I still don't know

During a power outage, five people trapped in an old house find their caretaker dead — eyes wide open, as if terrified to death. As thunder roars outside, a strange voice echoes through the walls asking one chilling question: “Who?” One by one, they vanish, leaving only silence and the echo of that haunting word. By morning, the only survivor sits rocking in the corner, whispering, “It kept asking… and I still don’t know who.”

The police arrived at dawn, their boots echoing on the soaked wooden floor. The house smelled of dampness and fear. They found no signs of forced entry, no footprints except those of the victims — and Rhea’s. When questioned, she just smiled faintly and asked, “Did you hear it too?” The officers exchanged uneasy glances; the rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy, as if the storm hadn’t truly left.

That night, one of the officers who had visited the house couldn’t sleep. Around midnight, as he replayed his bodycam footage, a soft whisper crackled through the speakers — “Who?” His screen went black for a moment, and when it came back, a reflection behind him blinked. The next morning, his patrol car was found empty near the same house, engine still running.

Locals say no one stays in that house anymore. But sometimes, during a storm, people passing by swear they see a faint light in the window — and hear a voice carried by the wind, asking the same question over and over again… “Who?”

Weeks passed, yet the memory of that storm refused to fade. The house, now sealed with police tape, became a legend whispered around town. Children dared each other to step onto its porch, but no one stayed long — the air felt colder there, heavier. Some said they heard footsteps inside even when no one had entered. Others swore they saw a figure standing at the window — a shadow that didn’t move even when the wind did.

Rhea was transferred to a psychiatric hospital after claiming the house had “chosen her.” She would sit silently all day, tracing the word “WHO” on the walls with her fingers. Doctors tried therapy, medication, even hypnosis, but every session ended the same way — Rhea whispering, “It’s still asking, and I think I finally know who.” No one could get her to explain what she meant.

One stormy night, the hospital power flickered out. Security footage later showed Rhea standing by her window, staring into the dark clouds. Lightning flashed — and she was gone. No broken glass, no open door. Just one word carved into the windowsill: “FOUND.”

The next morning, the doctor reviewing her file received an anonymous package. Inside was Kabir’s missing camera — the one that had fallen when he died. Shaking, he pressed play. The screen glitched, showing flickering faces of everyone who’d died in that house. Then, for a second, Rhea’s face appeared — smiling eerily — before whispering, “Your turn.”

That evening, the doctor’s office lights began to flicker. His assistant heard a faint voice through the door, the same one captured in the recordings — soft, cold, and patient. It asked only one thing, over and over again, until the screams began.

“Who?”

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