The Brass Oil Lamp

My name is Anjali, and I was born in a small village in Tamil Nadu, but I’ve spent most of my life in Toronto. I consider myself spiritual, though I was raised Hindu. I live with my parents, my younger sister, and my younger brother—being the eldest has its burdens. What I’m about to tell you happened in the early hours of a cold November morning in 2009, just a few days before the Kanda Shasti fasting, which my family observes devoutly.

We had recently moved into an old Victorian house in the Annex, one of those creaky, drafty places with high ceilings and narrow staircases. My parents had been arguing about the move—my father loved the character, my mother hated the dust—but we settled in, determined to make it home. My room was at the top of the stairs, and the attic was directly above it, accessible only by a pull-down ladder that we rarely used.

That night, I went to bed early, exhausted from unpacking. The house was quiet, save for the occasional groan of the heating pipes. Around 2 AM, I was jolted awake by a sound—a faint, metallic clatter, like someone knocking on brass. I sat up, heart pounding, and listened. The sound came again, more insistent, from the attic. I tried to dismiss it as rats, but something felt wrong. The air in my room was cold, colder than it should be, and I smelled oil—like the lamp my grandmother used to light during prayers.

I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ but only silence answered. Then, the door to my room, which I had closed, swung open slowly on its own. In the dim light from the hallway, I saw a shadow on the wall—a shape that didn’t match anything in the room. It was tall and thin, with long arms and a head that seemed too large. I screamed, a raw, guttural sound, and began cursing in Tamil, a torrent of words I didn’t even know I knew. My mother later said it sounded like I was arguing with someone, my voice rising and falling in a language I never use.

My parents rushed in, flicking on the light. I was sitting upright in bed, my eyes wide, pointing at the corner. They saw nothing, but I insisted there was a figure—a woman with disheveled hair, wearing a torn white sari, her skin pale and bloated. She stared at me with hollow eyes, and her lips moved, but no sound came out. My father tried to console me, telling me it was just a nightmare, but I was inconsolable. I told them she was pointing at the attic ladder.

The next morning, my father decided to check the attic. He pulled down the ladder and climbed up, muttering about old houses and their quirks. Up there, among the boxes and forgotten furniture, he found an old brass oil lamp, tarnished and covered in dust. It was the kind used in temples, with a cobra-shaped spout. My father brought it down, intending to clean it, but as he handled it, the lamp felt warm to the touch.

That evening, my mother lit incense and performed a small puja in the living room, trying to cleanse the house. As she chanted, the lamp, which she had placed on the altar, began to flicker its flame—not from any draft, but as if something were breathing on it. My sister, who was playing nearby, suddenly froze, her eyes fixed on the lamp. She whispered, ‘She’s standing behind you, Amma.’

My mother spun around, but there was no one. My sister began to cry, saying the woman in white was following her everywhere, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floor. We tried to ignore it, but over the next few days, strange things happened: doors opened and closed by themselves, our pet cat refused to enter certain rooms, and I woke up each night with scratches on my arms.

The nightmares intensified. I dreamed of a woman drowning in a well, clawing at the sides, her screams muffled by water. When I woke, I felt a chill, and the brass lamp in the living room was always lit, even though we had blown it out. My father, a rational man, grew worried. He contacted a local temple priest, who performed a cleansing ritual. He told us that the woman was a restless spirit, bound to the lamp, and she was using me as a vessel to communicate.

On the night before the fasting began, I couldn’t sleep. I went downstairs to get a glass of water, and as I passed the living room, I saw the lamp glowing brightly. The flame danced erratically, and the room was filled with the smell of jasmine and something else—something rotting. The woman was there, standing in the corner, her mouth open in a silent scream. She pointed to the lamp, then to herself, and then to the ground.

She mouthed the words, ‘Help me.’ I felt a surge of pity, and for the first time, I didn’t scream. I walked toward her, my heart racing, and when I reached the lamp, I saw that the engraving on its side depicted a woman being pushed into a well by a man. It was then I realized she had been murdered, her spirit trapped in the lamp that had been thrown in after her.

I don’t know what came over me, but I picked up the lamp and carried it outside. The cold air bit at my skin, but I felt a warmth emanating from the brass. I found an old well in our backyard, covered with rotting planks. With a strength I didn’t possess, I tore the planks away and dropped the lamp into the darkness. There was a splash, then a faint, relieved sigh.

I stood there for a long time, shivering, until my mother came out and wrapped a shawl around me. She asked what I had done, and I told her. She nodded, as if she understood, and we walked back inside. That night, I slept peacefully for the first time in a week.

Since then, the strange occurrences have ceased. The attic is quiet, and the lamp is gone. But sometimes, when I pass a brass shop, I catch a whiff of jasmine, and I wonder if the woman has finally found peace. I never told my family, but when I dropped the lamp, I whispered, ‘May you find your way home.’ And in the silence that followed, I swear I heard a faint ‘Thank you.’