of the night had hidden.
Return to the Mansion
The path to the cliffs looked less threatening under daylight, yet the silence around still carried a weight. Even the birds seemed to avoid the skies above the mansion. Vihaan reached the old gate—its iron bars rusted, vines crawling like veins across its frame. He pushed it open with effort, the squeal of metal echoing like a cry in the empty air.
Inside, the house appeared lifeless, but as he stepped into the main hall, he felt the same chill from the previous night. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of light breaking through cracked windows.
He switched on his camera, capturing every detail—the broken chandelier, the peeling wallpaper, the strange symbols he had noticed before. He leaned closer to one symbol etched half into the wall. It was a circle, intersected by three jagged lines. Almost ritualistic.
"What were you part of, Nayra?" he muttered.
The sound of his own voice made the emptiness heavier. He turned toward a staircase that creaked dangerously with each step. The air smelled of damp wood and something faintly metallic—like rust, or blood.
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The Locked Door
At the end of the upstairs corridor, he found a door. Unlike the others that hung loose or broken, this one was locked with a heavy chain. Someone had deliberately sealed it. His journalist's curiosity flared. Why seal a single room in a house already abandoned?
Vihaan bent to examine the lock when he noticed something scratched near the floorboards. The letters were faint but clear:
"Don't open."
His breath caught. Was it a warning for people like him? Or a desperate attempt from someone trapped inside?
He took a step back, debating whether to force it open. But the creaking of footsteps behind him froze him in place.
"Who's there?" His voice wavered.
No answer. The corridor lay empty, but the sound had been real-measured, deliberate.
He turned the camera around, filming the hall, his own breath heavy. For a second, the lens caught a shadow moving past the far end of the hall. When he turned with his eyes, there was nothing.
The Whispering Walls
Determined not to panic, Vihaan walked into a smaller room across the hall. It looked like an old library. Shelves sagged under the weight of decaying books. A broken desk sat in the middle, its drawers half open.
He began rifling through the drawers, finding nothing but moldy papers—until he pulled the bottom one. A bundle of letters, tied with red string, slipped into his hands. The paper was yellowed, but the handwriting was fresh enough to recognize—it was Nayra's.
His heart pounded as he opened the first letter.
"If someone finds this, please don't trust anyone in Ramgarh. Not even those who smile at you. They know. They all know. The mansion hides more than ghosts. It hides the living, too."
Vihaan's throat went dry. He scanned through another page.
"Sometimes at night, I hear voices in the walls. Whispers, like people talking, but too soft to understand. Papa says it's my imagination. But when I press my ear to the wood, I can hear it clearer. They say names. They say mine."
The letters shook in his hands. He remembered the faint echo he had heard last night—the footsteps, the hollow voice of the walls. It wasn't imagination.
Before he could read further, the whisper came again. A faint, dragging murmur, like wind seeping through cracks—but there was no breeze. It came from the wall itself.
He pressed closer, his ear against the wooden paneling.
And this time, he heard it.
"Vihaan…"
His blood ran cold.
An Unexpected Visitor
The letters slipped from his hands. He stumbled back, his camera clattering to the floor. The whisper had spoken his name.
"Who's there?" His voice cracked, more desperate than commanding.
The silence that followed was unbearable. He grabbed the camera again, fumbling with its light, when a sudden crash echoed from downstairs. It sounded like a door slamming shut.
Someone was in the mansion with him.
He rushed to the corridor, his footsteps unsteady. The locked door with the chain rattled faintly, as if something—or someone—was testing it from the other side. His instincts screamed to run, but his legs pulled him closer. He raised the camera, recording every second.
The rattling stopped.
"Mr. Journalist."
The voice was human, low and mocking, drifting from below the staircase. Vihaan spun, his chest tightening.
"Who are you?" he shouted.
But instead of an answer, the front door banged open. Light flooded the hall, and a figure stormed in.
It was the police officer from the station.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the officer barked, his eyes blazing.
Vihaan steadied his breath, hiding the letters behind his back. "I'm doing my job. Finding the truth about Nayra."
The officer's jaw clenched. He marched up the stairs until he stood only feet away. "I warned you yesterday. This house is off-limits. Leave, or you'll regret it."
"Why?" Vihaan demanded. "What are you hiding here? Why does this place scare the whole town?"
The officer's gaze darted briefly to the locked room, then back to Vihaan. "Curiosity will kill you, boy. Go back to Delhi. Write your tourist story. Forget Nayra Verma."
He reached for Vihaan's shoulder, but Vihaan stepped back. "I'm not leaving until I find the truth."
Their eyes locked, the silence heavy with threat. Then, with a final snarl, the officer turned away. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He stormed out, slamming the gate behind him.
The Hidden Letter
Vihaan's pulse took minutes to settle. He gathered the letters from the library and stuffed them into his bag. The officer's reaction only confirmed what Nayra had written—someone in authority knew the secrets buried in the mansion.
As he prepared to leave, he noticed something odd near the fireplace. A loose brick jutted out slightly. He tugged at it, and with effort, it slid free, revealing a hollow space.
Inside was a folded paper, its edges burnt. Carefully, he pulled it out. The words scrawled across it made his stomach lurch:
"They meet at night. The cliff mansion is only the entrance. Beneath, there are tunnels. I've seen them. I've heard the screams. If I disappear, the tunnels will answer why."
The paper was unsigned, but the handwriting was unmistakable—Nayra's again.
Vihaan stared at the fireplace, realization dawning. The mansion was not just a haunted relic. It was a gateway. A cover for something darker, something alive beneath the cliffs.
The Resolve
As he stepped back into the daylight, the town of Ramgarh no longer looked the same. Every smiling face, every whisper in the marketplace, felt like a mask hiding the truth.
He walked down the narrow streets, his bag heavy with Nayra's letters. The people who passed him lowered their eyes, as if afraid of what he carried.
Back at the hotel, he spread the letters and the burnt note on the desk. Piece by piece, Nayra's voice was guiding him toward the heart of Ramgarh's darkness.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
The mansion is not abandoned.
Whispers in the walls are real.
Nayra knew about tunnels.
The police are involved.
His hand trembled as he underlined the last point:
"If they know I have her letters, they will come for me."
But fear had no place now. He thought of Nayra's last words in her notebook: "If anything happens to me, it won't be because I ran away."
Vihaan clenched his jaw. "I'll finish what you started, Nayra. I'll find the tunnels. I'll find the truth."
Outside, the sun dipped behind the mountains, dragging Ramgarh into another night of shadows. The wind howled through the cliffs, carrying with it a voice only Vihaan could hear—soft, broken, but unmistakable.
"Help me…"
He froze, staring at the darkness pressing against his window.
Somewhere beneath the cliffs, Nayra's story was still alive. And it was waiting for him to uncover it.