I
woke up to the ringing alarm of my phone. Half-asleep, I gently moved my hand away from my son's head and reached toward the bedside drawer to silence it. Somehow, my grip slipped, and the phone fell to the floor with a loud sound that echoed in the room.
The first thing I did was check my son. He was still sleeping peacefully. Then I sat up on the bed and rubbed my eyes. When I looked around, the room was swallowed in darkness—too dark, strangely so. I clearly remembered setting my phone alarm for 8:00 a.m.
I stood up from the bed and tried to find my phone, but there was no sign of it. I didn't know where it had gone. I walked toward the switchboard in front of the bathroom door, about twenty feet away from me. A strange sound was coming from the balcony and the dining room, like two gates hitting each other every second.
I reached the switchboard and tapped the buttons, but nothing happened. No light appeared in the darkness. I decided to step outside the room to find candles or a torch. As I opened my bedroom door, the loud sound of the gates rushed into my ears.
I stepped into the hall and walked toward the dining room. The window there was open. My sixth sense warned me that something was wrong, but I ignored it. I had told my husband's mother—my mummy ji—to close the window last night. I thought she must have forgotten. After all She was an old woman.
I looked around the dining room. Everything sank into the darkness, as if spirits were dancing in the shadows of the furniture. I went toward the window again. The window doors looked like they were fighting with each other—but not a normal fight. It felt like a struggle between darkness and the rainstorm itself.
Everything was silent, except for the sound of rain touching the ground and the window gates crashing against each other. I stepped forward to the window.
I reached the window. The heavy rainstorm and strong wind touched my skin, pushing my hair backward. The ground was extremely slippery, and I struggled to keep myself from slipping. Before closing the window, I closed my eyes and felt the rain. Today, the rain felt different… sadder.
That feeling pulled me back into my past, into old years—years of happiness before everything became the saddest. My little girl, once full of life, became… dead.
I opened my eyes and closed the window. The window lock was loose, but I thought it would hold for tonight. Stepping back, I returned to the present. I remembered why I was here—to find a torch or candles.
I was just three steps away from the window when it opened again with a louder sound. I turned and looked at it. I stepped forward and closed it again, this time locking it with more force so it would stay shut longer. Then I stepped back.
I glanced toward my room and felt the tension spread through my body. My little boy—what if he woke up and didn't find his mother? He would panic.
Again, the loud sound of the window.
I closed it for the third time. If it opens a fourth time, I'm not going to close it, I thought. I stepped back and stared at the window, waiting for two… maybe eight seconds. As I stepped back again, the window burst open once more.
I looked at it, anxiety tightening my chest. I can't be scared this easily. And by a window? I'm a retired police officer. I can't be scared.
I walked toward the window slowly and grabbed the gates to close them. This time, something was different. I looked outside at the empty, wet road—but it wasn't empty. Under the shelter of the neighbor's house, someone was sitting there.
A little girl and a little boy.
The boy looked about five years old. The girl looked around seventeen.
I felt my voice, my breath—every part of my body—stop.
I wasn't the only one looking.
She was looking at me too. Straight into my soul.
That wasn't the scariest part.
The scariest part was her eyes.
The little girl had the same eyes as my daughter—not the happy, cheerful ones—
the ones she had after her death.
I stepped back. And back. And back—until my foot slipped.
"Ahhhhhhh"
I didn't care that I was on the ground.
I didn't care that I was hurt.
I just kept moving back—crawling backward—until my body hit the wall. Another loud sound followed, like something striking the ground again, but the noise reached my ears blurred and distant. I was struggling just to breathe, my eyes fixed on the window in fear.
Fear I hadn't felt in four years.
Fear mixed with sadness. With panic.
"Sumitra!"
"No… she was not my girl. She was not—she was not my little girl."
I covered my ears, trying to hide from the feeling, from the panic.
It felt like someone was cutting my spirit with a knife made from my own heart.
"My little girl… she can't be my little girl…"
I started crying.
"Sumitra!"
I felt someone hug me. I felt the warmth of hands on my back. When I looked up, light had filled the room. My husband was holding me, his face full of concern. I looked at him through blurry eyes. He didn't ask me anything. He just held me, repeating my name.
"Everything is okay, Sumitra. Everything is okay,"
he whispered gently, rubbing my back, trying to calm me.
"Someone was outside," I said. "The little girl was outside."
"No one is outside, Sumitra. No one," he said. "I looked. I saw."
"I know what I saw," I begged. "There was a girl outside—she looked like my little girl. Please… believe me."
"Okay, okay," he said softly. "I'll go and check. Okay?"
I didn't want him to leave me, but he wasn't going far. He walked to the window and looked outside. He stayed there for two seconds, then turned back toward me.
"No one is outside," he said gently. He thought I was missing our daughter.
"But—"
Before I could finish, his eyes dropped to my clothes.
I followed his gaze.
There was blood everywhere—on my clothes, on my hands. I looked at the floor. Bloody footprints stained it. Then I looked at the window.
Bloody handprints marked the glass, as if someone had been punching it, trying to come inside.
"I told you someone was outside," I said. "It's the girl's blood. It's the blood of the little girl."
Panic rushed back. Everything blurred in front of my eyes.
The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was the clock on the wall and the calendar beside it.
28 October, 02:08 a.m.
I knew she was outside.
Away from me.
But outside.
The little girl.