The Latch of Last Light

During the monsoon month of Sawan, my cousin Mira and I sought refuge in my grandmother’s ancient haveli in the remote village of Kuldhara, Rajasthan. The structure, built of sandstone and crumbling memories, had been in our family for generations, but this visit was different. The village was eerily empty, the usual bustle replaced by an oppressive stillness. Our room was at the top of a winding staircase, and the night was thick with the smell of wet earth and marigolds, which my grandmother used to string for prayers before she passed.

We were talking about our lives, sharing secrets in the dim light of a single lantern, when I realized I had left my asthma medication in my bag downstairs. I sighed in frustration, and Mira, always the pragmatist, suggested we fetch it together. We stepped out onto the landing, and the hallway stretched before us, a long tunnel of peeling paint and hanging cobwebs. A massive, ornately carved window faced us, its glass stained with years of dust and rain. Mira walked to it, pressing her face against the pane to see the courtyard below. But the glass reflected only our own strained faces, and beyond it, an absolute, suffocating blackness. The village generator had failed, and with the nearest neighbor miles away, the darkness was complete.

We started down the stairs, our footsteps echoing on the cold stone. Halfway down, a sound halted us: the crunch of gravel outside, slow and deliberate. It was the unmistakable sound of someone walking, but the gait was odd, almost shuffling, with a dragging pause between steps. The air grew still; even the distant rumble of thunder seemed to hold its breath. Mira grasped my arm, her nails digging into my skin. We stood frozen, listening. The footsteps stopped. A profound silence descended, so deep that I could hear my own heartbeat and the faint whisper of dust settling. Then, the footsteps resumed, but faster, as if the walker had grown impatient.

Panic clawed at my throat. We hurried down the remaining stairs, our hands gripping the railing. The sounds echoed through the empty haveli. We reached the ground floor, and the kitchen door loomed ahead. We rushed inside, locking the door behind us with trembling fingers. The room was lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through a shuttered window. We waited, pressing our ears to the door, but the footsteps had vanished. A tense minute passed, then another. ‘They’re gone,’ I whispered, hoping to convince myself.

We needed to get my medicine, but it was in my sister Diya’s room, which was on the ground floor, in the west wing. We tiptoed across the inner courtyard, the night air heavy and damp. The stars were hidden behind a veil of clouds, and the only light came from a single lantern we held, casting long, dancing shadows. We reached Diya’s door and knocked softly. Nothing. We knocked again, harder. Still nothing. A cold wave of dread washed over me. I called out her name, my voice barely a whisper, but there was no response. I pushed against the door; it didn’t budge. Mira joined me, and we both shoved, but the door seemed bolted from the inside.

Then the footsteps returned, louder this time, crunching on the gravel right outside the window of Diya’s room. They circled the house, dragging and stopping, then dragging again. Mira let out a choked sob. ‘She’s not opening,’ she gasped, her face pale. ‘What’s out there?’ I had no answer. We were trapped, the medicine forgotten. The footsteps continued, relentless, as if pacing a perimeter, waiting for us to make a move. It dawned on me that they weren’t the footsteps of a wanderer. They were the footsteps of a caretaker, checking the locks, ensuring the gates were sealed for the night. And in that moment, I understood that the haveli was not our refuge. It was a prison, and we were the only souls left inside.