🕯️ "The Cursed House: Rakib’s Last Night"
🕯️ "The Cursed House: Rakib’s Last Night"
At the far edge of the silent village, behind tangled vines and a rusted iron gate, stood the old mansion people feared even in daylight. Stories said it was once the grand home of a cruel landlord who tortured villagers for fun. One stormy night, the villagers revolted and burned his family alive inside the master bedroom. Ever since, the house stood abandoned — a silent grave holding centuries of rage.
Rakib had heard the stories since childhood but always laughed them off. He loved proving people wrong, especially his friends Imran, Jamil, and Sohan. So, when Sohan mocked him for being scared to spend a whole night inside the cursed house, Rakib’s pride refused to back down.
On a moonless night, carrying a lantern and his phone for backup light, Rakib pushed open the heavy wooden door. It creaked like a groaning throat. His friends stayed outside the gate, too scared to follow him in, promising they’d wait till dawn.
Inside, the smell of mold and burnt wood made him gag. Water dripped somewhere deeper in the darkness. Rakib’s footsteps echoed like whispers behind him. To prove he wasn’t afraid, he decided to go straight to the master bedroom — the place where, according to legend, the landlord’s family had screamed till their lungs gave out.
Up the crooked staircase, the air grew colder with every step. Rakib’s phone flashlight flickered despite a full charge. At the top, he found the master bedroom door — old wood scorched black by fire long ago.
He laughed nervously and muttered, “Ghosts, show me what you’ve got.”
As soon as he stepped in, the door slammed shut behind him. His lantern went out. In the pitch-black room, distant crying began — soft weeping that turned to hysterical laughter. Rakib felt something cold drip onto his shoulder. He touched it — his hand came back wet and red.
His heartbeat roared in his ears. He stumbled backward, crashing into a wardrobe. The old wood split open, revealing not clothes but a charred skeleton curled up inside, its jaw hanging in a silent scream.
Rakib screamed too, but the room swallowed his voice. On the burnt walls, ghostly handprints appeared, scratching from inside the plaster. He turned to run, but the door was gone. In its place stood a tall shadow, eyes burning like dying embers. It spoke in a raspy, inhuman voice:
“Join us…”
Suddenly, the floor beneath Rakib’s feet felt soft, almost breathing. He looked down — hundreds of pale hands reached out, grabbing his ankles, pulling him down. He fought, clawed at the walls, but the more he struggled, the deeper he sank.
Outside, his friends heard a muffled shriek. Sohan, trembling, wanted to run in, but Imran grabbed him — “We can’t help him now!”
They ran to the village and brought elders. By dawn, they broke open the door. The master bedroom was empty — no Rakib, no skeleton, nothing but fresh scratch marks on the walls and the faint smell of burning flesh.
To this day, villagers say on stormy nights, if you stand by the iron gate, you’ll hear Rakib’s voice echo from deep inside:
“Help me… don’t come in… it’s waiting for you too…”
No one ever does. The cursed house waits, patient and hungry, for the next fool brave enough to laugh at old stories.
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