The house stood at the far end of the village, where the brick road slowly dissolved into mud and tall, whispering grass. It was a one-storey structure with aging lime-washed walls, a wide open courtyard, and a garden so overgrown that it felt less like land and more like something wild that had claimed the house for itself. Mango and neem trees leaned inward, their branches bending low over the roof as if trying to listen to what happened inside.
During the day, the house looked ordinary. At night, it changed.
The villagers of that place never forgot the first lady of the house.
Her name was Anamika Saha.
Anamika had come to the village as a young bride, quiet and graceful. She wore simple saris, kept her hair neatly braided, and spoke softly even when she laughed. She greeted elders with respect, carried sweets to neighbors during festivals, and fed stray dogs from her kitchen door. Children ran to her courtyard every afternoon because she never refused them water or a story.
People used to say, "Amit is lucky to have a wife like Anamika."
But luck is often misunderstood.
Amit Saha was a man who cared deeply about how he appeared in public. He smiled easily outside, but inside his home, his temper burned like dry straw. He disliked being questioned. He disliked being contradicted. And as time passed, he began to dislike the gentle patience of his wife.
The first year of their marriage passed without trouble.
The second year brought silence.
The third year brought whispers.
Villagers began noticing Amit spending time in the nearby town. He returned late, sometimes smelling of unfamiliar perfume. He laughed more when he was away than when he was home.
And then Sumita entered his life.
Sumita was different from Anamika in every possible way. She was bold, outspoken, and modern in her thinking. She wore bright saris, walked confidently through the market, and spoke without lowering her eyes. She did not care for village gossip, nor did she believe in fate or superstition.
When people hinted that Amit was married, she shrugged.
"If he chooses me," she said once, "that is his decision."
Inside the house, arguments began echoing through the night.
Neighbors heard raised voices.
Once, a metal plate was thrown so hard that it struck the courtyard wall. Another time, someone heard Anamika crying softly near midnight.
She tried to hide her pain during the day, but grief leaves shadows under the eyes that sunlight cannot erase.
One evening, an old woman from next door saw Anamika standing alone on the roof at dusk. Her hair was loose, falling down her back. She stood very still, staring into the fields beyond the house.
The old woman called her name.
Anamika did not respond.
The wind was strong that evening, but her hair did not move.
Days later, the village awoke to devastating news.
Anamika was dead.
They said she had hanged herself from the ceiling fan in the bedroom.
The courtyard filled with people. Women wept openly. Men shook their heads in quiet anger. Some whispered that a woman so kind would never choose such an end unless she had been pushed to it.
Amit stood near the doorway, silent. His eyes were dry.
The funeral was held quickly.
And then, the house fell quiet.
At first, the silence felt heavy with mourning.
Then it changed.
The first person to mention something strange was the milkman. He claimed that when he passed the house before sunrise, he heard a faint sound—like someone sobbing behind closed doors.
Another villager swore he saw a pale shape standing on the roof late at night, one arm stretched outward as if reaching for someone.
"Grief makes the mind imagine things," Amit told them dismissively.
But he did not remain alone for long.
Within months, he married Sumita.
The wedding was small. Few from the village attended. Most stayed away, uncomfortable with how quickly the house had replaced one bride with another.
Sumita entered the house with confidence.
She looked around the courtyard and said, "This place only needs cleaning and fresh paint. There is nothing wrong here."
She did not believe in spirits.
She believed in logic.
The first week was peaceful.
The second week, she began to feel watched.
It started as a small sensation—like someone standing behind her when she was alone. Once, while cooking, she felt breath against her neck. She turned quickly.
There was no one.
At night, when Amit fell asleep, she sometimes heard a faint metallic sound.
Clink.
Clink.
Like anklets walking slowly across the veranda.
She asked Amit casually, "Did your first wife wear anklets?"
Amit hesitated for a second too long. "Yes," he replied. "Why?"
"No reason."
But there was a reason.
She had heard them clearly.
The crying began soon after.
It always started past midnight. A soft, broken sob. Not loud enough to wake the entire house—but enough to pierce through silence.
The first time she heard it, she shook Amit awake.
"Listen."
They both stayed still.
The crying continued.
Amit frowned. "It's probably an animal."
But it did not sound like any animal.
It sounded human.
Sumita searched the house with a torch. She checked the kitchen, the storage room, the courtyard, even the roof.
Every time she reached the place where the sound seemed to come from, it stopped.
Days passed.
The atmosphere of the house grew heavier. The trees in the garden seemed closer at night. Owls perched on branches and stared toward the windows. Dogs howled without reason. Once, something heavy moved through the bushes, though there were no cattle nearby.
Sumita began sleeping with the light on.
One evening, Amit had to travel to town for work. He promised to return late.
As dusk fell, the sky turned a deep purple. The wind grew restless.
Then the electricity went out.
The house was swallowed by darkness.
Sumita muttered in irritation and lit a small oil lamp. The flame flickered but remained steady.
"I am not afraid," she told herself.
The corridor leading to the washroom at the back of the house felt longer than usual. Shadows stretched along the walls. The air felt cold.
Halfway down the corridor, she felt it again—that sensation of being watched.
She tightened her grip on the lamp and continued walking.
The washroom door creaked open.
Inside, the darkness felt thicker, as if it had weight.
She stepped in.
Closed the door.
And froze.
A woman stood in front of her.
Long hair hung loose over her shoulders. Her face was pale, unnaturally pale. Her eyes were wide—not empty, but filled with sorrow and something darker.
It was Anamika.
Sumita's breath caught in her throat.
"This is not real," she whispered.
The figure tilted its head slowly.
Then leaned closer.
Sumita could feel cold air brushing her skin.
The woman's lips moved.
"You took my place."
The voice was soft but echoed unnaturally.
Sumita tried to scream, but her voice failed.
Then the figure gently blew toward the lamp.
Fuuu.
The flame went out instantly.
Darkness consumed the room.
This time, her scream tore through the house.
Neighbors later said they felt the sound in their bones.
When Amit returned and heard the commotion, he rushed inside. He found Sumita lying unconscious on the washroom floor, the lamp beside her.
Her skin was icy cold.
He carried her to the hospital.
She remained unconscious for two days.
During that time, nurses noticed strange things.
Once, a nurse entering the room thought she saw a woman standing near the window. When she blinked, the figure vanished.
Another nurse heard faint crying from inside the room late at night.
On the third day, Sumita opened her eyes.
She looked terrified.
Amit leaned close. "What happened?"
"It was her," she whispered weakly.
"Who?"
"Anamika."
Amit's jaw tightened. "You were hallucinating."
"No," she said firmly. "She spoke to me."
"What did she say?"
Sumita's eyes shifted toward the corner of the hospital room.
"She said… this house was hers."
Her breathing became uneven.
"She said… you never loved her."
Amit stood frozen.
The heart monitor began beeping irregularly.
Doctors rushed in.
But within minutes, the beeping turned into a long, steady sound.
Sumita was dead.
The official report said cardiac arrest due to extreme shock.
The villagers were not surprised.
They whispered that Anamika had returned for what was hers.
After the funeral, Amit returned home alone.
The house felt different now.
Not empty.
Occupied.
The crying continued—but now it was louder.
Sometimes, two voices could be heard.
One sorrowful.
One terrified.
Some nights, villagers passing by saw two figures on the roof.
One with long, loose hair.
The other reaching out as if begging for help.
Inside the house, Amit was often heard speaking softly in empty rooms.
"I'm sorry," he would whisper.
But apologies are not always enough.
One stormy night, lightning struck near the garden tree.
Neighbors saw light flickering inside the house.
They also heard a scream.
A male scream.
The next morning, the house was silent.
The door stood open.
Inside, Amit was found lying on the bedroom floor.
Dead.
No signs of struggle.
Only one strange detail:
On the ceiling fan above him, faint rope marks were visible.
After that day, no one dared to buy the house.
The trees grew thicker.
The courtyard cracked.
But at night, villagers still hear it—
Soft crying carried by the wind.
And sometimes, if you look carefully at the roof under moonlight, you might see three figures standing there.
One sorrowful.
One terrified.
And one begging for forgiveness.
Some houses do not forget.
Some spirits do not forgive.
And some wrongs echo forever.