It was almost midnight. A thin layer of mist had settled near Shalbon, beside the small village of Chandipur. Through the fog, the tops of the palm trees seemed to touch the sky. At the very edge of the village stood an old, crumbling house—people said it had once belonged to a wealthy landlord.
Everyone called it the "Nilkuthi."
The village boys had made a bet—whoever dared to enter Nilkuthi at night would prove their courage. In the end, Rahul agreed. He was a brave boy, though a little stubborn. With a flashlight in his hand, a small amulet around his neck, and his heart pounding in his chest, he stepped forward.
The door of the house was half open. As he pushed it, it creaked loudly. Inside, there was a damp, musty smell. Old picture frames hung on the walls, their glass shattered. Suddenly, from upstairs, came the sound of footsteps—thok… thok… thok…
Rahul's hand began to tremble. He tried to calm himself. "It's probably just the wind moving something," he whispered.
Just then, his flashlight went out.
Darkness swallowed everything. In the silence, a faint whisper echoed—
"Why have you come…?"
Rahul's throat went dry. In a shaky voice, he said, "Wh-who are you?"
From the darkness, a faint white figure slowly appeared. It had no feet touching the ground; it floated in the air. Long hair covered its face. But strangely, there was no anger in its eyes—only deep sorrow.
The girl's voice drifted through the room. "No one ever listens to my story…"
Rahul realized that fear would not help. Gathering his courage, he asked, "What do you want?"
The figure explained that many years ago, a young girl in this house had been treated unjustly. No one had believed her. Humiliated and heartbroken, she had died alone in a corner of the house. Since then, she had been waiting—waiting for someone to hear the truth.
In a calm voice, Rahul said, "I will tell everyone your story."
Suddenly, the windows flew open with a loud crash. A cold wind swept through the room. The white figure slowly began to fade away. Before disappearing completely, she whispered, "Thank you…"
The next morning, the villagers were astonished to see large words written on the broken wall of Nilkuthi:
"The truth cannot be buried."
After that night, no one ever heard strange sounds from Nilkuthi again.
But the elders of the village still say—when the mist falls and the night grows deep, a soft girl's voice can sometimes be heard drifting from the direction of Shalbon…