The Ledger of Room 4

I never believed in ghosts. Not until the night I spent in the old Nilgiri Lodge, a crumbling relic of the British Raj perched on the outskirts of Dehradun. I was there for a regional screenwriting competition, a last-minute replacement for a friend who’d fallen ill. The organizers had arranged budget accommodation near the venue, but a mix-up left me and my father stranded. A local shopkeeper pointed us to a place called the Nilgiri Lodge, a two-story structure with peeling paint and a faded signboard.

The lobby smelled of stale incense and damp wood. A wiry man with a pencil mustache sat behind the reception desk, his eyes darting between us and a heavy ledger. He didn’t greet us, just slid the register across the counter. I signed and noticed the previous entry was dated two months ago. The name, ‘R. Mehra,’ was scrawled in shaky handwriting. The clerk, without looking up, said, ‘Room 4, top of the stairs, left. Five hundred rupees.’ I paid, and he handed me a brass key with a frayed tag.

We climbed the creaking staircase to find Room 4 at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The door was solid teak, but the lock was old and rattled when I turned the key. Inside, the room was surprisingly neat: two single beds with crisp white sheets, a small writing desk, and a window overlooking a mossy courtyard. My father immediately lay down, muttering about the long journey. I was too restless to sleep. I pulled out my notepad and started drafting a scene for my next screenplay, something about a man who inherits a haunted inn.

Around midnight, I heard a faint scratching from the adjacent room, Room 5. It sounded like nails dragging across wood, slow and rhythmic. I assumed it was a rat and ignored it. But then the scratching stopped, and a low humming began, a tune I didn’t recognize. It was almost soothing, like a lullaby, yet it made my skin prickle. I opened the door to check, but the corridor was empty. The hum ceased as soon as I stepped out.

I tried to return to my writing, but my pen wouldn’t move. It was as if invisible fingers were pressing down on the tip. I set it aside and turned off the lamp, hoping to sleep. As I lay in the darkness, I heard a soft thud from the floor above, followed by footsteps pacing back and forth. Then, a voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘He left it here.’ I froze. The voice was so close it seemed to come from inside my own head. I sat up, heart pounding. My father was snoring, oblivious.

The voice spoke again, clearer this time: ‘Under the floorboard.’ I must have been imagining things. Sleep deprivation, stress. I got up and turned on the light. The beam revealed a loose floorboard near the desk, slightly raised. Curious and unnerved, I pried it open with my fingers. Beneath it, wrapped in a yellowed cloth, was a small leather-bound ledger.

The pages were filled with names, dates, and amounts of money, written in an elegant cursive. On the last page, the entries stopped abruptly. The final line read: ‘R. Mehra, 15th October, 2003. Paid 500. For silence.’ I shivered. That date was exactly 20 years ago to the day. I turned the page to find a blank page, except for a single sentence scrawled in pencil: ‘He who reads this must write his name in the same page.’ I dropped the ledger as if it were on fire. What kind of sick joke was this?

I shoved the ledger back under the floorboard, but as I did, I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. I spun around, and for a split second, I saw a gaunt man in a dark suit standing by the window, his face half-obscured by shadow. He was holding a pen. Then he was gone.

I shook my father awake. ‘Dad, we need to leave. Now.’ He grumbled, but when he saw my terror, he agreed. We grabbed our bags and ran down to the lobby. The clerk was gone. The desk was empty, but the ledger we had signed was now open to the page with our names. And in the column for room charges, next to my name, was written in red ink: ‘Paid in full.’ I didn’t wait to see what that meant. We fled into the night.

The next morning, I called the lodge from the bus station. A woman answered. I asked about the clerk. She said there was no clerk; the lodge had been closed for years, ever since the owner, a man named R. Mehra, disappeared in 2003. I hung up. As the bus pulled away, I looked back at the Nilgiri Lodge. In the upper window of Room 4, I saw a silhouette. The man in the dark suit raised a hand to the glass. He was holding my notepad. And on the back of it, my name was written in red ink.

I’ve never returned to Dehradun. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that humming. And I know that under the floorboard, my name is already in the ledger.