The Hollow Brick

It was the summer of 2019 when I, Arjun, along with my mother and younger sister, Priya, moved from the bustling heart of Kolkata to a quiet, almost forgotten suburb on the outskirts of Bengaluru. The financial strain had forced us to seek cheaper lodgings, and we found a surprisingly affordable flat in a building called ‘Meera Manor.’ The building itself was a relic of the 1980s, its paint faded to a sickly grey, and the stairwell was perpetually dim, lit by a single, flickering bulb that cast dancing shadows. My mother, a woman of strong intuition, hesitated, but the rent was a blessing, and the broker assured us the owner lived abroad and rarely visited.

Our first night was unsettling. The flat was large, but it felt hollow. The walls were bare, and the air was thick with a musty odor no amount of cleaning could banish. As I lay in bed, I heard a faint scratching sound coming from the walls, like nails being dragged across plaster. I dismissed it as rats, but it continued, rhythmic and steady, seeming to follow me as I moved from room to room. The next morning, Priya, who had slept with the lights on, complained of nightmares, but she couldn’t remember what they were about.

Days passed, and the building’s peculiarities grew. The other residents, a handful of elderly folks and a young couple with a toddler, kept to themselves, offering only curt nods when we passed. The building’s only lift was perpetually out of order, and the stairwell’s single light often failed, plunging us into pitch blackness. Once, as I climbed to the fourth floor, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, but when I turned, there was no one. I told myself it was my imagination, but a creeping unease began to settle over us.

One evening, while searching for a lost button, I found a loose brick in the living room wall, behind the old television stand. Curious, I pulled it out and discovered a small, rusted tin box. Inside was an old photograph of a family, a man, a woman, and a child, all smiling, and a yellowed piece of paper with a single name: ‘Rhea.’ On the back of the photo was written, ‘We are sorry, Meera.’ My blood ran cold. Meera was the name of the building, and the owner’s name, as per the registry, was a man named Vinod.

That night, the scratching intensified, and I heard a child’s laughter echoing from the empty apartment above. I decided to investigate. The stairs to the top floor were blocked by a heavy iron gate, rusted shut. As I rattled it, a soft sobbing began on the other side. I froze, my heart pounding. The sobbing grew louder, then transformed into a raspy whisper that seemed to slither through the cracks: ‘She’s still here.’ I ran back to our flat, bolting the door behind me.

The next day, I questioned our neighbor, Mrs. Nair, an old widow who had lived there since the beginning. She avoided my eyes and muttered, ‘The child was neglected. The mother died of grief. It’s best not to disturb them.’ When I pressed her for more, she clamped her mouth shut and refused to speak further.

That evening, as the sun set, I saw her—a small, translucent girl standing in the corridor, clutching a ragdoll. Her eyes were dark pits, and she pointed to the wall where I’d found the box. In a voice that was both childlike and ancient, she said, ‘You took her picture. Now she’s angry.’ I felt a chill run down my spine, and I knew I had to leave.

We packed hastily, but as we were about to leave, the door jammed. No matter how hard I pulled, it wouldn’t budge. From the living room, I heard a crash. I ran to find the brick back in place, but now it was smeared with red, like old blood. The photograph of the family was lying on the floor, the glass shattered, and the faces had been scratched out. Priya was crying, and my mother was praying fervently.

As the night deepened, we heard a woman’s voice singing a lullaby, off-key, from the dark corners of the flat. The scratching became a cacophony, and the air grew icy. I realized that the hollow brick was a gateway, and we had unknowingly disturbed a sorrow that had festered for years. Rhea, the child, and her mother, were trapped, and now they wanted us to share their prison.

At dawn, the door finally opened, and we fled without looking back, leaving behind all our belongings. I have never returned to Meera Manor, but to this day, I wake up in cold sweats, hearing that faint, insistent scratching, and the whisper that follows me, no matter where I live: ‘You took her picture. Now she’s angry.’