 |
| Haunted Forest |
It was said that the forest behind the village of Durvan was cursed. Locals never stepped beyond the old broken fence, the wood half-eaten by time and the vines that clung like dying fingers. They whispered stories under breath—about the wind that spoke, about a villa that breathed, and a woman no one had seen but everyone feared.
No one dared to cross that line.
Except one man.
His name was Rivan Dey.
A wildlife documentarian, Rivan had explored jungles of Andaman, snowfields of Zanskar, and volcanic hills in the Philippines. But nothing intrigued him more than undocumented places—especially ones that shouldn’t exist.
He first heard about Durvan from a drunken guide in the outskirts of Odisha.
“That village... it ain’t on maps. But it's there. Just... you don’t return the same.”
Something in those words lingered like stale smoke in Rivan’s mind. It stayed while he edited his last film, stayed while he returned to Delhi, and followed him into his dreams.
A month later, he arrived in Durvan.
It was just as the stories said—foggy, old, and oddly frozen in time. The people were silent but not hostile. They offered food but asked no questions. Their eyes—always slightly averted—spoke more than words ever could. Everyone seemed aware of something… watching.
On his third night in the village, Rivan wandered into the local tavern. Old, wooden, smelled like burnt leaves and oil. A man with glassy eyes and shaking hands sat beside him.
“You’re here for her, aren’t you?” he asked, not turning.
“For who?”
“The woman in the forest. The one no one can find but everyone hears.”
Rivan froze. He didn’t even ask yet. The man continued.
“They say she was from a family that lived in the Severin Villa. Deep in the woods. Rich folks once, long ago. Vanished. All of them. One night. No blood. No bodies. Just gone.”
“You’ve seen the villa?” Rivan whispered.
The man let out a soundless laugh.
“Seen it? No. Heard it. Sometimes, when the wind blows north, it cries. The villa… cries. Wooden doors slamming. Piano keys pressed by invisible hands. A child laughing. Then—nothing. But some say… it watches. It remembers.”
Rivan left before midnight, unable to shake the feeling that something unseen had followed him out.
---
The next morning, he packed light—camera, battery, torch, journal, and two folded maps. At the edge of the forest stood the old fence. He stepped over it.
It was as if someone had shut a door behind him. The forest swallowed all sound. The air was colder. His breath began to fog. Wind slid between the trees like whispers—never one direction, never one tone. Leaves shifted with no breeze. Birds stayed silent.
Two hours in, he came across something strange—a rusty tricycle with vines wrapping its frame. Nearby, an old stuffed bear soaked in dew and mold. He took a picture. A soft tick of the camera shutter, and suddenly, everything around him paused. Even the trees seemed to lean in.
He moved further.
By the fifth hour, sunlight barely touched the ground. It was as if the trees grew thicker, taller, weaving a dome above him. Then, without warning, the forest cleared—and there it was.
The Villa.
Hidden in plain sight. Covered in ivy, windows broken like shattered glass eyes, door slightly ajar like a grin waiting to widen. It wasn’t abandoned—it was waiting.
He walked closer.
The gate creaked open with a moan that sounded almost alive. Cold wind whooshed past him like something escaping. The air smelled metallic. A dying kind of smell.
Inside the gate, he saw:
A child’s swing gently moving on its own.
Garden gnomes cracked and half-buried.
A well in the corner, chained shut.
Rivan turned on his camera and began recording.
---
He stepped inside the villa.
The floorboards groaned beneath his boots. Paint peeled from the walls like old skin. Portraits of unknown people stared at him—faces scratched, some with eyes burnt out.
He found a hallway to the right. A door slightly open.
The Kitchen.
Old plates still on the table. Food long decayed into dust. Chairs were pushed back—as if the family left mid-dinner. Knives scattered. One embedded deep into the wooden table. Burn marks on the walls. The oven door swung open.
Then… footsteps.
Upstairs.
Slow.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Rivan paused. The camera shook slightly in his hand.
He whispered into the mic, “Is someone there?”
No reply.
He moved toward the staircase. Each step up felt heavier, like gravity worked harder here. The wind outside had stopped.
---
Second Floor.
Five doors.
Only one was open.
A child’s room.
Wallpaper faded pink. A music box sat on the floor. He knelt and touched it.
It clicked.
And played.
A soft, haunting tune.
Suddenly the door behind him slammed shut.
The music stopped.
He stood frozen.
Then—faint whisper.
"You shouldn’t be here..."
Rivan spun. No one.
Camera in hand, he opened the door again.
The hallway lights flickered. One by one. As if something moved just ahead of the darkness.
---
He returned to the main hall and tried the next room.
It was a library.
Books scattered everywhere. Pages torn. One book open on a desk.
He read:
“We tried to stop her… but the darkness chose her. The child never aged. She walks at night. In rooms we lock, she sings.”
Next to the page—drawings.
A girl with blank eyes.
Standing by the staircase.
Behind her—shadows shaped like antlers.
And below that: "Do not sleep inside the villa."
Rivan’s heart thudded.
He closed the book.
A gust of wind from nowhere slammed the door shut behind him again.
He ran down the stairs and out the main door, heart racing.
But when he stepped outside…
The forest was gone.
It was night.
And the villa—was in the middle
of a black field.
No trees. No moon. No sound.
Only darkness.
He turned. The door closed behind him on its own.
A voice from the wind.
"Now you belong to the secrets."
The lonely pen 🖋️
By AJ
Comments
Post a Comment