The Ceramic Fish

My father, a retired army officer, had always been a man of logic and discipline. When we moved to the coastal town of Visakhapatnam after his service, he chose a sprawling colonial-era bungalow on the outskirts, near the old lighthouse. The house was grand, with high ceilings and long corridors, but it had a peculiar layout: two separate kitchens, one at the front for daily use, and another at the back, connected to a small dining room and a storeroom. We never used the back kitchen; it felt cold and damp, and the smell of salt and rust lingered there. The storeroom opposite it was equally neglected, and we dumped an old cot and some unused furniture there.

The landlord, a retired professor named Mr. Rao, lived in a smaller apartment at the rear of the property. He was a thin, stooped man with a nervous twitch, and he rarely spoke. His wife, we were told, had left him years ago, gone back to her village. There were rumors among the neighbors that she had died under mysterious circumstances, but no one dared to ask.

From the first night, I felt uneasy. There was a constant, faint scratching sound from the back kitchen, like nails on slate. My mother dismissed it as rats, but I knew better. I had grown up in army quarters, where rats were common, and this was different. It was rhythmic, almost deliberate, and it always stopped when I approached.

One afternoon, while exploring, I found a small ceramic fish on a shelf in the storeroom. It was a garish orange, with chipped paint and hollow eyes. I picked it up, and it felt unnaturally cold. That night, the scratching was louder, and I swear I heard a woman humming a lullaby from the back kitchen. The melody was haunting, and it seemed to come from directly beneath my bedroom floor.

Weeks passed, and the phenomena escalated. Doors would creak open on their own. The back kitchen’s taps would turn on, even though the mains was shut off. And the fish… I started finding it in different places: on the dining table, on my pillow, once even floating in a bucket of water in the back kitchen. My father insisted it was just my imagination, but his face grew pale each time he saw it.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard the humming again, and this time it was accompanied by a soft sobbing. I crept down the hall to the back kitchen. The door was ajar, and a faint blue light flickered from within. I pushed it open. The room was empty, but the storeroom door was open, and I saw a dark figure crouched over the cot, its back to me. It was wearing a white sari, and its hair was long and disheveled. I tried to call out, but my voice was a whisper. The figure slowly turned its head, and beneath the hair, there was no face—just a smooth, pale expanse where a face should be.

I ran back to my room and slammed the door. I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I told my parents, but my father said I had a nightmare. He had become distant, and I could see he was hiding something.

A month later, we decided to move out. The house was too big, and my father’s health was failing. But before we left, I found a diary in the back kitchen, hidden behind a loose tile. It belonged to Mr. Rao’s wife. The last entry read: ‘I cannot bear the silence. He watches me from the storeroom. The fish is a curse. It brought him here. I will break it, but I fear I am too weak. If anyone finds this, leave this place. Do not touch the fish. It is not a toy. It is his vessel.’

I closed the diary, my hands trembling. I looked at the shelf where the fish had been, but it was gone. That night, we stayed in a hotel, and I never returned. Years later, I still hear that humming in my dreams, and I see the faceless woman standing by my bed, holding the ceramic fish, its hollow eyes staring into mine. I have learned to live with it, but I cannot forget the warning: some houses are not built for the living, and some relics are better left buried.