Whispers of The Unseen: Horror Story of Chunian

In the quaint, sleepy town of Chunian, we rented an old house in 2016 that had been left vacant for years. It had an eerie aura that we initially brushed off as a result of neglect. Little did we know, we were not the only inhabitants.

After a few months, my elder sister began noticing strange occurrences. It started subtly. She'd hear the tap in her bathroom turn on in the dead of night, only to find it tightly shut when she checked. At times, the windows in her room would rattle as if someone was angrily banging on them. I was skeptical, attributing her experiences to overactive imagination or drafts from the old structure. However, my disbelief was shattered one afternoon.

I was home alone. My mother and sister had gone to the market, leaving me, a 13-year-old boy, to my own devices. I was sitting in my room, engrossed in a comic book, when I heard it—clear, deliberate footsteps outside my door. My heart pounded in my chest as I strained to listen. The sound was unmistakable, growing louder and more defined. I convinced myself it was nothing, just the creaking of an old house. But then, the water cooler in the corner of my room, which had been full and perfectly balanced, toppled over with a resounding crash.

Panic surged through me, and despite my best efforts to maintain composure, a few drops of urine trickled down my leg. Terrified, I bolted from the house, not stopping until I was outside, gasping for breath. I waited on the porch, refusing to go back inside until my mother and sister returned.

From that day on, the atmosphere in the house grew increasingly tense. My mother, deeply spiritual and devout, started reciting the Quran more frequently, hoping to ward off whatever presence seemed to linger. One early morning, she was alone in the living room, her voice softly echoing through the house as she recited. She later recounted what happened next, though she kept it to herself until after we had moved.

As she read, she sensed something in the corner of the room. She looked up to see a figure, not quite human, floating in midair. It had an otherworldly presence, both unsettling and commanding. It seemed to shimmer, and though it had no discernible features, she felt its gaze on her. It communicated with her, not through words, but through an eerie, telepathic message in Punjabi: "Tusi aython chaly jao sanu chad deo, ay sada ghar ay." ("You guys leave this place, this house belongs to us.")

My mother, unflinching in her faith, responded aloud, "Inky abu ayn gy to tab hi hum ye ghar chor sakty hyn, tab tak ap humyn yahan rehny do." ("Their father will come, and only then we will leave this house. Until then, let us stay here.")

The entity seemed to acknowledge her response, and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. For the next few months, the disturbances ceased. It was as if the house held its breath, waiting for the day my father would return from his service in Siachen.

When my father finally came back, the decision to move was immediate. We packed up and left the house that very week. As we drove away, the house stood silently behind us, a specter of our past.

Months later, my mother shared her encounter with the entity. We sat in stunned silence, the realization sinking in that we had coexisted with something beyond our understanding. The house in Chunian was more than just old and neglected; it was a place claimed by forces unseen, who had allowed us to stay only until my father's return.

To this day, I can’t forget the sound of those footsteps, the sight of the cooler tipping over, and the terror that gripped me. The house remains in my memories, a chilling reminder of the supernatural coexistence that we will never truly comprehend.