The Eternal Chat

My name is Arjun, and I’m 23, living in a cramped flat in the outskirts of Bhubaneswar, a city that has its own share of old, half-remembered tales. I work as a content writer, so my life revolves around screens and deadlines. My only solace is late-night scrolling, especially through social media, where I can pretend to be more social than I actually am. Among my few online friends is Meera, a girl I’ve known since college. She has a laugh that could light up a room, but I was always too shy to tell her how I felt. We’d talk for hours about everything and nothing, and I cherished those little chats.

Then, one rainy Tuesday, a call came. Meera had been hit by a car while crossing the road near her office. She didn’t survive. The news hit me like a physical blow. I cried, I raged, and I spent days in a haze. But life moves on, even when you don’t want it to. After a few weeks of grie, I returned to my nightly routine, though the joy had faded.

One night, as I was about to sign off, I saw her name at the top of my friend list, right where it always used to be. My heart lurched. She couldn’t be online. Her family had deactivated her account, or so I’d heard. I stared at the green dot beside her name, my cursor hovering over her profile. Could it be a hack? A cruel prank? I clicked on her chat window, and there, in the grey background, was the blinking cursor, waiting for me.

I typed, almost involuntarily: ‘Meera? Is that you?’

The reply came instantly. ‘Yeah, Arjun. I’m here.’

My blood ran cold. I knew it couldn’t be her. But my fingers moved on their own, typing questions only she would know the answers to: ‘What was the name of the song we danced to at Rahul’s wedding?’ She replied correctly. ‘What did I say when you told me you were scared of the dark?’ She knew. A chill slithered down my spine. This couldn’t be coincidence.

We chatted for hours that night, and every night after. It felt like she was truly back. She asked about my day, teased me about my procrastination, and seemed to know things only she could know. But sometimes, there were off moments. She’d pause for too long, or send a message that was slightly out of character. Once, she asked me to meet her at the old railway station, the one that had been abandoned for decades. I laughed it off, but she persisted.

‘Please, Arjun. I need to see you. There’s something I have to tell you.’

I was torn. The rational part of my brain screamed it was a scam, a virus. But the desperate, lonely part of me wanted to believe. After a week of her begging, I finally agreed.

That night, I drove to the station. It was just past midnight, the moon hidden behind clouds. The station was a skeleton of rust and vines, the platforms cracked and overgrown. I saw a figure standing under the broken signal light, its back to me. My heart pounded. As I approached, the figure turned slowly. It was Meera, but not as I remembered. Her face was pale, her eyes empty, and she wore a dress I’d seen in her old pictures, but it was soaked.

She smiled, but it was a grotesque, wide smile. ‘You came,’ she said, her voice hollow, echoing as if from a deep well. I tried to speak, but my words stuck in my throat. She stepped closer, and I saw that her feet were not touching the ground. She was hovering, just an inch above the gravel.

‘I’m sorry, Arjun. I didn’t want to scare you,’ she said, her tone shifting to something sorrowful. ‘But I need your help.’

I finally found my voice. ‘What… what happened to you?’

She looked down at her soaked dress. ‘The accident wasn’t an accident. Someone pushed me. And they’re still out there.’

My mind raced. ‘Who?’

‘You know him. Rajat.’

Rajat was a mutual friend, a guy who’d always been a little too jealous of my closeness with Meera. He’d tried to break us up once, and I’d told him to back off. Now, the pieces began to fit. Meera had told me she was scared of Rajat, but I’d dismissed it.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

‘Find the proof. In my locker at work. There’s a diary. It has everything. Please, Arjun. I can’t rest until he’s brought to justice.’

I nodded, tears in my eyes. I would do anything for her, even now.

I went to her office the next day, claiming I needed to collect her things for her family. I found the diary in her locker, hidden under a stack of files. I read it that night. It detailed how Rajat had threatened her, how he’d been stalking her, and how she’d feared for her life. I copied the pages and gave them to the police. With the evidence, they reopened the case, and Rajat was arrested. The trial was swift.

After that, the messages stopped. Meera’s name went grey on my list. I knew she was gone for good this time. But I felt a strange peace. I had done what she asked.

Yet, one night, three weeks later, I opened Facebook to find a new message from her. It was a voice message. I pressed play, expecting a final thank you. Instead, I heard a distorted, screeching sound, then Rajat’s voice, but twisted: ‘You think you’ve won, Arjun? She’s mine now. And you’ll never be free of me.’ Then silence.

I clicked her profile. It was gone, permanently deleted. But I knew, deep down, that this wasn’t over. The chats we’d had were not just from her spirit. Something else had been using her name, and it was still lurking in the digital shadows. I deleted my social media accounts that night. I tried to bury myself in work, but every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped.

A week later, I received a friend request from a new account: ‘Rosy’. The profile picture was of a girl in a rain-soaked dress, her face obscured. I stared at it, my finger hovering over the ‘Delete’ button. But a message came through before I could act: ‘Arjun, why did you leave me? I’m still here, waiting for you.’

I felt the cold creeping up my spine. The cursor in the chat box blinked at me, patient, hungry. I knew I shouldn’t respond, but I could feel myself being drawn in, the same overwhelming curiosity and fear that had led me to the station. I typed, ‘Leave me alone.’

The reply came instantly: ‘You can’t ignore me, Arjun. We have so much more to talk about.’

I shut my laptop, but the message echoed in my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was not Meera, not even her spirit, but something darker, something that wore her face to get to me. And I had the sinking realization that Rajat’s warning was true: I would never be free. The chat window might close, but the conversation was eternal.