The Carved Sun

My name is Meera, and I am a 29-year-old single mother to a two-year-old boy named Arjun. We live in the city of Jaipur, Rajasthan, not far from my parents’ place. I used to laugh at ghost stories, dismissing them as rural superstition, until an incident seven months ago that turned my world upside down. This is my account, written as clearly as I can.

When my landlord announced he was selling our apartment, giving us two months to vacate, my father, who often stayed with us to help, and I began house hunting. We eventually found a small, old haveli on the outskirts of the city, tucked away on a quiet street. The landlord was a distant relative of ours, an elderly widow named Mrs. Rao, who now lived in Mumbai and rarely visited Jaipur. She offered us a very reasonable rent, insisting the house needed a family to keep it alive. We moved in a week later, in mid-August.

The haveli had a dated charm, with thick walls, high ceilings, and a central courtyard where a neem tree grew. The rooms were spacious, and the floors were made of cool, dark stone. There was one odd feature: a small, locked room near the back of the house. My father asked the caretaker about it, and he said it was a store room, but the lock was old and the key was with Mrs. Rao. We didn’t press further.

The first few days were peaceful. Arjun loved running around the courtyard, and my father and I found the house refreshingly cool compared to our previous place. But soon, I noticed subtle things. Sometimes, I’d find Arjun staring intently at a blank wall, giggling as if someone was playing peek-a-boo with him. When I asked what he was looking at, he’d point to a corner and say, ‘Didi,’ which really unsettled me. Also, the house felt dark even on sunny days, a heaviness in the air that I attributed to the old architecture.

One evening, about two weeks in, I was alone with Arjun; my father had gone to the market. I was preparing dinner in the kitchen when I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping sound coming from the backyard. I went to investigate, but found nothing. The tapping continued for a few days, always at odd hours. Then, one afternoon, I found the door to the locked room slightly ajar. I knew I had never opened it. I pushed it open, and inside was a small, dusty room cluttered with old furniture and trunks. On a wooden shelf, I saw a small, carved stone sun, about the size of my hand, with intricate patterns. It was oddly warm to the touch. I wrapped it in a cloth and took it outside, telling myself it was just a piece of junk.

That night, after putting Arjun to bed, I was sitting in the living room when I heard a woman’s voice call out, ‘Meera.’ It was a soft, sad voice. I turned, but no one was there. My heart raced. The voice came again, this time as a whisper from the direction of the locked room. I went to the room, but it was dark and still. I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the corner, a woman in a saree, staring at me with hollow eyes. I blinked, and she was gone.

I was terrified. I told my father the next morning, but he dismissed it as my imagination, a mother’s fatigue. However, Arjun started having nightmares, waking up screaming, saying ‘Baba, Baba’ at night. And the house felt increasingly oppressive. I began to notice that the carved sun I had moved to the living room seemed to change orientation on its own—its rays pointing towards the locked room.

I called Mrs. Rao, the landlady, to ask about the room and the carving. She was hesitant at first, but eventually broke down and told me the story. She said that her mother, who had lived in this house for decades, had been a practitioner of tantra. She had a daughter, Mrs. Rao’s older sister, who died under mysterious circumstances in that very room. Mrs. Rao said her mother had placed that carved sun as a protector, but also as a binding element, to keep something contained. She urged me to keep the sun safe and to never open the room again, as it could release something terrible.

Despite the warning, the hauntings intensified. The voice became more frequent, calling my name, sometimes Arjun’s. I saw the woman again, this time closer, with a face contorted in anguish. She seemed to be reaching out to Arjun, calling him ‘her son.’ I was scared for my child.

One night, I woke up to find Arjun missing from his bed. I ran through the house, calling his name. I found him standing in front of the locked room, which was now wide open, staring inside. As I approached, I saw the woman inside, holding a small, ghostly figure that looked like a child. She turned to me and snarled, ‘He is mine. You took him from me.’ I grabbed Arjun, and he started crying, struggling in my arms, reaching for the woman.

I rushed out of the house, holding Arjun, and spent the night at my parents’. The next day, I returned with my father and a priest. The priest performed a cleansing ritual, chanting mantras and burning incense. He told us that the spirit was a woman who had lost her child at birth, and she had become attached to our family, especially to Arjun, seeing him as her own. The priest sealed the room, bringing a lock and key, and told us to never open it again. He also advised us to move out as soon as possible.

We found a new apartment within a week, in a modern building far from that haveli. As we were leaving, I noticed the carved stone sun was still in the living room. I felt a strange pull to take it, but the priest had advised us to leave it behind, as it was tied to the spirit. I left it on the mantelpiece, and we drove away without looking back.

Now, months later, I still feel a lingering sense of unease. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a faint tapping, and I see Arjun staring at a corner of our new apartment, his expression unreadable. He sometimes points and says, ‘Didi, there.’ I pray that we have left that place behind, but a part of me fears that the carved sun, and the spirit it was meant to contain, may have followed us in some way. I don’t know if we are truly free, or if the haunted house has imprinted itself on our lives forever.