"Eight shadows danced under city lights,But one was never truly there.Laughter echoed down the glass halls—Yet silence held the loudest stare.They planned a trip to chase the dead,But something else had planned ahead."
There are moments in life when reality feels... too sharp. Like the edges of the world have been filed into blades, waiting to cut those who look too closely.
But in this world—this polished office on the 17th floor of GlassView Corporate Tower—nothing looked dangerous. Nothing looked sharp.
The carpet was too clean. The lighting too soft. The coffee machine in the corner hissed steam like it had just exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. From the glass walls, the sprawl of the city stretched into the horizon—neon signs blinking in exhausted sync, honks blurring into a low urban hum.
And in the middle of that neatly sterilized space sat eight people around a conference table, where boredom usually lived. But not today.
"Alright, listen up, people," Kabir Mehra leaned forward with both elbows on the polished wood, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up just enough to flex his forearms.
The room went quiet. The guy knew how to grab attention. Confident, charming, a bit of a jerk—but people followed him.
Even when he was wrong.
Especially when he was wrong.
Kabir placed a single file in the middle of the table, its paper edges already curled from being handled too much. The front of it had one word, scribbled in red ink:
Bhairavpur.
"Ghost village? Seriously?" said Saanvi, arching an eyebrow as she sipped from her tall iced coffee. She always brought her own cup, even in winter. "You're really going through with this haunted crap?"
"I am," Kabir grinned. "We are. Come on, don't pretend you're not curious."
Rohit, the loudest mouth in the room and the most frequent breaker of company fire drill rules, leaned back in his chair. "Dude, you told me this was a weekend 'off-grid' detox. I didn't know we were going into The Conjuring: Rural Edition."
Yashpal, eyes buried behind thick square glasses, looked up from his tablet. "Bhairavpur has no mobile coverage, no road access after 2018, and no verifiable census for 15 years. Are we seriously entertaining this?"
"We're documenting it," Kabir said confidently. "For the thrill. For the experience. For the story. And for the goddamn viral content."
"But this isn't company work," Meghna said softly, her voice calm as always, every word considered. "HR didn't approve this as an official field exercise."
Kabir winked. "Who said it's official?"
There was a moment of silence.
Then, he added, "It's a personal trip. Unofficial. Unmonitored. Voluntary. Pure curiosity. Come on, people, we sit behind screens for 12 hours a day. When was the last time any of you did something worth remembering?"
He opened the file slowly, letting the tension breathe.
Old, faded photos. Satellite maps with circled areas in red. A crumpled newspaper clipping:
"Locals Report Missing Families in Bhairavpur – 2006"
"No police reports were officially filed. Access roads eroded. Village remains cut off."
Saanvi glanced at the paper. "Could be fake."
"Or," Kabir smirked, "it could be the best damn story we'll ever be part of."
And then, a voice—so soft, so barely there—spoke from the end of the table.
"I… I heard people never come back from Bhairavpur."
The room turned, slightly confused.
It was Abhay.
Quiet. Polite. Always present, yet always forgettable. His chair always the farthest from the whiteboard. His voice barely heard above the hum of the air conditioner. If his face wasn't on the ID card, some people wouldn't even remember he worked here.
"Oh come on," Rohit chuckled. "You read too many WhatsApp forwards, man."
Abhay looked down immediately. His fingers fiddled nervously with the corner of his file. He didn't respond.
Kabir didn't even look at him. "Anyway," he continued, "I've already arranged the ride. Tempo Traveler. Two-day stay. We film what we see. If it's all superstition, we laugh and come back. If it's not…"
He trailed off, letting the thrill settle like fog in the air.
"...then we'll have something none of our competitors ever will."
Priya, flipping through her makeup pouch and applying lipstick in the reflection of her phone, muttered, "So we're doing horror tourism now? What's next—starting a ghost podcast?"
"We could," Kabir said, dead serious.
Meghna looked toward the window. The sky had darkened since the meeting started. Rain was threatening the horizon.
She didn't say anything else.
The room slowly filled with nods, uncertain grins, and the silent buzzing of adrenaline disguised as skepticism.
Only Abhay sat completely still.
The lights didn't flicker.
No chill ran through the air.
No raven perched on the ledge.
But something changed.
And none of them felt it.
None of them saw the subtle smile on the face of the silence that sat between them.
Because the village was already listening.
And it remembers.
Later that evening, as rain finally began to hiss against the windows of the tower, the team split up.
Kabir stayed behind in the conference room, organizing footage equipment with Rohit.
Saanvi was already bragging on group chat about how she'd "punk the ghost first."
Yashpal uploaded location data to a hard drive and kept repeating, "This is so idiotic."
Priya posted a selfie with the hashtag #HauntedButHot.
Meghna walked past Abhay in the hallway. She paused for just a second.
"You sure you're coming?" she asked him.
Abhay looked up, blinking.
"I… I already said yes."
She nodded once. "You didn't say anything."
He looked confused.
She walked away.
The next morning, the tempo traveler arrived.
The driver, an old man with clouded eyes, didn't speak much. Only stared into the distance like he was watching something walk away.
"Name of the village?" he finally asked Kabir.
"Bhairavpur," Kabir replied, tossing his bag in.
The old man paused.
Then he laughed, without humor.
"You'll reach. Whether you'll return… is not mine to say."
Rohit clapped him on the back. "Sir, do ghosts accept UPI?"
The man didn't laugh.
He only drove.
Eight entered the tempo traveler.
But only seven would be remembered.
And one...
Would become the whisper between them all.