THE HOUSE THAT WHISPER

Chapter 2: The Journey Begins The train kept chugging north, dragging Aarav away from everything he knew—everything that felt safe. Outside, the world was morphing right in front of him: Mumbai’s wild, messy sprawl giving way to lonely fields and hills that looked like they’d never met a horn or a traffic jam in their lives. He had his own little corner in the carriage, just him and that damn letter wedged in his jacket pocket. Every time his fingers brushed it, he got this weird jolt, cold and sharp, like touching an icicle or maybe a ghost. At one point, the lady across from him—bright green saree, all friendly eyes—leaned in. “Going home?” she asked, all polite and curious. Aarav fumbled. “Not exactly. Maybe,” he mumbled. Which was about as true as anything else he could’ve said. By the time they pulled into Chandigarh, it was already late. One of those evenings where the sky turns purple and the air smells like rain that can’t decide if it’s coming or not. Aarav slung his old bag over his shoulder and made for the taxi stand. “I need to get to Kasauli,” he told this driver, who was busy chain-smoking beside a battered white Ambassador. The guy took a drag, squinted at him. “You sure? Not much there. Just fog, monkeys, and more silence than you’ll know what to do with.” Aarav grinned, almost sheepish. “That’s kind of the point.” The driver shrugged. “Your money, sahib.” The drive? Endless. Two hours of twisting roads, trees crowding in like they wanted to see who was disturbing their sleep. Every now and then something would skitter across the headlights—maybe a bird, maybe something else, who even knows out here. Finally, the car stopped at this rusted old gate half-swallowed by a grove. “This is it,” the driver said. “Blackwood Hill. You wanna keep going, you’re on foot. No road past this.” Aarav stepped out, boots crunching on gravel. The air had teeth—cold and sharp. Mist oozed around the trees, curling around the gate like it had business there. “You ever hear about this place?” Aarav asked, not really expecting an answer. The driver paused, flicked ash from his cigarette. “Just stories. They say nobody’s lived here in ages. Some folks say it’s cursed since the last owner went missing. Others say the house talks to people. If they stick around long enough.” Aarav shot him a look. “And you still dropped me off?” The guy just grinned. “You paid up front.” Then he was gone, taillights winking out as he disappeared back down the road, leaving Aarav alone with the gate and the creeping mist. He just stood there for a minute, staring at this iron gate strangled by vines. Up top, the letters B M were barely visible, rusted into the metal. Blackwood Manor. He shoved the gate open. It shrieked. Not a friendly sound. The path ahead was a mess—stones buried under moss, leaves everywhere. Even the birds had zipped it. All you could hear now was Aarav’s footsteps, and honestly, even those sounded like an intrusion. Then, out of nowhere, there it was. A monster of a house, three stories tall, built from grey stone. Windows like blank eyes, ivy crawling up the walls, chimney looking like it was about to give up on gravity. Abandoned, sure. But there was something else too. Like it was watching. Aarav stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the massive oak door. The air felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. He climbed the steps, heart trying to punch a hole through his chest. And then—the door just swung open. He hadn’t even touched it. Nobody there. No voices. Just a hallway, dark as hell, stretching on and on. He stepped in. The door slammed shut behind him, deep and final. So yeah. Now it was just Aarav in Blackwood Manor. Or, well… that’s what he thought.