On the edge of a quiet Indian village, an old house hides in the dark. Locals say an Indian Ghost walks there after dusk. I went inside with a small flashlight and a thin breath.
The air was heavy, and the lamp swayed. In a room, a chair faced the wall as if someone sits there, unseen. A soft sigh rose from the ceiling, as if the house remembered every visitor.
A pale hand rested on the windowsill, and a face without color appeared in the glass. The Indian Ghost spoke without sound, sharing memories from long ago. The room grew colder; shadows moved, and the lamp died.
I stepped outside, the night eased back into the trees, but the memory stayed with me, a dark seed waiting for the next visitor.