bhaskar saikia

There is something hauntingly poetic about an abandoned house. It stands alone, weathered by time, whispering stories that no one remains to tell. The eerie silence of the ungodly hour, broken only by a screeching noise—was it a vampire or a ghost? Or was it something even more unsettling—the echoes of solitude itself?

As I stepped closer, a gust of wind ruffled my hair, carrying with it a cold, musky smell—unpleasant, yet strangely intimate. Fear is a curious thing; it tightens its grip just as curiosity fights to break free. A distant dog howled in madness, as if sensing something unseen. My heart raced. My limbs went numb. Was I truly afraid, or merely alert to the unknown?

The darkness grew darker. The ruffling of leaves took on a new meaning, whispering secrets I was not meant to hear. Yet, the adamant heart, defying reason, longed to push forward—to open the door behind the darkness, to uncover either truth or my worst nightmare.

With a deep breath of shaky courage, I made my decision. Fear had gripped me long enough. Either I would conquer it, or it would conquer me for eternity. And so, I opened the door.

What lay before me was no ghost, no monster, no unspeakable horror—only emptiness. A house, abandoned, ruined, and alone. And in that moment, I realized: the true fear was not of spirits or shadows, but of what time leaves behind. Of being forgotten. Of becoming nothing more than an echo in an empty room.

Perhaps, in some way, we all fear becoming an abandoned house.