The Whispers Beneath The World

By Reyansh Chordiya

It is a horror boo written by the author Reyansh Chordiya. listen to the whispers by reading the book 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reyansh Chordiya
• Release date: Oct 3, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232451417

Book preview

IMG_256 Whispers Beneath the World

Written By

Reyansh Chordiya

Illustrated By

Vihaan Sutrawe

Chapter 1: The Earth  Trembles

There are some sounds the earth should never make. Not thunder, not the howling of storms — those are natural. But the sound that woke Mark that morning was not natural.

It was a groan, deep and slow, like an ancient beast stretching its bones after centuries of sleep. It came not from above, but from below — a sound that rose through the foundations of the earth and into the spine of the village like a cold whisper. A sound that felt... wrong.

He jolted awake, heart pounding. The kerosene lamp beside his bed flickered violently. Dust rained from the ceiling. For a moment, it felt as if his old cottage was being tugged downward. Then it stopped.

Silence. Heavy and unnatural.

Outside, the predawn mist clung to the ground like rotting cotton. The sky hadn’t yet chosen whether to remain night or give way to day — stuck in that uncanny grey hour before the world remembers itself.

Mark rose from bed, barefoot, his skin crawling. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but there was something about Bahawalpur that demanded respect. Nestled in a forgotten valley at the foot of the Aravalli’s, the village had no cell phone towers, no internet, and no maps. It didn’t appear on satellite images. The locals said it was protected.

By what, no one would say.

He stepped out onto the porch, half-expecting to see the earth split in two. But everything looked normal — too normal. The trees stood still, the birds silent. Even the insects were absent. It felt like he was staring at a photograph rather than a living world.

Then he saw her.

Kaki.

The old widow stood at her front gate in a tattered shawl, unmoving. Her milky eyes stared straight at him, though he knew she was blind.

You felt it, she croaked, voice rough from decades of chewing tobacco and secrets.

Yes, he replied quietly.

She nodded once, and then turned her face to the horizon, where the hills loomed like sleeping gods.

It’s waking up, she said. And it remembers you.

By mid-morning, the villagers were murmuring. Most dismissed the tremor as a minor quake — not uncommon in the region. But those who had lived longest in Bahawalpur said little and looked worried.

Mark tried to go about his day. He fetched water from the well, fed the goats, fixed a broken fence. But the sense of unease clung to him like a shadow. Every crack in the earth seemed to have widened. Every breeze carried strange echoes.

The feeling grew worse when he passed the edge of the village, near the old banyan tree.

That tree had always felt out of place — massive, its roots thick as pythons, its leaves a darker shade than any around it. Some claimed it was sacred. Others said it grew from a grave.

Today, something was different.

At its base, the soil had split open. A narrow fissure, no more than a foot wide, ran down into the ground like a wound. Mark crouched beside it, peering into the darkness.

He expected to see stone or roots.

Instead, he saw brick.

Old, reddish bricks, crumbling and ancient, forming a narrow shaft spiralling downward.

It hadn’t been there before.

He leaned closer. The air emerging from the crack was cold — unnaturally cold, with a faint scent of burnt flowers and salt. He squinted, adjusting to the dark.

Then it happened.

A voice.

Whispering. Soft. Male. Familiar.

It spoke one word.

Mark.

He jerked back, nearly falling. The whisper had not come from behind him — not from the village.

It had come from the hole.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed listening — not for sounds, but for absence. The normal rhythms of the night were missing. No crickets. No wind. No creaking wood. The silence was so deep it felt alive.

Then, faintly, it returned.

The voice.

Whispers crawling under the floorboards. Moving through the walls. Always just beyond comprehension. Sometimes he thought he heard his mother’s lullaby. Other times, the voice from the pit saying his name again. Or worse — his own voice, distorted and pleading.

He sat up, drenched in sweat.

The lamp flickered.

The air was heavy, like before a storm, but dry — brittle.

Then three knocks echoed from beneath the floor.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He froze.

Then silence.

Then — two more knocks.

Knock. Knock.

He stared at the wooden planks below his bed. His mind raced. Was it rats? Some echo? Maybe kids outside?

No.

Whatever had knocked had come from under the house.

He stood slowly, pulled on his boots, grabbed the flashlight, and stepped outside.

The banyan tree called to him.

Not literally — no voice this time — but in that unexplainable way certain things pull your attention when you're alone. It stood tall in the moonlight, swaying though the wind was still. The crack at its base was wider now — wide