Everyone in the village said the old Joshi Mansion was cursed. But Riya never believed in ghosts—until she inherited it.
She arrived one stormy evening. The mansion stood like a silent beast, shrouded in fog, its wooden structure groaning with time. Riya brushed off the chill in her spine and stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet like distant whispers.
That night, strange things began.
At exactly 3:13 AM, a faint scratching sound emerged—from beneath the floorboards in the hallway. She assumed it was rats… until the scratching turned into slow, dragging knocks. Knock… knock… knock.
She tried to pry open the old wooden planks the next day, but the wood was fused, unnaturally hard. The carpenter she called never returned. His phone was found outside the gate—smashed, screen clawed.
The following night, the whispers began.
“Riiiiiyaa…”
Soft. Guttural. Coming from under the floor again.
She ran.
But every time she tried to leave, the gates were locked. No matter how hard she screamed, no one heard her. No signal. No escape.
One night, she discovered an old diary hidden in a wall cavity behind a cracked portrait. It belonged to her grandfather—dated 1962.
“The boy never stopped screaming. I begged the spirit to go, but it said it would stay as long as the blood remained under the floor…”
The last line chilled her:
“I buried the boy alive. Right below the hallway.”
Her breath caught. Her knees buckled. She was living over a grave.
That night, the boards finally broke open.
Two rotting, childlike hands reached out.
The last thing anyone ever heard from the Joshi Mansion was a single message posted from her number:
“He’s not alone anymore.”