The whispering courtyard


The Whispering Courtyard

A Psychological Horror Set in an Old Haveli in Lucknow

By Faraz Parvez

Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

The Whispering Courtyard

The haveli stood defiant on the edge of old Lucknow, forgotten behind high walls, as time and traffic choked the rest of the city. It had once been majestic, echoing with ghazals and anklets, home to a noble family now scattered across continents.

But one thing remained.

The courtyard whispered at night.

The Inheritance

Ali, a young architect from Karachi, inherited the haveli from a great-aunt he barely knew. He arrived with dreams of converting it into a boutique hotel—a "fusion of Mughal grandeur and minimalist design," as he called it.

Locals warned him.
“No one stays after Maghrib,” the old caretaker muttered, eyes downcast.
Ali laughed it off. Ghost stories, he believed, were marketing gold.

The Murmurs Begin

The first night was oddly silent. Too silent. No dogs barked. No crickets. No call to prayer.

Then came the whispers.

Soft. Like silk dragged across stone. Ali couldn’t make out the words. Only the tone—urgent, female, broken by sobs. They came from the courtyard fountain, dry and cracked.

He checked the security footage the next morning. The sound wasn't there.

Only a faint, fluttering shadow at 2:17 a.m.

The Dancer’s Curse

Digging through old records, Ali uncovered a tragedy.

The last resident of the haveli was Meherunnisa, a courtesan of unmatched beauty. The Nawab had fallen in love with her, promised her marriage. But on the wedding day, he disappeared—some say poisoned by his jealous brother.

Meherunnisa waited in her bridal finery in the courtyard until dawn.

Then she slit her wrists by the fountain.

They say her spirit was stitched into the stones.

Descent

By the fourth night, Ali began responding to the whispers.

He stopped showering. He stopped calling his mother. He walked barefoot in the courtyard, muttering Meherunnisa’s name like a prayer.

One morning, he was found crouching by the fountain, clawing the stones, whispering,
“Let me in. I will never leave you again.”

The Haveli Today

The boutique hotel never opened.

The haveli is sealed.

But those who walk past say they hear tabla and ghungroo at night. Some claim a bride in red stands in the courtyard, beckoning.

And others say a man’s voice now whispers back.

By Faraz Parvez

Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

📖 For more haunting narratives that blend culture, history, and the supernatural:
🌐 farazparvez1.blogspot.com

Where every story is more than fiction—it’s a memory waiting to be awakened.?

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