The Fourth Room

It was a Tuesday when I decided to visit Mira at her new flat in the quiet suburb of Kothrud, Pune. The building, called ‘Sai Residency,’ was a recent construction, all pale yellow walls and gleaming tiles. Mira and her husband, Raj, had moved in just two months ago. I arrived as the evening settled, the streetlights flickering on in amber rows. Mira hugged me at the door, her face bright. ‘Finally, you came! I’ve made chicken curry, your favorite,’ she said. We ate dinner, the three of us, on the balcony overlooking a small, cluttered courtyard. The conversation was warm, filled with updates on my nephew’s school and Raj’s new job. As the clock nudged past ten-thirty, Mira insisted I stay. ‘It’s too late for the train to Andheri,’ she warned. ‘The next one’s at midnight, and you’ll be exhausted.’ I hesitated, but the thought of the long journey swayed me. They gave me the hall, which doubled as a guest room, with a large, plush sofa that turned into a bed. Their bedroom was directly next to it, separated by a thin wall. I agreed, they retired, and I lay down, the whisper of the ceiling fan the only sound.

I must have dozed off around eleven, the hum of the city fading into a dull pulse. Then, it began. I was not asleep, not fully awake, but in that fugue state between dreams and consciousness. I felt a pressure on my right wrist, then on my left. Cold, firm, as if invisible hands had clasped each arm. They began to pull, slowly at first, then with increasing force, stretching my limbs in opposite directions. The pressure built, a dull ache that grew into a sharp, tearing pain. I tried to open my eyes, to move, to scream, but my body was leaden. The pull intensified, and I heard a low, rhythmic chant, like many voices murmuring in a language I didn’t understand, just at the edge of hearing. It was as if the very air around me had thickened and was trying to tug me apart. I managed to gasp, a strangled sound, and the pressure snapped. I sat up, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. I fumbled for the lamp switch, flooding the room with harsh yellow light. The room was empty. Curtains still, sofa intact, no one. I told myself it was a nightmare, a trick of the spicy food, a result of exhaustion. I lay back down, determined to shake it off.

I slept again, or tried to. The light remained on. But the sensation returned. This time, it was not just my arms. Something pressed down on my chest, like a heavy weight, while my hands were pinned to my sides. The chanting was louder, more insistent. I forced my eyes open, and in the dim light beyond the lamp’s halo, I saw the shadows of the furniture stretching into grotesque shapes. One shadow, near the window, seemed to detach from the curtains, forming a tall, thin figure, head bowed. It did not move, but it watched me. The pressure on my chest increased, making it hard to breathe. I couldn’t speak; my jaw was clenched as if wired shut. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. I leapt up, scrambled to the light switch, and turned on every light in the room. The figure was gone. But on my right arm, distinct red marks, like finger bruises, were beginning to form.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I sat on the edge of the bed, lights blazing, watching the door to Mira’s room. At dawn, I examined my arms again. The marks were faint, but unmistakable. I knocked on their door, and Mira emerged, yawning. ‘You’re up early. Did you sleep well?’ she asked. I showed her my arms, told her about the night. She stared at the marks, her face paling. ‘I knew it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s happened to me too.’ We sat at the kitchen table as she confessed. Two weeks ago, she had the same experience, but only once, and she thought it was a bad dream. Raj had started sleeping in the study for the past week because he felt uneasy in that room, the ‘fourth room,’ as the building’s caretaker had warned him. ‘This flat had a history,’ Mira said. ‘The previous tenant, an old widow, died here. They say she was possessed, and the last few months she’d often talk to herself, saying ‘they’re pulling me, they’re pulling me.’ Our neighbor, Mrs. Kulkarni, says she used to hear her screaming at night.’ I felt a cold knot in my stomach. The chanting I’d heard, the pull, the marks—it was all so real. I packed my things that morning, took an early train back to Mumbai. But the marks on my arms faded only after a week, and in the months since, I’ve been unable to shake the feeling that something had tried to take me apart. I don’t know if it was a ghost or a curse, but I know it was real. And I know I will never sleep in that room again.