The Girl with the Brass Locket

The monsoon had carved a new channel through the red earth, and the air in my aunt’s compound smelled of wet clay and frangipani. I’d flown in from California, my skin still tight with airplane dryness, my mind still humming with the noise of the freeway. Kerala wrapped around me like a damp, green blanket. My aunt’s house, a two-story relic of my grandfather’s time, stood at the end of a gravel path lined with areca palms. The walls were painted a faded ochre, and the windows had wooden shutters that rattled when the wind picked up. It was familiar, and strange, all at once.

That afternoon, after the obligatory round of greetings and the sweet, milky chai, I found myself sitting on the back steps, watching the rain stitch the paddy fields together. A memory surfaced, unbidden—I was five, maybe six, visiting with my parents. We’d been driving through a dusty market town, and through the car window I’d seen two children, a girl and a boy, both in torn, colorless clothes. They’d been standing by a broken cart, their eyes following our car with a flat, hungry look. My mother had rolled down the window and pressed some rupees into the girl’s hand. The girl had clutched the bills, but her eyes never left mine. She’d worn a thin brass locket on a string around her neck, tarnished and dull. That image had stuck with me, a small, sharp splinter of guilt and curiosity.

My eldest aunt, Malathi, had given me the single room that belonged to my cousin, Devi, who had married and moved to Trivandrum. The room was at the back of the house, overlooking a narrow courtyard where a lone coconut palm grew. The bed was enormous, piled with pillows that smelled of sun-dried cotton and lavender. I was grateful for the privacy. My brothers would be sharing a room across the hall, and the younger cousins were in another. For the first time in days, I could breathe. I unpacked, arranged my things on the teak dresser, and lay on the bed, feeling the cool sheets against my skin. The fan above me whirred in a slow, hypnotic circle.

That night, the house settled into a quiet hum. The rain had stopped, and the frogs were starting their chorus. I read for a while, then turned off the lamp. The darkness was total, the kind you only get in the countryside, where no streetlight bleeds through the curtains. I was just drifting off when I heard a faint, rhythmic ticking, like a clock, but softer. It came from the wall beside the bed. I sat up, listening. The sound was regular, almost like a fingernail tapping on wood. I remembered Devi had told me once that her room had a strange echo at night, but she’d laughed it off as rats in the roof. I lay back down, pulling the sheet over my shoulder, and tried to ignore it. The ticking continued, steady, patient.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I was awake in the pitch black, and the ticking had stopped. In its place was a whispering, so faint I couldn’t make out words. It seemed to come from the corner of the room, near the window. My heart began to pound. I fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand, clicking it on. The room was empty. The window was shut, the curtains still. But on the wooden floor, just below the window, there was a small, tarnished brass locket, exactly like the one I remembered from the girl in the market. I stared at it, my breath catching. There was no way it could be there. I hadn’t brought such a thing. I hadn’t seen one in years.

I got out of bed, my legs shaky, and knelt down. The locket was cool to the touch, and it opened easily. Inside, there was a faded photograph, the kind that’s sepia-toned and ancient. It showed a girl and a boy, both thin, both with the same hollow eyes I remembered. The girl wore the locket. The boy held a small wooden cart. My stomach turned. I snapped the locket shut and put it on the nightstand, telling myself it was a coincidence, a remnant of my cousin’s childhood, maybe. But I knew it wasn’t. I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the ticking returned, but now it was faster, more insistent.

The next day, I asked Malathi about the room. ‘Did Devi ever have any strange things in there? Old jewelry, maybe?’ Malathi, a plump woman with a gentle face, frowned. ‘Why? Did you find something?’ I hesitated, then told her about the locket. To my surprise, she paled. ‘That locket,’ she said slowly, ‘belonged to a girl called Leela. She and her brother, Ravi, used to beg near the market. They had no parents, no one. Your grandfather used to give them food sometimes. One day, they stopped coming. No one knows what happened to them. But Devi, when she was a child, she used to have nightmares about a girl in that room, a girl who would count her fingers and ask for a locket back. We thought it was just childish fear.’ My blood ran cold. I had found the locket in the room, but I hadn’t told her exactly where. I hadn’t mentioned the photograph. I simply said, ‘I found it on the floor, near the window.’ Malathi looked at me with a strange mix of pity and fear. ‘Please, be careful. Some things are better left alone.’

That night, I put the locket back on the nightstand, intending to return it to the market, to find some way to honor whatever was happening. But as I lay in bed, the gaslight from the streetlamp outside cast a dim glow into the room. I heard footsteps, soft and barefoot, padding around the bed. I froze, not daring to move. The footsteps stopped at the foot of the bed. A small voice, a child’s, whispered, ‘You have my locket. Give it back.’ I clutched the sheets, my heart thudding. I whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it. I’ll leave it for you.’ The voice didn’t answer. I felt a cold hand press against my ankle, and then it was gone. The room was silent except for the ticking, which had slowed to a single, mournful tick every few seconds.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the chair by the window, watching the courtyard, waiting for dawn. When the first pale light crept in, I took the locket and walked to the market. It was early, and the stalls were just setting up. I found an old man who sold trinkets, and I asked him if he knew about Leela and Ravi. He looked at me with rheumy eyes and said, ‘Ah, yes. The orphans. They died of cholera in the next village, poor souls. No one buried them properly. Their souls, they say, still wander, looking for their only possession.’ I handed him the locket and asked him to give it to them, to bury it in the earth near the old well. He nodded, taking it with reverent hands. ‘I will see it done.’

I went back to my aunt’s house, feeling a strange exhaustion. That night, I expected the room to be still, but as I lay in bed, the ticking started again. But this time, it was different—it was a gentle, steady beat, like a heart. And I heard a soft sigh, almost contented. The footsteps padded around the bed, but they didn’t stop. They moved to the door, and then the voice, softer now, said, ‘Thank you.’ Then nothing. The room was quiet. I slept, finally, a deep and dreamless sleep.

The next morning, I noticed the brass locket was gone from the altar where I’d left it. I never told anyone else about it. But I knew, in my bones, that the girl had received her due. And I knew that I would never forget her face, the face in the photograph, which now had a smile in my memory, a smile I hadn’t seen before. I returned to California a week later, but the experience stayed with me. I think about her often, especially when I see a child in need. And I wonder if, somewhere, she is at peace, her locket finally back where it belongs.