The Humming from the Water Tower

My name is Arjun, and this happened the summer after my board exams, when I was staying at my grandmother’s ancestral home in a small town in Kerala. The house was a two-story colonial structure with a wide verandah and a flat terrace on top. During those hot nights, I often chose to sleep on the terrace, under the open sky, with a thin cotton sheet. The terrace was high, with views over the rooftops of the neighboring houses, and beyond them, a cluster of coconut trees and then the paddy fields.

One night, I woke up with a start. I glanced at my phone: 1:17 AM. The moon had set, and the terrace was cloaked in darkness. I sat up, listening. There it was again: a faint humming, like a low, broken melody, coming from somewhere off to the left. It was not the wind; the air was still. The humming was human, or at least it felt like it, but it had an unnatural quality, a kind of strained, wavering pitch that made my skin crawl.

I got up and walked to the parapet of the terrace, looking down. The street below was deserted, lit by a single flickering sodium lamp. The sound seemed to be coming from the old water tower that stood at the edge of our property, about a hundred meters away. The tower was an old British-era structure, made of brick, with a large iron tank on top. It had been disused for years, but that night, I could swear I saw a faint movement near its base.

I shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ The humming stopped abruptly. A chill ran down my spine. I waited, my heart pounding, but there was no response. I went back to my mat, trying to convince myself it was just a stray cat or a prank by some drunk. I forced my eyes shut but sleep did not come easily.

An hour later, I was still waking, and the humming started again. This time, it was louder, more urgent, and I could make out that it was coming from directly below the terrace. The sound resonated up through the floor, making the cement vibrate under my back. I leaned over the railing and saw a figure standing in the shadow of the water tower, looking up at me. It was a woman, draped in a white sari, her face hidden in the dark. She was humming, and her voice was now a clear, haunting melody that seemed to wrap around me.

I called out again, but she did not move. Instead, she raised her hand and pointed at me. Then, slowly, she began to ascend the side of the water tower, her body moving in an unnatural, jerky manner, as if she were a marionette. Within seconds, she was on top of the tower, and she continued to point at me, her humming growing into a high-pitched shriek that pierced my ears. I stumbled back, my legs shaking.

I rushed to the door that led down to the house, but it was locked from the outside. Panic flooded me. I had locked it myself before sleeping, but now the key was inside. I pounded on the door, shouting for my grandmother, but no sound came from the house. The shrieking stopped, and I turned to see the woman on the tower roof, now fully illuminated by a beam of moonlight that had broken through the clouds. Her face was a mask of dried skin, stretched over a skull, with empty eye sockets. She was not a woman; she was a cadaver, and she was grinning.

I grabbed the aluminum ladder that was kept on the terrace for maintenance, and with all my strength, I swung it at the parapet, trying to break it, to make a noise. The ladder clanged, but the woman remained still. Then, she began to descend from the tower, not gracefully, but in a series of convulsive jerks, each time landing on a lower beam of the tower’s structure. The sounds of her joints cracking echoed in the silence.

I had to get down. I looked over the edge. There was a ledge about two meters below, and then a drainpipe that led to the ground. With a deep breath, I climbed over the parapet and lowered myself to the ledge. My fingers scraped against the rough concrete, and I managed to grip the drainpipe. I slid down, the pipe burning my palms, and landed with a thud on the grass below. I ran to the front door of the house, which was ajar, and burst inside, slamming it shut.

I leaned against the door, panting. The humming, which had faded during my descent, now grew louder again, this time from inside the house. I could hear it coming from the corridor that led to my grandmother’s room. I crept toward it, my heart in my throat. The door to her room was slightly open, and I saw a figure lying on her bed, but it was not my grandmother. It was the woman, now soaked with water, her white sari dripping. She was humming softly, and her empty sockets were fixed on me.

I screamed and bolted to the kitchen, grabbing a steel spatula from the counter. I held it up like a weapon, but she was already gone. The house was silent again, except for the dripping of water from somewhere. I searched every room, but the house was empty. I found my grandmother sleeping restlessly in her bed; I woke her up, and told her what I saw. She looked at me with frightened eyes and said, ‘The water tower… the woman… she was a servant who was killed there many years ago. They never found her body. She hums when she wants to be heard.’

I didn’t sleep that night. We left for the city the next morning. By the time my college started, I had almost convinced myself it was a nightmare. But every now and then, when I close my eyes, I hear that humming, clear as a bell, and I know she is still there, waiting for someone to climb the water tower and give her a proper burial.