The uneasy calm
Days passed in an odd rhythm. The house looked normal again, almost welcoming. Sunlight slipped through the curtains each morning; Anaya laughed more easily.
But to Meera, the peace felt fragile — like glass that could shatter with the smallest sound.
Sometimes she caught herself pausing mid-task, listening. The refrigerator hum seemed louder than it should be. The wind chime rang in patterns that felt intentional, not random. And once, while she swept near the stairs, she heard what sounded like a sigh — low, drawn out, but too close to be wind.
She told herself it was memory playing tricks. Yet she couldn't ignore the sensation that the house was aware again.
Anaya's "new friend"
One afternoon, Meera walked past her daughter's room and froze. Anaya was talking softly to someone.
"Okay, I'll draw it like that," she said, then paused as if listening. "But Mama says not to use chalk anymore."
Meera knocked gently and entered. "Who are you talking to, sweetheart?"
Anaya turned, startled. "No one! I was just pretending."
Meera's gaze dropped to the drawing — a large figure standing behind a smaller one. The taller shape had no face.
Her voice caught. "What is this, beta?"
Anaya looked at it thoughtfully. "I don't know. I just feel like someone's here when I draw."
Meera smiled tightly and folded the paper. "Let's keep our drawings happy, hmm?"
But that night, the image lingered in her mind — the faceless shape, standing far too close.
Seeking knowledge
The next day, while Anaya was at school, Meera visited the town library. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find — maybe comfort, maybe logic. She searched for books on hauntings, spirits, rituals.
Most were old and filled with folklore. One passage caught her eye:
When a soul clings too long to the mortal plane, its echo weakens. The place once warmed by love becomes hollow, drawing in what wanders lost.
She read the line twice. Drawing in what wanders lost.
Could something else have entered through the same door she'd tried to close?
The thought chilled her.
Whispers in daylight
That evening, Meera prepared dinner early. The sound of the pressure cooker steadied her nerves.
"Anaya!" she called. "Wash your hands!"
There was no reply.
She walked to her daughter's room and found it empty. The bathroom door was open. A faint giggle drifted from the living room.
She followed it — but the room was empty. The television flickered once, though no one had touched the remote.
"Anaya?"
A moment later, her daughter came running down the hallway from outside. "Mama! Did you call me?"
Meera forced a laugh. "Yes, I did. Time to eat."
But her hands trembled as she served the food.
The clock
Later that night, when she went to check the locks, she noticed the clock on the wall had stopped — exactly at 9:07.
She tapped the glass, replaced the batteries, but the hands refused to move.
It was 9:07 when Rajiv's accident had happened.
Her breath caught. "No," she whispered. "Not again."
From the kitchen came a faint clatter — the sound of a spoon falling.
When she went to look, nothing was on the floor. But the cabinet door swung slightly, as if someone had brushed past.
Confiding in Devnath again
The next morning, Meera went back to the temple. Pandit Devnath was sweeping the steps.
"Panditji," she said urgently, "something's wrong. The house feels different. Like something new is there."
He set the broom aside. "You performed the ritual with faith. You must not doubt it."
"But the signs," she insisted. "Objects moving, sounds… My daughter says someone stands near her."
The priest studied her face. "Faith and fear often wear the same voice. If you feed one, the other starves."
Meera bit her lip. "What if it isn't Rajiv?"
For a long time he was silent. Finally, he said, "Then you must protect the living. Keep light in the house. Pray at dusk and dawn. Do not call names, and do not answer unknown voices."
She nodded, uneasy.
A flicker of hope
That night she followed his advice. She lit diyas at every window, their golden glow washing over the walls. The house looked softer, calmer.
Anaya clapped. "It looks like Diwali!"
Meera laughed quietly. "Yes, maybe that's what we need — light."
For a while, everything felt almost normal. They ate dinner together, told stories, and even played a card game before bed.
When Meera tucked her in, Anaya whispered, "Mama, I think Papa's happy again."
Meera kissed her forehead. "Maybe he's resting."
And she wanted to believe it.
The reflection
Later, while locking up, Meera caught her reflection in the window. Behind her own face, for just a second, she thought she saw another — faint, pale, and smiling.
She turned quickly. Nothing there.
But the air carried a scent she recognized — not Rajiv's cologne, but something sweet and unfamiliar, almost floral, like lilies left too long in water.
A different presence.
The candle test
The next morning, Meera decided to test the house. She placed a candle in each room and watched how the flames behaved.
In the kitchen and hallway, the flames burned steady.
In Anaya's room, the candle flickered sharply, bending toward one corner of the wall.
Meera stepped closer. The wallpaper there was slightly darker, as though damp. She touched it — the wall felt cold, almost vibrating.
She whispered a prayer and blew the candle out.
That night, she noticed Anaya's sleep grew restless again. The child murmured words Meera couldn't understand, eyes fluttering beneath closed lids.
The message
The following day, while folding laundry, Meera noticed something written faintly on the inside of the bedroom mirror — fogged letters forming even though the air was dry:
HELLO.
She dropped the towel and stumbled back. "No," she breathed. "You're not welcome here."
The word slowly faded.
Later, she asked Anaya carefully, "Have you been writing on the mirrors, sweetheart?"
Anaya looked puzzled. "No. But sometimes they write to me."
Remembering the diary
That night, unable to sleep, Meera opened one of Rajiv's old notebooks. He had used it for sketches and notes.
Near the back, she found something she hadn't seen before: a few lines written days before his accident.
Dreamed of a man at the crossing. He looked like me but older. He said he'd see me soon. Strange, but somehow familiar.
Meera's blood ran cold. Could Rajiv have been seeing things even before he died?
She turned the page. The last note read simply:
If I'm ever not me, tell Anaya I love her.
Seeking help from another source
Devnath's gentle reassurances were no longer enough. The next day, Meera searched online for someone who specialized in cleansing homes. She found mention of a retired scholar named Professor Menon, known for his studies on energy and belief.
When she called, his voice was calm but curious. "Energy doesn't vanish," he said. "It changes shape. If your home has known strong emotion, that energy can echo. Sometimes it echoes back as something that pretends to be familiar."
"Pretends?" she asked.
"Loss leaves open doors," he said simply. "Be careful who walks through."
He suggested she bring symbols of grounding — fresh flowers, running water, open windows. "Let the living energy dominate," he said.
Meera thanked him, though dread coiled in her chest.
Reclaiming the space
That afternoon, she and Anaya filled the house with sound — laughter, clapping, music. Meera opened all the curtains, played Anaya's favorite songs, and let sunlight flood every corner.
For a few hours, it worked. The house felt light again. Even the air seemed to hum differently.
But at dusk, as the light faded, a strange chill settled once more.
The wind chime rang even though no breeze stirred.
The dream
That night, Meera dreamed she was walking through the house, carrying a lantern. Each room was empty, silent. But when she turned toward the hallway, she saw a figure standing by the door — not Rajiv, but something taller, its outline blurred.
The lantern flickered, dimmed, then went out.
She woke gasping.
Beside her, Anaya slept peacefully — but her small hand was extended, as if holding someone else's.
Signs of possession?
The next morning, Anaya seemed different — quieter, slower. She answered questions politely but distantly, as though listening to someone else.
"Beta," Meera said gently, "are you okay?"
Anaya smiled faintly. "I'm fine. He says we'll all be fine soon."
"Who says that?"
Anaya tilted her head. "The one who stands near the window."
Meera's heart raced. "That's just light, sweetheart. Nothing more."
Anaya looked away. "He said you'd say that."
Turning to faith again
Meera spent the evening preparing a small prayer ceremony, even without Devnath. She arranged flowers, incense, and water.
"Please," she whispered, lighting the lamp. "Whatever you are, leave us in peace."
The flame wavered but did not go out.
For a few seconds, she felt calm — until she heard Anaya humming behind her, the same melody Rajiv used to hum while shaving.
"Anaya?"
Her daughter smiled. "Papa taught me again."
The incense smoke curled toward her like fingers.
A revelation
The next morning, Meera decided she could no longer wait for signs to explain themselves. She went back to the library and spoke to the caretaker, an old man who had lived in the area for decades.
He listened to her story quietly. When she finished, he nodded slowly. "That land your house is on," he said, "used to be part of the old canal road. Many accidents happened there before the bypass was built. People said the place keeps echoes of those who died unprepared."
"Unprepared?" she asked.
"Without closure," he said simply. "Sometimes they borrow voices of the loved ones nearby."
Meera felt a tremor of fear. Could the spirit now in her home be one of those lost echoes—using Rajiv's bond as its doorway?
The final moment of Chapter 10
That evening, as twilight deepened, Meera stood at the window, watching the tulsi plant. The soil was undisturbed, yet faintly she thought she heard a soft tick, tick, tick—the buried watch still alive underground.
Anaya came up beside her and slipped her hand into Meera's. "Mama," she said softly, "he's not Papa anymore."
Meera's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
Anaya looked toward the stairs, her eyes wide but calm. "He says he's waiting for you to see him."
The house seemed to exhale — a long, slow breath that wasn't wind.