The Concrete Circle

Nadia had always been a skeptic, but her best friend Rohan was a true believer in the paranormal. They were both engineering students in the sprawling city of Pune, and today they were on a mission to find a renowned eye hospital that Nadia’s mother had recommended. The address was on a crumpled prescription, and their GPS had led them to a bewildering maze of narrow lanes in the old part of the city.

It was a sweltering afternoon, the sun beating down on the tarred roads. They found themselves at a crossroads, the epicenter of which was a massive, weather-beaten concrete circle, cracked and stained. On top sat a broken statue of a plump, smiling god, its head missing, replaced by a nest of dried twigs and feathers. The surrounding buildings were a mix of crumbling colonial-era structures and modern, stark concrete blocks. The streets were oddly deserted, the usual cacophony of honking and shouting replaced by an unnerving stillness. Even the pigeons seemed to have fled.

Nadia glanced at her phone. No signal. ‘Great. Just great,’ she muttered. Rohan, who had been unusually quiet, pointed to a narrow road to their right. ‘The hospital should be down there. I remember seeing a signboard earlier.’ But as they walked, the road seemed to shrink, the buildings closing in on them like a tightening fist. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of damp plaster and old incense.

They came to a dead end, a towering wall of blackened stone blocked their path. A small, weathered plaque read ‘St. Ignatius Hospital – Abandoned.’ A chill ran down Nadia’s spine. ‘This isn’t right. The address said it’s still functioning.’ Rohan pulled out his phone, which was now flickering with static, and showed her the map. But the pin was exactly where they stood.

Suddenly, a faint, rhythmic thumping began, as if a giant heart pulsed beneath their feet. The sound seemed to come from the concrete circle they had just left. ‘We should go back,’ Nadia whispered, her voice trembling. But as they turned, they saw that the road behind them had vanished, replaced by a solid brick wall. They were trapped.

They were forced to retrace their steps, the thumping growing louder, more insistent. The concrete circle now seemed to glow with a sickly green light, and the headless statue appeared to be weeping, black tears streaking down its grime-covered face. The air grew colder, and the light dimmed as though the sun itself was being swallowed.

From the shadow of the statue, a figure emerged. It was a woman, gaunt and frail, wearing a tattered white saree that dragged on the ground. She moved ghost-like, her feet not quite touching the pavement. Her eyes were open but milky white, devoid of irises. She raised a skeletal hand and pointed a long, crooked finger directly at Nadia. ‘You. You must see,’ she rasped, her voice like the grinding of bones.

Nadia tried to scream, but no sound came out. Rohan, frozen beside her, could only manage a choked gasp. The woman began to circle the concrete ring, her finger tracing a path on the air, leaving a trail of glowing dust. Then, she stopped and gestured for them to follow. Without conscious thought, their legs moved, carrying them after the specter.

The woman led them down a spiraling staircase that appeared where the dead end had been, descending into a dark, musty underbelly. The walls were covered in ancient, peeling posters and faded graffiti. At the bottom was a small room, lit by a single, bare bulb swaying on a frayed wire. In the center stood an old ophthalmoscope, the kind doctors used decades ago. Its lens was covered in a thick layer of dust.

The woman pointed to the device, then to Nadia’s eyes. ‘Look. See what we see.’ Nadia, shaking uncontrollably, peered through the eyepiece. Through the lens, she saw not the blank wall ahead, but a vision of a bustling hospital ward, filled with patients. But all of them had their eyes sewn shut with coarse black thread. In the corner, a doctor—the same woman, but younger—was performing an operation on a screaming patient, his face contorted in agony. The patient’s eyes were being scooped out, and into each socket, the doctor was planting a tiny, wriggling seed.

Nadia stumbled back, gagging. Rohan caught her, his face pale as a sheet. The woman’s voice echoed in the small space, ‘This hospital was a front. We harvested eyes for the black market. My colleagues and I were paid well. But they buried us in this circle when the authorities came close. Now, I need new eyes to see the world again. Yours will do.’

With a scream, the woman lunged at them, her fingers like talons. But as she reached them, she dissolved into a swarm of black flies, buzzing angrily. The lights flickered, and the ground shook. A gaping crack split the floor, and they fell through into a dark pit.

They landed on a cold, hard surface, coughing and disoriented. They were back at the crossroads, but the concrete circle was gone. In its place was a fresh grave with a single tombstone: ‘Here lies the eyes of the innocent.’ Above them, in the sky, the sun was setting. The thumping had ceased.

Nadia and Rohan looked at each other, eyes wide with terror. They hurried away from the spot, never to return. But even as they left, Nadia felt a strange itch in her own eyes, and a faint whisper in her mind: ‘You will see what they see.’ She hasn’t been able to sleep since, always feeling that something is watching from the corners of her vision, waiting for her to fall asleep so it can take her sight.

Years later, Nadia returned to the spot, determined to uncover the truth. The concrete circle was still there, the statue intact. But as she approached, she saw a small plaque that read: ‘In memory of Dr. Anuja Sharma, who gave her sight to the needy.’ A chill ran down her spine. That was the name on the prescription she had been following. Her mother’s doctor.

Now, every time Nadia visits the hospital for her eye checkup, she looks into the ophthalmoscope and swears she sees the ghost of Dr. Sharma smiling back at her through the lens, her own eyes glowing with a malevolent fire. And she wonders if her mother’s operation years ago was as routine as they claimed. The suspicion gnaws at her, a constant, creeping doubt that maybe, just maybe, she is seeing the world through borrowed eyes.