The Lamp on the Landing

I had never believed in ghosts, not really. I’d heard the stories, of course, shared around campfires and at family gatherings, but I always dismissed them as folklore, the fanciful inventions of overactive imaginations. That was before I moved into the old colonial bungalow in the hill station of Kalimpong, in the year 2012, with my husband Arjun and our six-year-old son, Rohan. Arjun had been transferred to a new posting, and we were allotted a government house, a sprawling, two-story structure that had been built during the British Raj. It was called ‘Rosewood’ for the rosewood trees that lined the driveway, but the name felt ironic. The house was in a state of disrepair, with peeling paint, creaking floorboards, and a musty smell that clung to everything.

We lived on the first floor, in the three rooms that were in the best condition. The ground floor had a large drawing room, a verandah, and a small room at the back where our househelp, Kamla, stayed. The stairs were the most distinctive feature of the house. They began in the entrance verandah, wide and wooden, with a graceful curve that led upward. Halfway up, there was a landing where the stairs turned sharply, and on that landing was a small alcove where I had set up a tiny puja room, with a small brass lamp and a picture of the goddess. The stairs continued from there to the first floor.

One evening, a few weeks after we had settled in, I was walking down the stairs, a cup of tea in my hand, when I noticed something odd. The brass lamp in the puja alcove, which I kept lit at all times, was flickering, though there was no draft. I stood there for a moment, watching it, and then I felt a chill run down my spine, as if someone had walked past me, though I was alone. I dismissed it as my imagination, and continued to the kitchen.

The next night, I was reading in the bedroom when Arjun, who had been working late, came in and asked, ‘Why did you leave the lamp on the landing burning so bright? I thought you weren’t supposed to have open flames near the stairs.’ I looked at him, confused. ‘I didn’t. I turned it off before I went to bed. Are you sure?’ He shrugged, ‘Maybe it was Kamla. She might have lit it for prayer.’ But when I asked Kamla the next morning, she shook her head and said, ‘No, ma’am, I don’t go upstairs. That area gives me the creeps.’

A few days later, I was sitting in the living room on the ground floor, going through old files, when I heard a faint sound from the landing above. It was a soft, rhythmic creaking, like someone rocking in a chair. I knew there was no chair on that landing, only the small puja alcove. Curious, I went up the stairs, but as I reached the landing, the sound stopped. I stood there, listening, and then I noticed the lamp was lit again, though I had extinguished it that morning. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. I tried to tell myself it was a malfunction, but the lamp was a simple brass diya, fueled by oil, with a cotton wick. It did not have a mysterious self-lighting mechanism.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the old house settling. Around two in the morning, I heard distinct footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate. I held my breath, and I heard them stop at the landing. Then, after a pause, the footsteps continued up the stairs, past our bedroom, and down the hallway to the room where Rohan was sleeping. My heart pounded. I nudged Arjun awake, but he was groggy and said, ‘It’s just the house. Go back to sleep.’ I didn’t. I got up and tiptoed to Rohan’s room. I pushed the door open slightly and saw him sleeping peacefully. I went back to bed, but I didn’t sleep.

The next day, I decided to investigate. I climbed to the landing and examined the puja alcove. The lamp was cold and empty, as if it had not been lit for a while. But I knew I had lit it that morning. I looked around, and then I noticed something written in the dust on the wooden floor: ‘KEEP THE LAMP BURNING.’ The handwriting was old, cursive, and shaky. A shiver ran through me. I called Arjun to show him, but by the time he came, the writing had been smudged, as if someone had dragged a foot across it.

A week passed, and the occurrences grew more frequent. The lamp would flicker at odd hours, especially when I was alone. Sometimes, I would catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned, there was nothing. Kamla confided in me that she had seen a woman in a white sari on the stairs, but she was too scared to tell me earlier. I started to feel a presence, especially near the puja alcove, as if something was watching me.

One evening, Rohan came running down the stairs, pale and trembling. ‘Mummy, there’s a lady on the landing. She is crying.’ I rushed up, but there was no one. I held him close and told him it was just a bad dream. But he insisted, ‘She was wearing a green saree, and she had a bindi, and she was calling my name.’ A chill ran down my spine. ‘What did she say?’ I asked. ‘She said, ‘Come here, little one.’ And she pointed to the puja room,’ he said.

That incident shook me. I decided to research the house’s history. I found that a woman, Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, had lived in the house during the 1940s, after her husband, a British officer, died. She had become reclusive and eventually died of a fever. The locals believed her spirit still lingered, especially near the stairs, because she had died while climbing them, clutching a lamp.

Determined to understand, I returned to the landing and knelt before the puja alcove. I spoke softly, ‘I know you are here. What do you want?’ At first, there was silence. Then, the lamp flickered, and a cold breeze swept through the hallway. I felt a hand on my shoulder, but when I turned, no one was there. And then, I heard a voice, faint and whispery, ‘Light the lamp every day. It keeps the darkness away.’

Frightened but resolved, I began lighting the lamp every morning and evening, and I made a habit of spending a few minutes in the puja room in silence. The occurrences did not stop, but they softened. The footsteps became less frequent, the sightings fainter. One night, I dreamt of a woman in a green saree, standing on the landing, smiling at me. She said, ‘Thank you. Now I can go.’ And I woke up with a feeling of peace.

From that day on, the presence faded. The lamp still flickered occasionally, but I never felt threatened again. I realized that the ghost was not malevolent, but a lonely soul trapped by unfinished business, and my simple act of faith, lighting a lamp, gave her the release she needed. The house was no longer just a creaky old bungalow to me; it was a place where I had confronted the unknown and learned that sometimes, the dead just want to be remembered.