The Chalked Circle

The hostel at Nilgiri Hills Engineering College was a squat grey block, its windows like tired eyes staring out over the tea plantations that rolled down to the valley. My room, number 307, was on the third floor, at the far end of a corridor that smelled of damp concrete and old cooking. The back windows faced the fields, a patchwork of green and brown stretching to the treeline, where the forest began its dark tangle.

I was a night owl by necessity. The Wi-Fi was a joke during the day, but at 3 a.m., when everyone else was asleep, it hummed with a speed that made downloading possible. That night, I was hunkered in the corridor outside my room, sitting on the cold floor with my back against the wall, scrolling through a torrent site for some obscure indie film. The blue glow of my phone lit my face, and the silence of the hostel was absolute, broken only by the occasional distant bark of a dog or the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

At 3:30, exhaustion hit me like a wave. My eyes burned, and my neck ached. I switched off the download, pocketed my phone, and stood up. The need to pee was sudden, urgent, a pressing reminder that my bladder had been ignored too long. The restroom was at the other end of the corridor, past the staircase, past the row of closed doors. I was a jumpy person, always imagining shapes in the dark, but nature called, and I answered.

The corridor was long, lit by a single fluorescent tube at the far end that flickered and buzzed. My footsteps echoed on the worn linoleum, each step a small slap that seemed too loud. Halfway down, I passed the window that faced the fields. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the fields were a black void, but I saw something that made me stop: a faint, pale circle on the ground, right below the window, glowing as if it were chalked in moonlight. I squinted, but it was just a smudge, perhaps a reflective patch from a drop of water. I shook my head and continued.

The restroom door was open, a gap of darkness. I pushed it, and the light flickered on, revealing the rows of stalls and sinks. The air was cool, and the tiles gleamed under the harsh light. I entered a stall, did my business, and washed my hands. As I dried them under the noisy hand dryer, I heard it: a soft scratching, like nails on a blackboard, coming from the far end of the restroom, beyond the row of stalls. My heart skipped. I clicked off the dryer and listened. The scratching stopped. ‘Just a rat,’ I said aloud, my voice echoing. I turned to leave.

As I stepped out of the restroom, I caught a glimpse of the corridor through the door frame. It was empty, but the fluorescent tube at the far end was now dark, plunging that section into shadow. The restroom light spilled out, making my own shadow stretch long behind me. I moved forward, my footsteps quicker now. As I passed the window again, I looked out, and there it was again: that pale circle, more distinct this time, about a foot in diameter, glowing faintly. And in the center of it, I swear I saw the outline of a hand, fingers spread, pressed flat against the glass as if someone was pushing from the outside. But we were on the third floor. I blinked, and it was gone.

I backed away, my heart hammering. I hurried toward my room, but as I passed room 308, I noticed something odd: a small chalk mark on the doorframe, a rough circle with a cross inside. I hadn’t seen that before. The door was ajar, a thin sliver of darkness. I knew that room was empty, its occupant had dropped out a week ago and no one had moved in. I couldn’t help myself; I pushed the door open. The room was bare, except for a single bed and a desk. On the desk, in chalk, was a circle with a handprint inside, and below it, a single word: ‘Aarogam’. I had no idea what it meant, but a cold dread settled in me.

I slammed the door shut and ran to my room, fumbling with the lock. Once inside, I leaned against the door, breathing hard. I checked my window, which faced the back field. Below, in the darkness, I saw a faint glow from my neighbor’s room, but that was normal. Then my eyes caught something on the floor near my bed: a fine white dust, forming a perfect circle about a foot in diameter. I stared at it, and slowly, like a photograph developing, a handprint appeared in the center, darker against the white dust. I screamed, a short, sharp sound that died in my throat.

I grabbed my phone, hands shaking. The screen flickered, and behind me, in the reflection, I saw the door slowly opening. I spun around. The door was closed, but through the frosted glass panel, I saw a dark figure, tall and thin, standing just outside. It didn’t move, just stood there, as if waiting. I whispered, ‘Who is it?’ No answer. The figure began to raise its hand, and against the glass, it pressed a palm, which glowed with a faint white light, leaving behind a chalky residue in the shape of a circle. I watched in horror as the hand drew a circle around itself, then a line through it, and the word ‘Aarogam’ scrawled beneath it.

I rushed to the door and put my eye to the peephole. The corridor was empty. I unlocked the door and swung it open. Nothing. But on the outside of my door, in chalk, was the same symbol. I looked down the corridor, and I saw that every door now had the symbol on it, all the way to the dark end. And then I heard it again: the scratching, coming from behind me, from the window. I turned, and through the glass, I saw the fields, and in the center of the field, a huge circle marked in white, with a figure standing in the middle, looking up at me. It raised its hand, and on the palm, I saw a glowing white circle.

I ran out of my room, down the corridor, past the doors with their symbols, toward the staircase. But when I reached the top of the stairs, I saw that the steps were covered in white chalk dust, and on the wall, again, the circle. I descended, slipping, my foot breaking a circle on the step. The ground floor was silent, and the front door was open, letting in the cold night air. I ran out into the cold, the gravel biting my bare feet. Behind me, the hostel stood silent, but I knew I had to keep running.

I ran through the campus, past the abandoned buildings, until I reached the main gate. The watchman’s cabin was dimly lit, and I banged on the door. The old watchman opened, sleepy-eyed. ‘What’s the matter, boy?’ he asked. I babbled about the symbols, the figure. He frowned and said, ‘Aarogam? That’s an old village word, meaning ‘the one who is not to be named.’ The farmers say that if you see the circle, it’s an invitation. But I always thought it was just a tale to scare children.’ He handed me a cup of water, and as I drank, I saw him look out into the darkness, his face pale.

I stayed in the watchman’s cabin until dawn. When I finally worked up the courage to go back to my room, I found the chalk dust gone. My door was clean. But on my pillow lay a small piece of white chalk, and on the wall above my bed, the symbol was drawn. I packed my bags that day, and I never spent another night in that hostel. To this day, I still carry the chalk in a jar on my nightstand, a reminder of what I saw. And every time I close my eyes, I see that hand, pressing against the window, drawing its circle, inviting me to something I will never understand.