The Marigold Game

When the Patel family moved into the government quarters at the edge of Khajuri town, they knew about the old Chatterjee mansion next door. The locals whispered that the last owner, a moneylender named Mr. Chatterjee, had a secret daughter he kept hidden. When the girl was found dead in the garden, drowned in the ornamental pond, Chatterjee himself was found hanging from the peepal tree a week later. The family fled, and the mansion rotted behind its rusted gates, its garden a tangle of wild marigolds that bloomed year-round, even in the driest heat.

Arjun, the eldest son of the Patel family, was a rational man. He had a degree in engineering and believed in cause and effect. He laughed at the villagers’ tales and insisted the house was harmless. His wife, Meera, was more cautious, but she too dismissed the talk as superstition. Their daughter, little Anaya, was a quiet girl of eight, with wide eyes that seemed to see too much.

One sweltering afternoon, Meera and Arjun had to leave for a family wedding in a neighboring town. They decided Anaya was old enough to stay alone for a few hours. ‘We’ll be back before sunset,’ Arjun assured her, patting her head. Anaya nodded, but as they drove away, she felt a cold knot in her stomach.

The afternoon stretched long and lazy. Anaya wandered the empty house, the ceiling fans whirring overhead. She climbed to the terrace, where a gentle breeze offered relief from the heat. She sat on the low wall, watching the sun crawl toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The marigold garden next door seemed to glow, its golden blossoms swaying as if in greeting.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence—a child’s voice, clear and sharp. ‘Hey, want to play hide and seek?’

Anaya spun around. In the garden of the mansion, standing among the marigolds, was a little girl about her age, dressed in a red frock that seemed too bright, too pristine for the neglected grounds. Her hair was in two braids, and she smiled a sweet, unsettling smile.

Anaya’s heart hammered. She had heard the stories. But the girl looked so ordinary, so friendly. ‘Who are you?’ Anaya called out.

‘I’m Rima,’ the girl said, taking a step closer. ‘I live here. It’s lonely. Will you play with me?’

Anaya hesitated. Her parents had told her to stay inside, but the girl seemed harmless. And the sun was still up. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice small. ‘Alright.’

Rima clapped her hands in delight. ‘You hide first. Count to twenty.’

Anaya turned and pressed her back against the terrace wall, counting aloud. At twenty, she ran down the stairs, into the dusty living room, and hid behind the heavy curtain. She waited, holding her breath.

Minutes passed. No footsteps. No giggling. Then, a whisper from right beside her ear, ‘Found you.’

Anaya jumped and spun around. Rima was standing inches away, her face inches from hers, her breath cold on Anaya’s cheek. How had she gotten there so quietly?

‘Your turn to find me,’ Rima said, and before Anaya could protest, she vanished—not running, but simply gone, as if she had melted into the air.

Anaya’s mouth went dry. She searched the house, room by room, calling Rima’s name. But there was no sign of the girl. The house was empty, but Anaya felt a presence, a weight behind every door.

Finally, she found the terrace door slightly ajar. She stepped out and saw Rima standing at the garden’s edge, waving. ‘You gave up,’ Rima called. ‘Now I win. But I’ll give you another chance. Come find me tomorrow, same time, in the garden.’

Anaya’s heart lurched. ‘No, I can’t. My parents…’

‘You must,’ Rima said, and her smile faded. ‘If you don’t, I’ll be so sad. And when I’m sad, I cry. And when I cry…’ She gestured toward the mansion. ‘Bad things happen.’

A chill ran down Anaya’s spine. She nodded, not sure why.

Rima turned and walked into the mansion’s gaping doorway, disappearing into the gloom.

When Arjun and Meera returned, they found Anaya trembling in the corner of her room, her eyes wide. She told them everything. Arjun scoffed. ‘A game with a neighbor’s child? She probably slipped through the hedge. Don’t be scared.’ Meera, however, looked pale. She had heard the stories more thoroughly.

That night, Anaya couldn’t sleep. From her window, she could see the marigold garden under the moonlight, and she thought she saw a small figure standing there, staring up at her. She pulled the blanket over her head.

The next afternoon, the sun was just beginning to dip when Anaya felt a pull toward the garden. She didn’t want to go, but her legs moved on their own, carrying her to the hedge. She pushed through the gap and found herself among the marigolds, their scent heavy and heady.

Rima was there, waiting. ‘You came,’ she said, clapping. ‘Now hide. I’ll count to ten.’

Anaya scrambled to find a hiding spot. She crouched behind a large stone urn near the mansion’s porch. She could hear Rima counting, then silence. A minute later, a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Rima’s face peering down, her eyes glinting.

‘Found you again,’ Rima said. ‘You’re too easy. Now, I hide.’

Before Anaya could respond, Rima sprinted into the mansion. Anaya reluctantly followed, entering the decaying foyer. Dust motes swirled in the slanted light. Floorboards creaked. She searched the drawing room, the library, the kitchen. No Rima.

Then she heard a faint sobbing from upstairs. She climbed the staircase, each step groaning. The door to the master bedroom was ajar. She pushed it open. Inside, the room was oddly pristine, as if untouched by time. In the corner, a rocking chair moved slowly, though no one sat in it.

‘Rima?’ Anaya whispered.

A voice from behind her said, ‘I’m here.’ Anaya spun. Rima stood in the doorway, but now her red dress was torn, and her face was pale, almost translucent. She was crying, tears streaking down her cheeks.

‘Don’t cry,’ Anaya said, stepping forward.

‘But I can’t find anyone to play with,’ Rima sobbed. ‘Everyone runs away. They say I’m a ghost.’

Anaya’s blood turned to ice. ‘Are you?’

Rima looked up, her eyes suddenly black. ‘Do you want to know?’

Anaya screamed and bolted. She tore through the house, not looking back, burst through the front door, and crashed through the hedge back to her own yard. She slumped against the wall, gasping. A flicker in the mansion’s upper window—Rima was watching her, a sad smile on her lips.

When her parents returned, they found Anaya in a fevered state. She refused to leave her room. She told them everything, her voice trembling. Arjun finally listened, his skepticism crumbling. He consulted a local priest, who performed a small ritual and advised them to move.

They left the quarters within a week. But as they drove away, Anaya looked back at the mansion. She saw Rima standing in the garden, among the marigolds, waving. And despite the heat, Anaya shivered.

Years later, Anaya is an adult, but she never forgets that red-dressed girl. Sometimes, in the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of marigolds blooming where they shouldn’t, and she hears a soft, playful voice on the wind: ‘Hey, want to play hide and seek?’ She never turns around.

She knows what she would see.

And she knows what would happen if she answered.

Because in the game of hide and seek, the one who is never found is the one who becomes a ghost herself.

And Rima is still looking for a friend to play with forever.

Anaya has never told anyone the whole truth: that before she ran out of the mansion, she saw a photograph on the wall—a faded picture of a man and a little girl in a red dress, standing in the marigold garden. The girl had Rima’s face. And beneath the photograph, a nameplate read: ‘Our Darling Rima.’

Rima Chatterjee. The moneylender’s hidden daughter. The girl who drowned in the pond.

And Anaya had seen the pond that day—it was overgrown with lilies, but the water was still clear enough to see her own reflection. As she ran, she could have sworn she saw a second reflection, small and wavering, right beside hers.

She never went back to Khajuri. But sometimes, in a crowd, she catches the scent of marigolds, and a child’s voice whispers, ‘Found you.’

She runs. She always runs.

But she knows that one day, she won’t be fast enough.

And the game will begin again.