Somebody's At The Door

    A mansion, opulent and imposing, now stood where generations of homes had risen and crumbled. Beneath its foundations lay the ghosts of lives lived, a tapestry of joy and, more often, the jagged edges of tragedy. Each brick whispered stories of previous inhabitants, their laughter echoing in the empty halls, their tears staining the very mortar. Death, a constant companion, had stalked these grounds for centuries.

One such tale clung to the newly erected walls, the story of a teenage girl visiting her uncle for his housewarming. Her own home, a humble cottage near the fish-filled pond in Jagatsinghpur, Odisha, felt a world away from this sprawling edifice. In her village, an ancient belief persisted: no one should sleep alone in a new house until cleansing rituals had been performed, banishing any lingering spirits trapped within its walls. This new house, however, was smaller than her uncle’s previous residence, and her aunt, overwhelmed by the prospect of hosting numerous guests, suggested they spend the night before the party in the newly built mansion.

As darkness deepened, the girl lay in her unfamiliar room, an unsettling quiet pressing down on her. Long after midnight, a sharp knock echoed through the silent house. Her aunt, half-asleep, mumbled for her to answer the door. A chill prickled the girl’s skin as she moved through the darkened hallways, realizing she was the only one awake. Every other member of the household lay in slumber, oblivious to the dread that crept with her.

She reached the heavy oak door and hesitantly pulled it open. Standing on the threshold was a woman, her face obscured by long, dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a crimson saree, its vibrant color a stark contrast to the deathly pallor of the night. Her eyes, though hidden, seemed to bore into the girl. The woman spoke, her voice low and husky, asking mundane questions about the house at this unholy hour. She appeared normal, yet an unsettling aura emanated from her, a chill that seeped into the girl's bones.

This girl, however, was a devout follower of Lord Hanuman. Her days were filled with chants and prayers to the powerful Monkey God, her faith a shield against the darkness. As she attempted to politely end the conversation and close the door, a voice, sharp and malevolent, sliced through the stillness. It was not the woman’s voice. It was a rasping whisper, a sound that seemed to crawl from the very depths of the earth. "Do not be fooled," it hissed, its words slithering into the girl's mind. "It is only because Lord Hanuman stands beside you that I cannot meet your gaze." The woman in the red saree remained motionless, her hidden eyes burning with an unseen fire, her presence a suffocating weight in the suffocating darkness.

*A Story Shared By Siddharth Singh a JustUtter Reader.