I never believed in ghosts. Not until I stood in front of House No. 13.

The air was thick, the trees unnaturally still. The bungalow loomed—cracked walls, sagging roof, windows like hollow eyes. I came to document it, to debunk the rumors. My camera rolled as I stepped inside.

The door slammed shut behind me.

Then, the whispers started. Not in my ears—in my mind. A woman’s voice, soft at first, then sharp. 'You came back.'

I spun, filming the empty hall. Dust swirled. The temperature dropped. My breath fogged.

A shadow passed the doorway. Long hair. Saree. Bare feet.

'Who’s there?' I called.

Silence.

Then, from the ceiling above: a slow drip. Red. Thick. I looked up.

The words were written in blood: 'TELL THEM WHAT HE DID.'

My hands shook. This wasn’t possible.

A child’s laughter echoed down the hall. But there were no children. There hadn’t been for thirty years.

I backed toward the door. It was gone. Just wall.

The voice returned, closer now: 'You wanted the truth. Now you’ll live it.'