The dying whispers of bhera haveli
Title: “The Dying Whispers of Bhera Haveli”
Theme: In a forgotten corner of Punjab, where time stopped and shadows moved without reason, a cursed haveli holds a horrifying secret. What happens when someone hears the whispers that should have stayed buried?
By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
The Dying Whispers of Bhera Haveli
Based on chilling oral tales from the subcontinent's dust-ridden ruins...
In the neglected outskirts of Bhera, an ancient town once glorious in its Mughal past, there stands a crumbling haveli, twisted like a half-dead serpent among the eucalyptus and sheesham trees. The villagers call it “Khooni Haveli”—The Mansion of Blood. No one lives there. No one dares to enter.
Except Tariq.
He was a small-time real estate broker from Faisalabad. He dealt in disputed lands and run-down buildings, flipping ghost stories into desperate discounts. When he heard of the haveli in Bhera—abandoned for decades, but still legally intact—his capitalist instincts tingled.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Tariq had scoffed to his driver. “Just desperate villagers and old wives’ tales.”
That night, he parked his jeep beside the gate of the haveli. The air was thick with dust, the kind that doesn't blow with the wind—only settles deeper. The villagers watched from afar, crossing themselves, muttering Quranic verses. Tariq smirked. “Idiots,” he whispered.
He opened the rusty gate. It didn’t creak.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
Inside, the haveli looked more preserved than ruined. The furniture was covered in ancient linen, untouched by time. Walls had faded Mughal motifs—peacocks, war elephants, and roses. But it was too clean. The dust on the floor didn’t carry a single footprint.
He climbed the central staircase. With each step, a strange sensation grew—a cold, crawling itch up his spine. He thought it was just fear. But it wasn’t.
Because as he reached the top, he heard a whisper. Not outside. Not behind.
Inside his head.
“Why have you come back, Shamsher?”
Tariq froze. “What?” he muttered aloud. No one was there.
He found a bedroom. Lavish. Unnervingly untouched. He opened the drawer of an old writing desk and found letters. Yellow parchment, Mughal Urdu script. The first line read:
“My beloved Shamsher, do not let my blood be forgotten.”
Tariq blinked. The ink was wet.
That night, he lit a cigarette and sat on the jharoka overlooking the courtyard. The moon was full. That’s when he saw her.
A woman in bridal red, standing under the neem tree, staring at him with no eyes. Just hollow sockets that wept blood.
He blinked.
She was gone.
He laughed nervously and decided to sleep. As he lay down on the charpai in that hauntingly preserved room, he closed his eyes.
But they didn’t stay closed.
Because the door slammed. Lights flickered. Then silence.
And then...
“You broke your promise, Shamsher. You swore upon my death.”
The voice was louder now. Female. Broken. Vengeful.
Tariq jumped up—but couldn’t move.
He was paralyzed.
His body was cold, yet drenched in sweat. A pale hand touched his face. He couldn’t scream.
“The dagger is still in my chest,” she whispered. “Pull it out... or join me.”
The next morning, villagers found the haveli’s gate wide open. The jeep was still there. But Tariq wasn’t.
They searched the house but didn’t find him. Only a letter on the writing desk, in blood:
“Forgive me, Laila. I was weak. But now... I am yours again.”
🕯️ Epilogue (Told by the village Maulvi)
They say if you stay a night in Bhera Haveli, the house shows you your past life. And if you’ve left something unfinished, it will finish you instead.
Tariq never returned.
But sometimes, on moonlit nights, you can see a man and a woman dancing in the courtyard.
A bride in red. A broker turned prince.
And in the background, faint whispers… dying, but never dead.
💀 What if the past life you forgot... never forgot you?
💬 Leave a comment if you dare. Would YOU enter Bhera Haveli for a million rupees?
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By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
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