u/kn_0717

The problem was, none of them were its own.

When Rhea and Arjun found the old country house, it felt like fate — the quiet wind, the overgrown garden, the promise of peace far from the city’s noise. They called it their “dream home.”

On their first weekend, they set about repainting the living room. The walls, yellowed with age, peeled easily under the rollers. Then Rhea’s brush snagged on something — a shallow groove carved into the plaster. As the paint thinned, she saw it wasn’t a crack at all, but letters and numbers. Names, followed by a date.

There were dozens of them, etched faintly, almost lovingly. Some recent, some faded with time.

“What is this? A list?” Arjun frowned. “Maybe names of workers who built the house?”

But Rhea’s unease grew. That night, curiosity gnawed at her. She searched each one of the names into her phone. Then another. And another.

Every single one turned up in missing-person records.

The couple called the police, fully-terrified. The officers arrived the next morning, skeptical until they saw the carvings themselves. Then they brought in the excavation team.

When the hammers struck the wall, a smell leaked out — damp, sour, ancient. The plaster crumbled like paper, revealing a narrow cavity behind the wallboards. Inside, layer by layer, the officers uncovered bones — twenty, maybe more — each wrapped in old cloth, each resting directly behind the carved name.

Rhea stood frozen, paint-stained fingers trembling. Her new home wasn’t built over someone’s grave. It was the grave.

As the police worked, Arjun whispered in disbelief, “Who could do this?”

It has been nineteen years today since that day. It still gives me chills to think about it. What if I had not called him to play outside? What if we had stayed inside, arguing over board games and cartoons? What if I had walked him home first? In those weeks that followed, I scanned columns for reports of kidnappers on the loose, for mentions of missing children, for anything that might explain how a boy could vanish between one breath and the next.

 

I closed my diary and looked at my own child playing with Lego pieces on the mat, nibbling on one of them. I often wonder how different life would have been if Alex had not gone missing that day. I thought of teaching him gardening, since it has always been my favourite thing to do.

 

Grabbing a pair of gloves, a hoe, and a few sacks of soil, I was ready for some digging. Though my son is probably too small to learn anything yet, he admires me. He looks at me as if I am his role model, and I suppose I am. Taking a shovel, I began digging in a corner to plant sunflowers, the seeds of which I had bought at a city fair last week. Sunflowers are one of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen.

 

As I was digging, these actions evoked memories of a different yard in another time. Back when Alex and I were children, we often dug holes together and buried little treasures—marbles, toy soldiers, handwritten notes—promising each other that we would dig them up when we were older and laugh.

 

I had already reached deep enough to plant the seeds.

As I tore open the seed packet and tilted it toward the hole, something caught my eye—a faint streak of pink tangled in the soil. At first, I thought it was just a scrap of cloth, maybe an old rag buried years ago. I thought to ignore it, but my hand moved before I could stop it, and I bent down to pull it free. It wasn’t a scrap. It felt familiar. I pressed my memory, forcing it to surface through the years. And then it struck me. It was the same shirt Alex had been wearing the day he went missing.

 

As these memories flooded my mind, another story came to me, one that always resurfaced whenever I thought about Alex vanishing. The legend that circulated in our town— Whispering Man—somehow became intertwined with my own history, as if the old tale explained Alex’s disappearance that I could not give myself.

 

They said the Whispering Man was once a schoolteacher who made a deal to survive a dying illness—each year, he had to take a child into the woods and consume them to stay alive. After that, children began to vanish, and at night the forest was said to whisper like something chewing softly in the dark. After that, children began to vanish, and the blame settled on him.

 

Looking at my son, I was thirteen again. His voice faded in the background. My friend and I were playing hide and seek that day, and as I remember, his parents were out. He had strict parents who would hardly allow him to play since they wanted him to study all the time. Making their outing an excuse, he had managed to escape from the window and had come to play. It was my turn to seek. I counted to a hundred, and went to look for him. After looking for a long time and still not finding him, I called out to him, but there was no answer. I went searching in the woods even though that place was clearly out of our game boundary.

 

But when I found him, I fell apart. He had fallen off a step, hitting his head. And he wasn't breathing. I panicked.  I knew something had to be done. I couldn't tell his parents or mine. I couldn’t even stand still long enough to think. But then everything came at once—his parents, my parents, the questions I wouldn’t know how to answer. Why were you in the woods? Why didn’t you watch him? What did you do? The words crowded in before anyone had even spoken them.

 

And that's when I made a decision, I had to bury him. Using a stone and my bare hands, I made a pit and put my own best friend in it. I went home and stayed silent for the next nineteen years. A police investigation was conducted, and a search party was formed for him, but no one could find him. And so, the blame was put on Whispering Man.

 

Whenever I thought about Alex vanishing, I clung to the old legend. Back then, it had terrified us; later, it became something else for me. It gave shape to what I couldn’t face. Each time someone said a child had been taken by the Whispering Man, I let myself believe it a little more, let the story settle over the truth like a blanket. It was easier to imagine something out there in the woods than to remember what I had done with my own hands. Over time, I stopped correcting the lie—until even in my own mind, it no longer felt like one. When I got to know that part of the woods had been put up for sale, I bought it without a second thought and built a home on it so that the truth could never come out.

 

My son was hungry and wanted his lunch, so, having no other choice, setting down the hoe, I went to the kitchen to make his lunch.

By the time I returned from the kitchen with a plate of food, my hands had stopped shaking—but only just.

 

“Papa,” my son said, looking up from the floor, “why were you digging so long?”

 

I forced a smile. “Planting sunflowers.”

 

He nodded, as if that explained everything, and went back to stacking his Lego pieces. I placed the plate beside him and watched him eat, small fingers clumsy, unaware.

 

Unaware of what lay beneath his feet.

It has been nineteen years today since that day. It still gives me chills to think about it. What if I had not called him to play outside? What if we had stayed inside, arguing over board games and cartoons? What if I had walked him home first? In those weeks that followed, I scanned columns for reports of kidnappers on the loose, for mentions of missing children, for anything that might explain how a boy could vanish between one breath and the next.

 

I closed my diary and looked at my own child playing with Lego pieces on the mat, nibbling on one of them. I often wonder how different life would have been if Alex had not gone missing that day. I thought of teaching him gardening, since it has always been my favourite thing to do.

 

Grabbing a pair of gloves, a hoe, and a few sacks of soil, I was ready for some digging. Though my son is probably too small to learn anything yet, he admires me. He looks at me as if I am his role model, and I suppose I am. Taking a shovel, I began digging in a corner to plant sunflowers, the seeds of which I had bought at a city fair last week. Sunflowers are one of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen.

 

As I was digging, these actions evoked memories of a different yard in another time. Back when Alex and I were children, we often dug holes together and buried little treasures—marbles, toy soldiers, handwritten notes—promising each other that we would dig them up when we were older and laugh.

 

I had already reached deep enough to plant the seeds.

As I tore open the seed packet and tilted it toward the hole, something caught my eye—a faint streak of pink tangled in the soil. At first, I thought it was just a scrap of cloth, maybe an old rag buried years ago. I thought to ignore it, but my hand moved before I could stop it, and I bent down to pull it free. It wasn’t a scrap. It felt familiar. I pressed my memory, forcing it to surface through the years. And then it struck me. It was the same shirt Alex had been wearing the day he went missing.

 

As these memories flooded my mind, another story came to me, one that always resurfaced whenever I thought about Alex vanishing. The legend that circulated in our town— Whispering Man—somehow became intertwined with my own history, as if the old tale explained Alex’s disappearance that I could not give myself.

 

They said the Whispering Man was once a schoolteacher who made a deal to survive a dying illness—each year, he had to take a child into the woods and consume them to stay alive. After that, children began to vanish, and at night the forest was said to whisper like something chewing softly in the dark. After that, children began to vanish, and the blame settled on him.

 

Looking at my son, I was thirteen again. His voice faded in the background. My friend and I were playing hide and seek that day, and as I remember, his parents were out. He had strict parents who would hardly allow him to play since they wanted him to study all the time. Making their outing an excuse, he had managed to escape from the window and had come to play. It was my turn to seek. I counted to a hundred, and went to look for him. After looking for a long time and still not finding him, I called out to him, but there was no answer. I went searching in the woods even though that place was clearly out of our game boundary.

 

But when I found him, I fell apart. He had fallen off a step, hitting his head. And he wasn't breathing. I panicked.  I knew something had to be done. I couldn't tell his parents or mine. I couldn’t even stand still long enough to think. But then everything came at once—his parents, my parents, the questions I wouldn’t know how to answer. Why were you in the woods? Why didn’t you watch him? What did you do? The words crowded in before anyone had even spoken them.

 

And that's when I made a decision, I had to bury him. Using a stone and my bare hands, I made a pit and put my own best friend in it. I went home and stayed silent for the next nineteen years. A police investigation was conducted, and a search party was formed for him, but no one could find him. And so, the blame was put on Whispering Man.

 

Whenever I thought about Alex vanishing, I clung to the old legend. Back then, it had terrified us; later, it became something else for me. It gave shape to what I couldn’t face. Each time someone said a child had been taken by the Whispering Man, I let myself believe it a little more, let the story settle over the truth like a blanket. It was easier to imagine something out there in the woods than to remember what I had done with my own hands. Over time, I stopped correcting the lie—until even in my own mind, it no longer felt like one. When I got to know that part of the woods had been put up for sale, I bought it without a second thought and built a home on it so that the truth could never come out.

 

My son was hungry and wanted his lunch, so, having no other choice, setting down the hoe, I went to the kitchen to make his lunch.

By the time I returned from the kitchen with a plate of food, my hands had stopped shaking—but only just.

 

“Papa,” my son said, looking up from the floor, “why were you digging so long?”

 

I forced a smile. “Planting sunflowers.”

 

He nodded, as if that explained everything, and went back to stacking his Lego pieces. I placed the plate beside him and watched him eat, small fingers clumsy, unaware.

 

Unaware of what lay beneath his feet.

It has been nineteen years today since that day. It still gives me chills to think about it. What if I had not called him to play outside? What if we had stayed inside, arguing over board games and cartoons? What if I had walked him home first? In those weeks that followed, I scanned columns for reports of kidnappers on the loose, for mentions of missing children, for anything that might explain how a boy could vanish between one breath and the next.

 

I closed my diary and looked at my own child playing with Lego pieces on the mat, nibbling on one of them. I often wonder how different life would have been if Alex had not gone missing that day. I thought of teaching him gardening, since it has always been my favourite thing to do.

 

Grabbing a pair of gloves, a hoe, and a few sacks of soil, I was ready for some digging. Though my son is probably too small to learn anything yet, he admires me. He looks at me as if I am his role model, and I suppose I am. Taking a shovel, I began digging in a corner to plant sunflowers, the seeds of which I had bought at a city fair last week. Sunflowers are one of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen.

 

As I was digging, these actions evoked memories of a different yard in another time. Back when Alex and I were children, we often dug holes together and buried little treasures—marbles, toy soldiers, handwritten notes—promising each other that we would dig them up when we were older and laugh.

 

I had already reached deep enough to plant the seeds.

As I tore open the seed packet and tilted it toward the hole, something caught my eye—a faint streak of pink tangled in the soil. At first, I thought it was just a scrap of cloth, maybe an old rag buried years ago. I thought to ignore it, but my hand moved before I could stop it, and I bent down to pull it free. It wasn’t a scrap. It felt familiar. I pressed my memory, forcing it to surface through the years. And then it struck me. It was the same shirt Alex had been wearing the day he went missing.

 

As these memories flooded my mind, another story came to me, one that always resurfaced whenever I thought about Alex vanishing. The legend that circulated in our town— Whispering Man—somehow became intertwined with my own history, as if the old tale explained Alex’s disappearance that I could not give myself.

 

They said the Whispering Man was once a schoolteacher who made a deal to survive a dying illness—each year, he had to take a child into the woods and consume them to stay alive. After that, children began to vanish, and at night the forest was said to whisper like something chewing softly in the dark. After that, children began to vanish, and the blame settled on him.

 

Looking at my son, I was thirteen again. His voice faded in the background. My friend and I were playing hide and seek that day, and as I remember, his parents were out. He had strict parents who would hardly allow him to play since they wanted him to study all the time. Making their outing an excuse, he had managed to escape from the window and had come to play. It was my turn to seek. I counted to a hundred, and went to look for him. After looking for a long time and still not finding him, I called out to him, but there was no answer. I went searching in the woods even though that place was clearly out of our game boundary.

 

But when I found him, I fell apart. He had fallen off a step, hitting his head. And he wasn't breathing. I panicked.  I knew something had to be done. I couldn't tell his parents or mine. I couldn’t even stand still long enough to think. But then everything came at once—his parents, my parents, the questions I wouldn’t know how to answer. Why were you in the woods? Why didn’t you watch him? What did you do? The words crowded in before anyone had even spoken them.

 

And that's when I made a decision, I had to bury him. Using a stone and my bare hands, I made a pit and put my own best friend in it. I went home and stayed silent for the next nineteen years. A police investigation was conducted, and a search party was formed for him, but no one could find him. And so, the blame was put on Whispering Man.

 

Whenever I thought about Alex vanishing, I clung to the old legend. Back then, it had terrified us; later, it became something else for me. It gave shape to what I couldn’t face. Each time someone said a child had been taken by the Whispering Man, I let myself believe it a little more, let the story settle over the truth like a blanket. It was easier to imagine something out there in the woods than to remember what I had done with my own hands. Over time, I stopped correcting the lie—until even in my own mind, it no longer felt like one. When I got to know that part of the woods had been put up for sale, I bought it without a second thought and built a home on it so that the truth could never come out.

 

My son was hungry and wanted his lunch, so, having no other choice, setting down the hoe, I went to the kitchen to make his lunch.

By the time I returned from the kitchen with a plate of food, my hands had stopped shaking—but only just.

 

“Papa,” my son said, looking up from the floor, “why were you digging so long?”

 

I forced a smile. “Planting sunflowers.”

 

He nodded, as if that explained everything, and went back to stacking his Lego pieces. I placed the plate beside him and watched him eat, small fingers clumsy, unaware.

 

Unaware of what lay beneath his feet.

What predictions of Bhavishya Purana have come true ?