It was 2:07 a.m. when Ananya woke up to the sound of humming.
Not singing, not whispering—humming. A low, broken tune, tuneless and unsettling, as though someone was forcing air through their throat without melody.
At first, she tried to reason with herself. Maybe it was one of the girls returning late. But the warden always locked the gates at midnight; no one could enter after that. The thought unsettled her.
She pulled the blanket tighter, trying to ignore it. Maybe it's the rain. Rain plays tricks on the ears.
But the humming did not stop. It grew louder. Closer.
Her chest tightened as she sat up. Against her better judgment, she leaned forward and peered through the small glass window in her door.
The corridor was silent, washed in the faint glow of a weak emergency bulb at the far end. And there—just within that pale circle of light—stood a figure.
A woman.
She wore a faded saree, its end dragging unnaturally along the floor as if soaked in something heavy. Her hair hung loose, strands clinging to her face, swaying slightly in a wind that did not exist. Anklets coiled around her feet, their silver dull, yet catching tiny shards of light with every flicker.
The humming came from her. It seemed to vibrate in the corridor walls, leaking through the locked doors, sinking straight into Ananya's bones.
The woman stood completely still. Head bowed. Face hidden. Only the sound moved, crawling closer with each passing second.
Ananya blinked hard, rubbed her eyes in disbelief. When she looked again, the corridor was empty.
But the humming had not stopped.
That night, Ananya did not sleep again.
In the following days, she could not shake the image. And then she learned the whispers that floated across Patel Hostel's second floor. Of Room 212, always locked, always avoided. A room with a red curtain inside. A room where a girl had once lived—and never left.
They said she had died there, years ago. She had a habit of humming herself to sleep. Now, restless and unfinished, she still hummed. Searching. Waiting.
Sometimes, students heard her anklets. Sometimes, they saw her silhouette. But the unlucky ones saw her face.
And always, always, she wore the saree.
Ananya prayed she would never hear it again. But that evening, as the rain lashed against the hostel windows like countless fingernails, the sound returned.
Soft at first. Then louder. Closer.
The humming had come back.