The Face in the Fountain

I was nineteen when it happened, two years ago, in the city of Jaipur. I was a student at a prestigious performing arts academy in the heart of the old city, and my dance classes ran from 5 to 7 in the evening. But as a senior, I often stayed late, practicing for the upcoming state-level competition. The academy was housed in a centuries-old haveli, its sandstone walls now caked with grime, its courtyard dominated by a dry, ornate fountain that hadn’t seen water in decades. The area around it was always buzzing with activity – a bustling market, street vendors, and tourists – so it was never truly lonely.

One evening, after an intense rehearsal, I and three friends lingered in the courtyard, taking pictures by the fountain under the dim, flickering floodlights. It was around 9 PM. I leaned against the fountain’s edge, the cool stone pressing into my back, and smiled for a flurry of selfies. We laughed, joked, and finally went our separate ways. I didn’t think much of it until later that night, when I scrolled through the photos.

In one picture, my smile froze on my lips. Behind me, in the grainy darkness of the fountain’s basin, there was a face. Not a face of any of my friends – they were all standing to my left. This face was pale, gaunt, with hollow eye sockets and a mouth twisted into a grotesque grin. It seemed to be emerging from the stone itself, as if a person were trapped inside the fountain, pressing against the inside of the sculpture. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, but I convinced myself it was a trick of light and shadow, maybe a leaf or a bird. I deleted the photo and tried to forget.

But the next week, we had another late rehearsal. This time, I was alone in the courtyard, waiting for a friend to finish a phone call. I decided to take a breather and sat on the edge of the dry fountain. I absentmindedly pulled out my phone and opened the camera, pointing it at the empty basin just for fun. The screen flickered, and I saw a face – the same face – staring back at me from the darkness of the basin. I looked up, but the basin was empty. I looked back at the screen, and it was still there, its grin widening. I dropped my phone, scrambled to my feet, and ran inside, my heart hammering.

My friend found me shaking in the corridor. She asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak. I just showed her the photo I had accidentally taken – the one with the face. She looked at it, puzzled, then said, ‘It’s just a shadow, maybe from the tree.’ But I knew it wasn’t.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the face, and I remembered an old legend I had heard about the haveli. It was said that a woman had been drowned in the fountain by her lover during the British era, and her spirit never left. But I had always dismissed it as a ghost story for tourists.

A few weeks later, I returned to the academy for a late practice session. I avoided the fountain, but as I was leaving, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. In the courtyard, near the fountain, stood a figure in a white saree, drenched, with long black hair covering her face. The same pale face emerged from behind the hair, that sickening grin. I froze. The figure pointed a finger at me, and I saw its lips move as if speaking, but no sound came. I ran, and I never looked back.

I told the academy director, but he dismissed it as a stress-induced hallucination. I stopped staying late after that. I never went near that fountain again. But to this day, whenever I see a picture of myself, I search the background for that face. And sometimes, in my dreams, I see the face pressed against the inside of my mirror, its hollow eyes watching me, its grin growing wider, as if it knows I’ll be back.