Every night at exactly 2:15 a.m., a strange trembling voice echoed through Raghav’s old wooden house. At first, he believed it was the wind slipping through the cracks, but this
voice whispered his name—soft, shaky, and painfully familiar.
One night, determined to uncover the truth, Raghav stayed awake with a lantern in his hand. When the clock struck 2:15, the voice returned, louder this time: “Raghav… help me…” His heart froze. The voice belonged to his younger sister, Tara,
who had died mysteriously a year ago.
The sound came from the locked storeroom at the end of the corridor—a place no one had entered since Tara’s death. Hands trembling, he opened the door. Cold air rushed out, making the
lantern flicker. In the center of the room lay Tara’s old diary. As Raghav stepped closer, the voice whispered again, right into his ear.
He
picked up the diary, and suddenly the door slammed shut behind him. The pages flipped violently on their own and stopped on a line written in blood:
“I never left this house.”
Raghav felt a shadow stand behind him.
And for the first time, he realized the voice wasn’t calling for help…
It was calling him inside.
