By the banks of the Ganges lies the quiet little town of Halisahar. During the day, everything feels ordinary—school bells ringing, markets buzzing, trains whistling past, and men chatting over tea at roadside stalls. But when night falls, the town changes. The old lanes seem narrower, the air carries the faint fragrance of night jasmine, and an unusual silence spreads across the streets.
At the southern edge of the town, beside the river, stands an ancient mansion. Locals call it the "Raychaudhuri House." Over a hundred years old, it has a tall iron gate, cracked verandas, and a dome-shaped roof darkened by time. Even in daylight, the house feels unsettling. At night, no one dares to pass that way.
Rahul had come from Kolkata to spend a few days at his uncle's house. A second-year college student, he was curious and fearless. On his first evening, while standing on the rooftop, he noticed the ruined mansion by the river in the distance.
"Whose house is that?" he asked his cousin Sourav.
Sourav hesitated. "That's the Raychaudhuri mansion. No one goes there."
"Why?"
"They say it's haunted."
Rahul laughed. "Ghosts? In this age?"
Sourav replied seriously, "People have seen a woman in a white sari standing on the veranda at night."
Rahul's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Let's go tomorrow night."
"I'm not going," Sourav said firmly. "If you want to, go alone."
The next night, under a full moon, Rahul stepped out quietly with a torch and his phone. The Ganges shimmered like silver. As he approached the mansion, a cold wind brushed past him. The gate was half open—as if waiting.
Inside, weeds covered the courtyard. The broken veranda looked even more mysterious in the moonlight.
Then he heard it—a faint sound of anklets.
Ting… ting…
He froze.
The sound came again, from the veranda.
He shone his torch and saw her—a woman in a white sari standing at the far end. Her hair was loose, her face unclear, her sari fluttering in the wind.
His heart pounded, but he moved forward.
"Who's there?" he called.
She said nothing, only stepped back into the darkness.
Rahul rushed up the veranda. No one was there. Only an old wooden door stood half open.
Inside the room, dust and cobwebs covered everything. Old portraits hung on the walls. One large framed picture caught his eye—a young woman in a white sari, a red bindi on her forehead.
Rahul shivered. The woman in the photo looked exactly like the figure he had seen.
Suddenly—bang! The door slammed shut behind him.
The air grew heavy.
A soft female voice whispered,
"Free me…"
Rahul's throat went dry. "Who are you?"
A cold touch rested on his shoulder. He turned.
She stood before him—the same woman, now clearly visible. Her eyes were deep and sorrowful.
"My name is Madhuri," she said softly. "I was the bride of this house."
"Are… are you a ghost?" Rahul asked.
She gave a faint smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps just a restless soul."
Madhuri began her story.
"Nearly a hundred years ago, I was married into this family. My husband traveled abroad for business. My in-laws never accepted me. One day, they locked me in this room and set it on fire. Everyone called it an accident. But no one knew the truth."
Rahul listened in stunned silence.
"My body burned to ashes. But my soul remained trapped here because the truth was never revealed. No one sought justice for me."
"What can I do?" Rahul asked.
"Tell my story," she pleaded. "Let people know the truth. Only then will I find peace."
Suddenly the room darkened. Flames seemed to rise along the walls, as if the past had returned. Madhuri screamed, pounding on the door.
Rahul squeezed his eyes shut.
When he opened them, the room was silent. The door stood open.
He ran out into the courtyard. The night air felt warmer now.
The next morning, Rahul went to the local library. He searched through old newspapers. There it was—a 1923 report about a young bride who had died in a fire at the Raychaudhuri mansion.
A small note mentioned suspicion—but the case had never been investigated.
Rahul gathered evidence and sent the story to a local newspaper. Gradually, the truth spread through the town.
People learned about Madhuri's tragic fate.
A week later, on another full-moon night, Rahul stood before the mansion again.
There was no cold wind this time.
On the veranda, he saw Madhuri once more. But now her face was calm, peaceful.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Slowly, she faded into the moonlight.
The sound of anklets was never heard again.
From that night onward, the Raychaudhuri mansion was no longer a place of terror. People said the restless soul had finally found peace.
Though sometimes, on full-moon nights by the Ganges, some claim they still see a white figure in the distance—not frightening, but gentle, like a silent blessing.
Rahul realized something important:
Ghosts are not always about fear. Sometimes they are witnesses to injustice, waiting for the truth to be told.
And even today, in the night breeze of Halisahar, Madhuri's story drifts softly—
A story of sorrow, truth, and finally, freedom.