The Ladder to the Loft

My grandmother used to tell me about the summer she turned twelve, the summer the Kulkarni family’s old wada in the dusty town of Satara felt more like a prison than a home. The wada was a sprawling, crumbling structure of teak and stone, built before the turn of the century. It housed four generations, and the air always smelled of old wood, spices, and something faintly medicinal. But the place that drew my grandmother’s—her name was Meera—attention was the storeroom in the backyard.

It was a two-storied building, the ground floor filled with rusted tools, broken furniture, and sacks of grain that had long since turned to dust. The upper floor was accessible only by a rickety wooden ladder that was kept inside, and the entrance was a square flap in the ceiling. That flap was always locked with a heavy iron latch, and no one ever went up. The bathrooms, two small rooms with brick walls and tin roofs, were built against the back of the storeroom, so that their high, narrow windows faced the storeroom’s side. If you stood on the bathroom’s ledge, you could see the storeroom’s upper window, which was always shut.

Meera’s curiosity was piqued by the mystery. She had heard the older women whisper about the storeroom’s history—how it was once used to store grain for the family, but now it was just a neglected relic. But it was her cousin, Ravi, two years older, who told her the wilder tales. He claimed that at night, if you went to the bathroom and listened carefully, you could hear sounds from the storeroom—a low hum, like a lullaby, or sometimes a soft scratching, as if something were crawling on the wooden floor above.

Meera dismissed it as Ravi’s mischief. Until one evening, she was the last one in the backyard, having slipped out to avoid helping with the dishes. The sun was setting, and long shadows stretched across the yard. She was washing her hands at the tap near the bathroom when she heard it—a faint, rhythmic thumping coming from the storeroom. She froze, the water running cold over her fingers. The thumping was steady, like a heartbeat, and it seemed to come from the upper floor. She looked up at the window, which was now covered in a veil of dusk. But then she saw something—a pale shape, just for an instant, pressing against the grimy glass, and then gone.

Meera’s heart hammered. She told herself it was a bird, or a trick of the light. But that night, she couldn’t sleep. The next day, she decided to investigate. She found the key to the storeroom’s lock in a drawer in the kitchen, hidden behind a pile of old newspapers. She waited until the afternoon when everyone was napping. The storeroom was stuffy and dim, filled with the scent of dust and decay. She saw the ladder, propped against a wall, and the flap above it. She dragged the ladder to the center, climbed up, and with a surge of effort, unlatched the flap. It creaked open, and a puff of warm air blew down, carrying a stale, sweetish smell.

She climbed into the loft. It was not what she expected. It was bare, with a wooden floor, and a single window covered in grime. On the far side, she saw old trunks and a wooden cot. On the cot lay a figure—a woman, old and wizened, with skin like parchment, and hair that was long and silver. She was wearing a faded black sari, and her eyes were closed. Meera’s breath caught. She had never seen this woman before. She thought she might be a distant relative, but she knew all the family. Then the old woman’s eyes opened. They were a milky white, like cataracts, but they seemed to look right at Meera.

The old woman smiled, a thin, lipless smile, and beckoned with a bony finger. Meera stood frozen, her mind screaming to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The old woman spoke, her voice a dry rasp, ‘You see me, child? No one has seen me in years. They think I am a ghost, but I am real. They tried to make me forget, but I remember everything. I know the secrets of this house, the things your family has hidden.’ Meera felt a cold dread seep into her bones. She wanted to leave, but the old woman continued, ‘They say I died in the great fire of ’29, but I did not. They built the bathroom to hide me, but the god of the house found me, and I have been here, waiting.’

Meera’s mind raced. She had heard of the great fire—it had destroyed the back part of the wada, and the storeroom was the only thing that survived. But the stories said that old Grandmother Kulkarni had died in that fire, trapped in the loft. The family had never rebuilt, and the storeroom was left as a memorial. But this woman was alive. Meera managed to stammer, ‘Who are you?’ The old woman answered, ‘I am Shakuntala. I was the first wife of your great-grandfather. They found a girl locked in the loft, and they thought I was a witch. So they kept me here, and when they moved on, they forgot me. But I have not forgotten them. I have watched them all, through the window. I have counted their sins.’

Meera stumbled back, and the flap slammed shut behind her, as if by a gust of wind. She tore her way down the ladder, ran out of the storeroom, and slammed the door. She didn’t tell anyone, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. That night, she heard the humming again. It drifted from the bathroom window, and she saw a flicker of light in the storeroom’s upper window, as if a candle was burning. She pulled her blanket over her head and tried to sleep.

The next morning, she found Ravi in the backyard, looking pale. He whispered, ‘Did you go up?’ Meera nodded. Ravi said, ‘I did too, last week. There’s a woman up there. She told me not to tell anyone. She said she would come out if we told.’ Meera felt a chill. ‘We have to tell someone,’ she said. But Ravi shook his head, ‘No. She said if we tell, the family will curse us. She says she’s been here for decades, and she will stay until the last one leaves.’

Meera was torn. She felt a strange pity for the woman, but also a deep fear. She decided to confront her again, to ask what she really wanted. This time, she went to the storeroom, but the door was locked from the inside. She pressed her ear to the wood and heard the humming again, now closer. Then a voice, not the old woman’s, but a chorus of whispers, ‘Let us in. We are the forgotten ones.’ Meera ran.

She told her grandmother, the one who was still living then, and the grandmother’s face turned ashen. She said, ‘I knew it. I knew she was still there.’ When Meera asked who, the grandmother said, ‘Shakuntala. She was my mother’s half-sister. She was engaged to your great-grandfather, but she was believed to be possessed. They locked her up, and during the fire, they left her. I was only a child, but I never forgot.’ Meera asked, ‘What should we do?’ The grandmother said, ‘We must open the storeroom and let her out. She has been a prisoner long enough.’

That evening, the whole family gathered at the storeroom. The men broke the lock with an axe, and the door swung open. The air was thick with dust and something else—a sweetness, like rotting flowers. The ladder was still there, and the flap was open. Meera’s grandfather climbed up, and after a moment, he called down, ‘She’s not here. But there’s a door in the floor that leads to a tunnel.’ Meera’s family hurried to see. They found that part of the flooring had been lifted, revealing a dark hole. The old woman had apparently escaped—or been taken—through a hidden passage that led to the old well in the courtyard.

They searched the well, but found nothing. That night, Meera lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She heard a soft knocking on her window. She turned, and outside, standing in the moonlight, was the old woman, now looking cleaner and stronger, but with a wild look in her eyes. She mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ and then she vanished into the shadows. Meera never saw her again, but that summer left a scar. Years later, when the wada was sold and the family moved, they discovered a walled-up room in the main house, with a skeleton sitting on a chair, an old diary beside it. The diary was written by Shakuntala, describing how she had been driven insane by the family’s cruelty, and how she had planned a revenge that she never carried out.

Meera’s grandmother always said, ‘We were lucky she was kind. But the dead do not always forgive.’ And to this day, Meera, now old herself, says that sometimes, when the wind blows just right, she can hear the humming from the storeroom, even though the building is gone. And she wonders if the forgotten ones are ever truly set free.