“The Woman Behind the Curtain: The Haunted House That Made Everyone Sick (True Story from India)”
Not every haunted house is abandoned by time—some are abandoned by trust, by betrayal, by death itself. This story isn't fiction. It's not a folk tale, not a legend passed through whispers. It's real, and it happened just a few streets away from where I lived.
Most of the homes in that quiet lane had grown old—tired walls, rusted gates, faded memories. A few stood locked for years, sealed either by disputes or by death. People who once called them home had vanished—some moved far away, some no longer alive. Kids used the lane for shortcuts, and during daylight, it looked harmless. But one house—massive, crumbling, three stories high—stood like a scar on the neighborhood.
Its windows were shattered, the walls covered in black mold and peeling paint. Pigeons fluttered in and out of the open roof. Cobwebs hung like curtains, draping over dusty furniture that hadn’t been touched in years. Seven long years had passed since anyone dared enter.
The house once belonged to a transgender woman—known by locals as kind, generous, and respectful despite the way society treated her. Her presence brought life to that lane. She often helped the needy, paid the poor to clean her garden, gave sweets to kids. But kindness doesn't shield you from cruelty.
Two of her most trusted servants—one man, one woman—betrayed her. One stormy night, they killed her. Suffocated her in her sleep with a pillow. Not out of rage, but greed. Then, with chilling precision, they buried her body inside the house itself—beneath the floor, covering the spot with cement. They told neighbors she'd gone abroad on vacation. People believed it. For months, her absence felt temporary.
Until her friends arrived.
Traveling from another state, they had no idea what had happened. When they asked about her, the servants spun lies. But something didn’t sit right. Days later, the servants disappeared. The friends went to the police. The house was searched. What they found changed everything.
All her valuables were gone—gold, cash, everything. But worse was yet to come. That night, her friends stayed inside the house. Despite the open windows, the air felt suffocating. A pressure on their chests. Unease. Silence, yet something screamed within the walls.
Police dogs were brought in. One part of the house—just a cemented patch—sent the dogs into a frenzy. After hours of digging, they found her body. Twisted, decomposing, but unmistakably her.
The entire neighborhood reeked of death. Her friends performed last rites, and the house was locked again. But peace didn’t return.
The haunting began slowly—at first, just whispers at night. Then shadows, figures watching from broken windows. Kids started falling sick. Neighbors heard laughter echoing at 2 a.m., doors slamming without wind, and footsteps from the rooftop where no one lived. A dark figure was seen standing on the third floor balcony—motionless, always watching.
The worst came when children began describing her. The same woman, standing in front of her house. Silent. Expressionless. Cold. Those who saw her often fell mysteriously ill. Fevers that wouldn’t go, rashes that doctors couldn’t explain.
Some believed the house wasn’t just haunted by her—but by more.
Teenagers dared each other to enter, armed with flashlights and phone cameras. Most ran out after minutes—choked, dizzy, terrified. Some didn’t sleep for days. One boy claimed he felt invisible hands around his throat. Another said he saw her… in a mirror.
I lived nearby at that time. My curiosity was uncontrollable. Even though my mother warned me, I couldn’t stay away. One Sunday afternoon, I went with three friends. We told ourselves, “Sunlight protects us.”
The house looked smaller up close—but darker, heavier. As we stepped through the crumbling gate, I felt it. A heaviness. Like the air itself didn’t want us there. I stayed near the garden. The others went in.
Then I heard running. A friend stumbled out, eyes wide, covered in cobwebs. He swore the others had left him inside alone. They hadn’t. But none of them had seen each other once inside. They said the light vanished after crossing the threshold. No matter how bright it was outside, inside felt like dusk.
We laughed nervously and walked away.
That night, everything changed.
All of us dreamt of the same thing—death. Shadows. Violence. And her. My dreams showed me a tall woman standing in a river, staring at me, unmoving, her eyes void of humanity.
Fever gripped us. Weakness followed. I cried in my sleep. My mother heard me whispering, begging someone invisible to leave. One friend was taken to a spiritual healer, and only after rituals did he get better. My mother kept a prayer at home. Slowly, painfully, we recovered.
We never spoke about it again.
A year later, the entire colony was demolished for a commercial project. The house no longer exists. But something tells me—whatever was inside still does.
I don’t know where she is now.
I just hope no one builds over her body again.
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