Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Cursed Wall Between Our Twin Houses Hid Secrets That Should've Stayed Buried Forever #2

Episode Date: August 19, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #cursedwall #familysecrets #hauntedhouses #darkmystery #buriedsecrets  This chilling horror tale reveals the dark secrets concealed by a cursed wall separating two twin houses. As eerie occurrences and sinister mysteries unfold, the narrator uncovers horrors long buried that threaten to destroy everything they hold dear. A gripping story about family secrets, curses, and the terrifying past refusing to stay silent.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, cursedwall, hauntedhouse, familysecrets, darkcurse, buriedsecrets, supernatural, paranormal, horrorfiction, eerie, twistedhistory, chilling, unsettling, terror, sinister

There's a house in our family no one talks about anymore. It was always there, standing quietly next to ours, fused by a single wall like a conjoined twin. But that wall hides more than bricks and cement, it hides the kind of secrets that rot in silence, breed in darkness, and sometimes uncontrollably leak into the present. I, a splinter in bloodlines. It started in the 1950s, during the early years of Indian independence. My grandfather who lost his father in childhood, built an import-export empire alongside his only elder brother. The brothers were inseparable in those days, the older handled money and the shop. My grandfather would manage transportation of goods from the ports. The business thrived.

They built twin mansions, side by side, connected by a shared wall. Both were symbols of newfound wealth. My grandfather had twelve children. His elder brother's children came much way later, they being four in total. There was a significant age gap. My oldest uncle was already a teenager when their kids were still infants. But something cracked beneath the surface in the 1970s. During the dark period of emergency in India, when the democracy turned into a dictatorship, business was hard. My grandfather discovered that his elder brother had begun dabbling in black magic.

Jealousy. Greed? The man had it all, there was no possible reason to turn towards the dark arts. Horrified, my grandfather severed ties, both personal and professional and turned to the smuggler market in that unlawful period to provide for his enormous family. It worked. Money flowed again. We were on our merry way without any contact with them despite being neighbors. And then, without warning, my grandfather's brother killed himself one day. He jumped off his house's roof. My grandfather was shattered with guilt. Though he forbade his children from ever stepping into their uncle's house, he ensured they treated their cousins with respect. He took care of their family.

The other family had two sons and two daughters. My grandfather took the elder son under his wings and helped him stabilize his father's business. The wall was never broken and the bloodline was honored. For decades, that uneasy truce held, even after my grandfather's death in the 1990s. 2. The Smell of Kerosene and Horlicks. By the early 2000s, I was just a small kid growing up in our still crowded ancestral home. Multiple families, thin walls, sleepovers on the hall floor, and cricket on the roof. Life was loud, hot. and chaotic in a way only old Indian joint families can be. Next door, literally next door lived the remnants of my grandfather's brother's family.

Two sons, the elder didn't marry and the younger was divorced, he was my dad's classmate. The two daughters were married off by then. One old woman and her sons and one rotting house that felt stale, that was all which was left. I hated the house personally. The walls were cracked and flaking. The rooms were damp and freezing, even in summer. The air always smelled of stale kerosene. But one of my cousin, who was a son of the elder daughter, had a PlayStation and that changed

everything. It was impossible to resist. I'd sneak in whenever he visited. My cousins and I would play God of War in that cold, peeling house while ignoring my grandmother's angry warnings, don't go into that house. Don't sit on their steps. Don't touch their things. There was also the old woman, the widow, who sat muttering to herself every day on the steps to the second floor,

licking Horlick's powder off a spoon like a junkie. I found her more funny than horrifying. She never acknowledged us. Never moved. Just watched. Three, the double death fiasco. In 2006, Worlds came crashing apart point one day, both the old woman and her elder son died. Just like that.

I remember it distinctly because, while everyone outside was steeped in silence, morning the deaths, I switched on the TV inside to watch Power Rangers, Time Force on full volume. My mom slapped me so hard that my ears rang for hours, and then came the whispers, that the younger son, my dad's classmate, began sitting on those same steps, quiet, disoriented, talking to himself. He had inherited not only the house, but something full. far more sinister. The elder daughter moved in with her family to care for her brother and off-course for the course worth of property dynamics were changing rapidly post these deaths.

The family started to interact less and less although we, the kids had fun as usual. My grandmother's warnings became threats, if you enter that house again, I'll throw you out. This time, I listened. Maybe it was intuition, maybe I was afraid of the deaths, maybe I feared living on the streets, whatever the reason, I listened. Even when my cousins called out for PlayStation in the other house, I did not go. Even when we had to go to the ground for cricket, I stood near the ground floor stairs and yelled. No one crossed over and the wall between was larger than ever. Sometimes, we'd play on our roof which was much bigger and better compared to theirs, not to mention the weirdly placed two rooms right in the middle of their roof, which were a huge

hindrance. Four, the rooms that were never meant to be opened. Summer of 2009. Sixth grade boredom. We watched something on TV, a show about kids having a secret hangout spot and decided we needed our own spot. That's when we remembered the two rooms on their rooftop. No one ever used them. So, we figured why not use one. We chose one randomly one fine summer afternoon and went to work on it. It was locked. So, we broke in. The door creaked open to reveal a very small room, no bigger than three mall bathrooms put together. Thick dust blanketed everything.

A small bed, a wooden chair, a dressing table with its mirror covered in red paper. A few trunk boxes. Nothing out of the ordinary which you wouldn't expect from an old room. But astonishingly, it felt like someone lived there. No one bothered to clean the room. It was like they never left. We pulled everything out except the bed. The dressing table had some old jewelry, some pieces of torn papers and some copper plates with weird engraving.

We cleaned, dusted, brought water and washed the whole place, and tried to claim it as our den. But the moment we stepped inside and plopped on the bed after a great deal of labor, I felt it. It was hot. Suffocating. Even though it was evening and the sun was about to set, it burned like a searing afternoon. I felt like I was being toasted alive. There was just a tiny window but barely any ventilation. No fan.

No switchboard.0 electricity. So excited were we with the idea of an room that we didn't bother to check for electricity at all. The room was stuck in time, literally. Breathing got hard. I felt like the air was pushing me. me out. We quickly came back outside to drench ourselves with some water. But the water started dripping down to the shops below on the ground floor via the storm drains. Maybe the shopkeeper complained, my auntie came upstairs to check things. Normally calm, she lost control seeing the visual

in front of her eyes, the room wide open, all the stuff in it laid wide out, sun about to set in and three stupid ten-year-olds drenched top to bottom with water slash sweat. She sees her Threathed in rage, slapped her son in front of us and scolded us. She was sweating profusely, eyes fixed on the dressing table. Did you take anything? She barked. No, Auntie, nothing. Get out. We tried saying we'd keep all the stuff back if needed, but she wasn't listening that I was exhausted by this point. I was happy to go home and crash. V. The night of whispers. The next morning, when I went up to play cricket, my cousins whispered, they were murmuring all night, both our mothers and their husbands.

Around midnight, they said they'd seen someone being brought, a Baba slash priest slash exorcist. The parents locked my cousins in the forced floor bedrooms and went up to the second floor with the exorcist the very same night then came the sounds. My cousins were visibly shaken by the way they expressed, it was far beyond a child could grasp, but the way they told of the sounds gives me goosebumps to this day. Scratching. Chanting. Muffled screams. Prayers. Thuds. And just like that, it had started again d'a.T that time, we didn't understand, but we do now. History was repeating itself. And whatever had been sealed in that room had never really left. It was waiting, biting,

and now finally it was free. The end. End.