The Hair Pull

I am a 20-year-old living in Kochi, Kerala, with my parents in a modest apartment on the fourth floor of a building called ‘Sree Padmam’. We’ve been here for fifteen years, ever since I was a child. My mother, an ardent devotee of Lord Ayyappa, has always been the spiritual compass of our home. My father, a pragmatic man who owns a small hardware shop, often dismisses her beliefs as superstition.

A few months ago, my mother began complaining of an odd sensation at night, like a cold breath on her neck even though the ceiling fan was off. She would wake up with her long, black hair tangled in knots, as if someone had been playing with it. At first, we thought it was just stress or bad dreams. But then, one night, I felt it too. I was in my room, reading under the dim lamp, when a sharp tug on my hair made me gasp. I spun around, but there was no one. I dismissed it as a stray strand catching on the headboard, but the unease lingered.

To soothe my mother, I started sleeping in her room. It had two single beds: mine by the window overlooking the courtyard, hers near the old teak wardrobe that had been in the family for generations. My father, ever the skeptic, moved into my room, joking about ‘ghost-proofing’ our home.

Life continued in this uneasy rhythm until two weeks ago. It was a hot, humid night, the kind that makes sleep impossible. My mother and I both lay awake, listening to the drone of a distant autorickshaw and the occasional bark of a stray dog. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, and I was just beginning to drift off when my mother let out a blood-curdling scream. I sat up, my heart pounding. She was clutching her scalp, her eyes wide with terror.

‘It pulled my hair!’ she shrieked, her voice trembling. ‘Something yanked my hair, so hard!’ She began chanting the Gayatri Mantra, her lips moving frantically, her fingers counting on the rudraksha beads she always wore. I joined her, my voice quivering, while my eyes darted around the room. The wardrobe stood dark and silent, the window curtain swayed gently from the fan’s breeze, but I felt a presence, cold and oppressive, pressing down on us.

The mantras seemed to work for a moment, but then I felt it. A sharp, violent pull on my ponytail, so strong that my head snapped back. I cried out and scrambled to the middle of my bed, my heart racing. My mother’s chanting grew louder, almost desperate. Then, as suddenly as it started, the feeling vanished. The room felt still, and the oppressive weight lifted.

We did not sleep that night. We sat huddled together, the lights on, whispering prayers until dawn. In the morning, we found strands of hair on both our pillows, long and black, as if torn from our scalps. My father, seeing our distress, reluctantly arranged for a priest to perform a pooja. The priest, after examining the room, said it was a restless spirit attached to the old wardrobe, perhaps a woman who had been wronged long ago. He told us to move the wardrobe out and cleanse the room.

The wardrobe was heavy, and it took four men to carry it down. Beneath it, we found a small, rusted iron box, sealed with a lock. When the priest opened it, he found an old photograph of a young woman with long, braided hair, and a lock of that same hair, tied with a red thread. The priest instructed us to immerse the box in the river, which we did. The hair pulling stopped after that, but I cannot forget the feeling of that phantom hand in my hair, and I still sleep with my hair tightly braided and tied in a cap, just in case.

Now, every night, I lie in my room by the window, glancing at the empty space where the wardrobe used to be, and I wonder if the spirit has truly found peace, or if she just moved on to find another victim.