💀The Whispering Walls of Haveli

 Tucked away in the forgotten outskirts of Rajasthan, where the desert breathes secrets into the wind, stands a crumbling haveli known only by its number—93. The villagers never utter its name after sunset. They simply call it Woh Jagah—That Place.

I had heard whispers about it all my life. As a journalist chasing stories, I thought it was perfect clickbait: "Man spends a night in haunted haveli." I packed my camera, a flashlight, and just enough courage to survive my own fear.

What I found there… was something I’ll never forget.

Day 1: Arrival

The haveli was a ghost of grandeur—arched doorways now sagging with time, balconies broken like tired smiles, and ivy crawling over the sandstone like veins of an old corpse. Locals refused to come near. Even the driver dropped me off half a kilometer away, crossing himself thrice before speeding off.

Inside, it was colder than the desert night should have been. The air was thick. Not with dust, but something else… like anticipation.

I set up camp in what used to be the drawing room. Tattered portraits still hung on the walls—eyes that seemed to follow me. I laughed nervously. “Classic haunted house stuff,” I muttered.

Then came the first whisper.

Midnight: The Woman in the Courtyard

It was faint, like the wind learning to speak. I followed the sound to the central courtyard, flashlight flickering. The moonlight painted shadows across the floor, and there, in the middle, stood a woman in red. She faced away from me, unmoving.

I called out. No response.

When I stepped closer, the air turned ice cold. My flashlight died. In the moonlight, I saw her head turn—slowly, impossibly—and though I couldn’t see her face, I felt her eyes. Right through me.

I ran.

Day 2: The Journal

I should have left. But I found something that made me stay—a dusty journal buried in a collapsed cupboard. It belonged to Meera, the daughter of the haveli's last owner. Her entries were erratic, fearful. She wrote about hearing whispers in the walls. About her father locking her in the basement “for her own good.”

Her last entry was a smear of ink and blood.

“He said the haveli is alive. That it wants me. Tonight, I become its bride.”

That night, the whispers returned. This time, louder. More insistent. The walls vibrated with voices—not one, but many. Laughing. Crying. Pleading.

The Final Night

I don’t remember falling asleep. But I woke up in the basement. Cold chains dangled from the ceiling. Symbols carved into the floor glowed faintly.

And Meera stood before me.

Not the woman in red—but a girl, no more than seventeen. She was crying. Her voice trembled as she said, “You have to leave. It’s awake now.”

Behind her, the walls began to bleed.

I don’t remember how I got out. The villagers say they found me walking barefoot at dawn, muttering in a language they couldn’t recognize.

I tried to burn the journal. It wouldn’t catch fire.

Epilogue

I’m writing this from a hotel room in Delhi, but something followed me.

The whispers are here too—behind the walls, beneath the floorboards, in the corners of mirrors.

If you ever find yourself in Rajasthan and hear about Haveli No. 93… walk away.

Because some places don’t just remember pain—they feed on it.

And some stories… should never be told.

Want more haunted tales like this one? Let me know—I’ve got plenty of ghosts left to chase.