The Last Ferry of Vasai Creek

The year was 1999, and I was thirteen, visiting the coastal town of Alibaug with my parents. We had booked a room at the ‘Sea Breeze Hotel’, a faded colonial structure that stood at the edge of a rocky cliff, overlooking the vast Arabian Sea. The hotel manager, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, hesitated before handing us the key to Room 304, mumbling something about ‘recent renovations’. We paid no heed, too excited about our beach holiday.

The day was spent in blissful ignorance. We built sandcastles, collected shells, and ate spicy chaat from a stall near the water. As dusk fell, we returned to the hotel, our legs aching and our faces flushed with salt. It was 10 PM when we finally entered our room. I volunteered to freshen up first. The bathroom was small, with a cracked mirror above the sink. As I stood before it, drying my face, I saw something in the reflection—a pale streak, like a smudge of light, darting from one corner of the mirror to the other. I spun around, expecting to see a gecko or a moth, but there was nothing. I shrugged it off, blaming my tired eyes.

That night, I lay in bed listening to the rhythmic crash of waves. My parents were in the adjacent bed. I must have drifted off, but then a scream tore through the darkness. It was my father. He was sitting upright, soaked in sweat, his eyes wide with terror. My mother and I rushed to him. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, her voice trembling. He stammered, ‘A woman… she was leaning over me… her face was rotten, and she was trying to choke me… she kept saying, ‘Get out, get out…” I felt a chill run down my spine, remembering the mirror. But my father insisted it was just a nightmare, and we tried to sleep again.

The next morning, we descended to the breakfast hall. The manager was behind the counter, his eyes darting nervously. My mother, trying to make light of the situation, mentioned my father’s nightmare. The manager’s face went ashen. He leaned in and whispered, ‘That room… it’s been sealed many times, but they keep opening it. You see, in 1982, a woman named Leela drowned herself in the creek below. She was a fisherwoman, and her husband had left her. They found her body three days later, but her spirit remains. She wants revenge on all who stay in that room.’ We laughed it off, but the manager’s words hung in the air.

Determined not to let fear ruin our trip, we spent the day at the nearby fort and the beach. But as evening approached, a strange unease settled over us. The sky turned a sickly orange, and the sea grew violent. We decided to head back early. On our way, we passed a small temple, and my mother insisted we pray. We did, but it didn’t help.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl around the old building. Around 2 AM, I heard a faint sobbing from the bathroom. It grew louder, turning into a wail. I nudged my mother, but she was in a deep sleep. I forced myself to get up and tiptoe to the bathroom door. I pushed it open. The room was empty, but the mirror was fogged, as if someone had taken a hot shower. I wiped it with my hand, and behind me, in the reflection, I saw her—a woman in a tattered white sari, her face a mask of decay, her eyes burning with hatred. She was right behind me. I froze. She raised her hands, not to throttle me, but to point at the window. Then she spoke, her voice like gravel, ‘The last ferry… you must take the last ferry…’

I ran back to my parents, screaming. They woke up, but when they looked, the bathroom was normal. My father was furious, convinced I was playing pranks. But then, my mother noticed something—a wet footprint on the floor, leading from the bathroom to the door. It was barefoot, and too small for me.

We couldn’t sleep. We sat huddled on the bed, watching the door. Dawn came, and with it, a decision. We packed our bags and went to the front desk, demanding to check out early. The manager nodded grimly, as if he expected it. He said, ‘The last ferry to Mumbai leaves at 6 PM. You should be on it.’ We looked at the clock; it was 9 AM. We had a long day ahead.

We spent the day in a teashop, trying to stay in crowds. But everywhere we went, I felt her presence—a cold breath on my neck, a whisper just at the edge of hearing. My parents, too, were on edge. They argued over whether to stay or go, but something held us there, as if the town itself was a trap.

At 5 PM, we made our way to the jetty. The ferry was an old wooden boat, with peeling paint and an engine that coughed. We boarded, and sat at the bow, desperate to leave. As the ferry prepared to cast off, a woman in a white sari came running down the gangplank, waving a ticket. She was young, with long black hair, and she was beautiful. She took a seat near us, and smiled. ‘You’re leaving?’ she asked, her voice eerily familiar. My father nodded, and she said, ‘I’m Leela. I’ve been waiting for you.’

We stared in horror. Her smile widened, and her eyes turned pitch black. ‘You stayed in my room. You thought you could leave? The ferry is mine. It always takes me back.’ She began to laugh, and the ferry lurched. The other passengers, who had been silent, started to rise, their faces contorting into the same rotten visage. My mother screamed. My father grabbed us and jumped overboard, into the churning sea.

We swam like demons, not looking back. When we finally reached the shore, gasping, we saw the ferry on the horizon, heading out to sea. A figure stood at the stern, waving. We crawled up the beach, trembling, and made our way to the nearest police station. But when we told them our story, they looked at us with pity. The officer said, ‘There hasn’t been a ferry from Alibaug in years. They all stopped after the accident.’ He pulled out a faded newspaper. The headline read: ‘Ferry Sinks in Vasai Creek, 36 Drown.’ The date was June 12, 1982.

We never spoke of it again. But sometimes, at night, I hear the sound of waves, and a woman’s voice whispering, ‘The last ferry… it’s always the last ferry.’