Dont Tell To Anyone

Once, in a forgotten village shrouded in silence and fog, there lived a witch who practiced dark magic in secret. For years, the villagers whispered of strange happenings—children waking up with bloodshot eyes, cattle walking backward, and voices humming lullabies in empty wells. The witch’s power grew with each curse she cast, feeding on fear.

But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

One stormy night, the villagers discovered the truth. Furious and terrified, they gathered torches and weapons, swearing to end her evil once and for all. But the witch, sensing her fate, had a final spell—one that would not die with her.

She found a girl walking alone on the road. Innocent. Quiet. The perfect vessel.

The witch leaned close and whispered a curse into the girl’s ear.

“Don’t tell anyone what I said… or you will die.”

Her voice was like cracking bones and winter wind.

The villagers reached the witch before she could escape. They burned her in the old house by the river, thinking they had won. But evil does not burn so easily.

The girl, pale and trembling, returned home. Her eyes darkened. Her voice faded. The words echoed inside her skull like poison.

Haunted and afraid, she visited her best friend and confessed everything.

She never finished her story.

She died mid-sentence, her mouth still forming the final syllable.

The curse lived on.

One by one, those who heard the whisper—those who tried to understand it—died mysteriously. It passed like a disease, hiding in words.

Years Later…

In the present day, a bold young woman named Meenu arrived in the same village, unaware of its cursed past. She was curious, sharp, and unafraid of shadows.

But from the moment she stepped into the market, she felt it—eyes. Dozens of them, following her with a strange intensity. Not fear. Not curiosity. Warning.

She brushed it off, thinking villagers were just old-fashioned.

Later, she entered the dusty village library. In the oldest corner, a tattered book caught her eye.

Its title: “Don’t Tell Anyone.”

Chills ran through her.

She approached the librarian, a fragile man with sunken eyes. When she asked him about the book, his hands trembled.

He told her the legend.

About the witch.

The whisper.

The girl who died.

He begged her not to read further.

But Meenu was not like others. She wanted to break the curse.

That night, guided by courage and desperation, Meenu walked to the witch’s old house—now rotting, overgrown, but still reeking of something alive. Inside, she found a body, untouched by time.

The heart was still beating.

The ears and tongue, though dry, still twitched.

The witch was dead… but listening.

She needed a plan.

Meenu sought out the oldest living woman in the village—the only one left who knew the full whisper but had never dared speak it. The woman, trembling, agreed to help.

They returned to the witch’s house. Meenu placed a bell above the body, one that echoed endlessly. She told the woman:

“You must speak the whisper. Just once.

The bell will do the rest.”

The old woman hesitated… then began to speak.

The cursed words spilled into the air.

The bell rang.

And echoed. And echoed. And echoed.

The room trembled.

The witch’s body convulsed once… then stilled.

The tongue stopped.

The ears closed.

The heart… silent.

The curse had heard itself.

And was finally trapped in its own loop.

The next morning, sunlight touched the village differently.

For the first time in decades, birds returned. The wind no longer whispered. And people could finally speak without fear.

The villagers gathered and thanked Meenu with tears in their eyes.

She didn’t want praise.

Just peace.

She left the village quietly, never speaking of what happened again.

But in the library, the book “Don’t Tell Anyone” remains.

Still dusty.

Still waiting.

Still listening.