Mira had never liked the old Sharma house at the edge of town. It stood alone at the end of a crooked lane, half-hidden by ancient banyan trees whose roots curled over the foundation like skeletal fingers. The windows were shattered, the roof sagged, and the once-white plaster had dulled to a sickly grey.
Children whispered that it was haunted. Some said they saw a woman pacing in the upper windows at night, her face too pale, her mouth always moving. Others claimed that if you walked too close, you could hear faint voices through the cracks in the wall.
Mira never believed such stories. Ghosts were tales told by parents to scare children indoors after dark but now, at twenty-three, she found herself standing before the rotting gate, stomach tight, breath shallow.
Her uncle had sent her here.
"Just take a few photos," he had said, pressing the old camera into her hands "The renovation crew wants documentation. Don't worry, Mira—it's just an old house."
But as she pushed open the rusted gate, its screech echoing too loudly into the empty air, Mira felt otherwise. The atmosphere itself seemed heavier, as if she had stepped underwater.
The front door groaned open with surprising ease. Inside, the air reeked of damp and mold, tinged with something metallic, sharp, and burnt. Light seeped through fractured windows, illuminating dust that floated like ash.
Mira raised the camera and began snapping pictures. The foyer, with its cracked tiles. The collapsed staircase. A chandelier dangling by a single chain, its crystals clouded with grime.
But as she climbed to the second floor, a prickle crept along her skin. The temperature dropped.
And at the far end of the hallway, she noticed it—
A door.
Unlike the others, which hung loose or splintered, this one was intact. Its varnish gleamed faintly as though it had been polished and from behind it came a faint, continuous hum.
It was not the hum of machinery. It was low, uneven, and almost…human.
Mira should have turned back.
But curiosity drew her forward.
Her hand hovered above the brass knob. Cold bled into her skin. She twisted it and pushed the door open.
The room was small. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in faded rose patterns. In the center sat a wooden rocking chair. Beside it was a writing desk, an open journal resting on its surface.
The humming stopped.
Mira stepped inside. The instant she crossed the threshold, the air thickened. It wasn't just still—it was watchful.
She glanced at the journal. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded. She reached for it, hand trembling.
(September 14, 1972)
"She will not stop whispering. Even when the house is silent, her voice seeps through the walls. They say she died in this room, but how can the dead still speak?"
Mira swallowed hard.
(September 21, 1972)
"The rocking chair moves at night. I hear it creak though no one sits upon it. Last night, she spoke my name. Not aloud, but inside my skull. I fear the room itself listens. I fear it breathes."
Her pulse hammered. She turned another page.
(October 1, 1972)
"I tried to seal the door. Hammered boards across it. Still, she whispers. Still, she calls. If you are reading this, leave at once. The room is not empty. The room remembers."
A sharp creak split the silence.
The rocking chair moved.
Just once, slow and deliberate.
Mira froze, her chest tightening. The air vibrated with a whisper she couldn't quite hear—like breath against the back of her neck.
The camera swung heavily at her chest. She raised it with shaking hands and clicked.
The flash burst.
In that instant of light, Mira saw her.
A woman sat in the chair. Skin stretched thin, hollow eyes gleaming, lips moving though no sound emerged. Her hands clutched the arms of the chair. Her hair fell in dark curtains, and her face twisted in anguish.
The light faded. The chair was empty.
Mira stumbled back, the journal dropping from her grip. She bolted from the room. The hallway seemed longer than before, each doorway yawning, each shadow thickening. Her footsteps thundered, but the whispers chased her—low, layered voices brushing against her ears.
"Stay"
"Listen"
"You belong"
She crashed through the front door into blinding sunlight. The heavy atmosphere lifted instantly.
Her chest heaved. She didn't stop running until she reached the gate.
Hours later, her uncle found her sitting outside the house, trembling, clutching the camera.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he joked, but the smile faltered at her pale face.
Mira said nothing.
When the photos developed, most were blurred but one was sharp:
The rocking chair...Occupied.
The woman's lips were parted as though whispering. Her hollow eyes stared directly into the lens.
And beneath the image, faintly scrawled though Mira swore she hadn't written it:
"You heard me.... Now you belong to the room."
That night, Mira couldn't sleep.
Her apartment was quiet, but the quiet felt wrong. She turned on music, but beneath it she heard a faint susurration—like breath between the walls.
At midnight, her lamp flickered. She reached for her phone to call her uncle, but froze.
The rocking chair.
The faint sound of wood creaking drifted from her living room.
She didn't own a rocking chair.
Her throat closed. She crept to the doorway.
There, silhouetted in the dim glow of the streetlight, sat the chair. Its wooden frame gleamed faintly, varnished. Rocking slowly, forward and back.
And though no one sat upon it, Mira heard a whisper.
Her name.
Over and over.
The voice was inside her skull, threading through her thoughts, softer than breath yet impossible to ignore.
"Mira.... Mira.... Mira."
She staggered back, hands pressed over her ears but it didn't help.The whisper wasn't outside. It was in her.
The camera lay on her desk. Its lens pointed toward the chair. The shutter clicked—by itself.
The photo slid out, developing instantly. Mira stared, heart hammering.
The picture showed her living room. The rocking chair and the woman.
Sitting.
Smiling.
And in the photo, Mira herself stood beside the chair, head turned toward the figure—though she hadn't moved at all.
The whisper filled her skull until it was all she could hear.
"The room remembers.... Now you belong."
And as the chair rocked, Mira finally understood—
The room wasn't confined to the house.
It had followed.