A denger ghost story
The rain had not stopped for three days.
In the small village of Haripur, people had already locked themselves indoors before sunset. They whispered about the old zamindar house at the edge of the mango orchard—a place no one dared to visit after dark.
But Ratan didn't believe in ghosts.
"Just stories to scare children," he said, holding a flickering lantern as he walked toward the abandoned house. His friends had dared him to spend one night inside. Pride pushed him forward, even as thunder cracked above his head.
The iron gate creaked open on its own.
Ratan paused.
The wind, he told himself.
Inside, the house smelled of damp wood and something… rotten. The walls were peeling, and long shadows stretched unnaturally across the floor. He set his lantern down in the main hall.
That's when he heard it.
A soft whisper.
"Raa…tan…"
He froze.
"Who's there?" he called out, trying to sound brave. His voice echoed back, distorted.
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Slow. Bare. Walking across the floor above him.
Ratan's chest tightened. "There's no one here," he muttered. "It's just an animal."
The footsteps stopped directly above him.
Then—thud.
Something heavy dropped from the ceiling.
Right in front of him.
The lantern flickered wildly, revealing… a woman.
Or what used to be one.
Her hair hung over her face, dripping as if soaked in water. Her limbs bent at impossible angles. And her feet—
Her feet were backwards.
Ratan stumbled back, his breath caught in his throat.
The woman slowly lifted her head.
Her eyes were empty holes, black and endless.
"You came… back…" she croaked.
"I—I've never been here!" Ratan stammered.
She began crawling toward him, her body twisting unnaturally, bones cracking with every movement.
"Liar…"
The lantern went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Ratan ran blindly, crashing into walls, screaming for help. But the house had changed. The door he entered was gone. The windows were gone.
Only endless corridors remained.
And behind him—
drag… crack… drag…
She was following.
Closer.
Closer.
A cold hand suddenly grabbed his ankle.
Ratan fell hard onto the floor.
He turned, trembling.
Her face was inches from his now.
And this time, he saw it clearly—
She was smiling.
The next morning, the villagers found the gate of the zamindar house wide open.
Ratan was never seen again.
But sometimes, on stormy nights, people passing by swear they hear two sets of footsteps inside—
One running.
One dragging '