The Last Paper

The last paper ended at noon. I remember the way the sun felt on my face as I walked out of the examination hall, the weight of months lifting with each step. Home was a small flat in the old part of the city, where the walls were thick and the windows rattled in the wind. My mother had made my favorite meal, and I ate with the kind of joy that only comes after a drought of freedom. That evening, my friend Ashok called, his voice crackling through the landline, inviting me to stay over. His place was just a few lanes away, a two-storey house with a wrought-iron gate that always creaked. His father had passed years ago, so it was just him and his mother, and the house felt too big for them, with rooms that were never used and a staircase that moaned even when no one walked on it.

I reached around nine, after dinner. Ashok had set up a chessboard, and we played till our eyes grew heavy. His mother had already retired to her room on the ground floor, and we had the upper floor to ourselves. The bedroom we used was at the end of the hallway, a spacious room with a large bed placed against the window. The window looked out onto a narrow alley, and the moonlight filtered through the dusty glass, casting pale patterns on the floor. Ashok insisted I take the bed, saying he preferred the floor with a thin mattress, as he often did. We chatted about our plans, the movies we wanted to see, the girls we liked, until the clock struck one. The house fell silent, and I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Some hours later, I woke suddenly. The room was darker than before, the moon hidden behind clouds. I felt a strange pressure on my chest, as if someone was sitting on me. I tried to move, but my limbs were heavy, as if filled with sand. My eyes darted around the room, and I saw a shape by the window—a tall, thin figure, blacker than the night. It had no distinct features, just a silhouette that seemed to absorb the light. I wanted to call out to Ashok, but my voice was trapped in my throat. The figure began to move, not walking but gliding, closer to the bed. It stopped at the foot, and I felt a cold hand press against my ankle, sending a wave of numbness up my leg. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it would go away, and as suddenly as it had come, the pressure lifted. I heard a faint whisper, like dry leaves rustling, and then silence. I lay there, trembling, until the first light of dawn crept through the window, and I could finally move again.

When I looked at the floor, Ashok was still asleep, his breathing steady. I didn’t tell him anything that morning, thinking it was just a nightmare brought on by stress. But the next night, back in my own bed, I couldn’t shake the image of that figure. I started sleeping with the lights on, and my mother noticed my restlessness. I felt a growing unease, a sense that something had attached itself to me. The following week, I returned to Ashok’s house for a late-night study session, not for any exam, but because I was too scared to be alone. Ashok’s mother was away visiting relatives, so it was just the two of us. Around one in the morning, as we finalized our notes, the door to the room slowly creaked open, though no one was there. Ashok laughed nervously, saying the old house had its moods. But I froze, for in the doorway stood that same figure, now more defined—a woman in a faded saree, her face hidden by stringy hair. She raised a hand and pointed at me, then at the window, where a strange symbol had appeared on the glass, as if etched from the inside.

I screamed, and Ashok turned, but he saw nothing. He looked at me with concern, urging me to calm down. The figure vanished, and the door closed on its own. I tried to explain, pointing at the symbol, but Ashok saw only a clean window. I knew then that I was the only one who could see her. In the days that followed, I learned from a neighbor that Ashok’s mother had lost a child years ago, a girl who had died in that very room, her neck broken after a fall from the bed. The neighbor said the mother never spoke of it, but the room had always felt heavy. I understood then that the spirit had been waiting, and my presence that night had given her a vessel. She was not malevolent, but desperate, trying to communicate a grief that had been bottled up for decades.

I never went back to Ashok’s house. I started wearing a small iron ring, hoping to ward off spirits, and I spent my nights reciting verses from our holy book. But the dreams continued—her face, her outstretched hand, the symbol. I eventually confided in my mother, who took me to a local priest. The priest, an old man with a calm demeanor, listened to my tale and performed a ceremony. He told me the spirit was a mother searching for her lost child, and that my presence had somehow linked me to her, but that she would move on if I showed her compassion. He gave me a small talisman and instructed me to leave it by the window of that room as an offering. With Ashok’s consent, I went back one last time, placed the talisman on the windowsill, and silently asked the spirit to find peace. I felt a warm breeze, and the room, which had always felt oppressive, suddenly felt light.

From that day forward, the dreams stopped. I never saw the woman again. But I carry the memory of that night, a reminder that the world is stranger than we think, and that some doors, once opened, never fully close.