The Mirror in the Monsoon

The trip to Coorg had been my cousin Meera’s idea, a break from the relentless heat of Bangalore. We were a boisterous group of twenty, aunts, uncles, cousins, all crammed into two vans, winding up the Western Ghats. The air grew cooler, the landscape a lush green, and by the time we reached our homestay in Madikeri, rain was already tapping on the windows. The old colonial bungalow, with its high ceilings and creaking wooden floors, was charming in a faded way. After a dinner of spicy pork curry and neer dosa, we settled into our rooms. The kids, including me, my elder sister Anika, and my cousin Rohan, were given a large room at the end of the hallway. It had a grand old mirror on the wall opposite the windows, its silver backing patchy and dark at the edges. I mentioned it looked creepy, but Rohan just laughed and said it was probably as old as the house. We slept with the lights on, a habit from the city.

At around 2 AM, the storm hit in full force. Thunder crashed so loudly it rattled the windowpanes, and the power went out, plunging us into absolute darkness. The rain hammered the roof like a thousand fists. I woke with a start, my heart pounding. I heard Anika shift in her bed, and Rohan mumble something in his sleep. I lay still, listening to the storm, when a flash of lightning illuminated the room. In that split second, I saw something that made my blood run cold. In the old mirror, which I could see clearly from my bed, the reflection of a girl was standing behind me. A girl with long, dripping black hair, wearing a white dress that was soaked, water pooling at her bare feet. She was just standing there, looking at me with empty eyes.

I blinked, and the lightning was gone, plunging the room back into darkness. I shook my head, convincing myself it was a trick of the light, a play of shadows. But then the lightning flashed again, and there she was, closer now, her face pressed against the glass of the mirror as if she were trying to get out. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what she said over the thunder. I was frozen, my breath caught in my throat. The lightning flickered twice more, each time showing her, each time she was a step closer to the surface of the mirror. Anika, sensing my terror, whispered, ‘Did you see that?’ I was too scared to answer. Rohan just snored.

I managed to pull the blanket over my head, praying for the storm to pass. But the images of the girl in the mirror burned into my mind. I heard a faint sound, like a drip, but there was no leak. I peeked out from under the blanket, and the lightning flashed again. This time, the mirror was empty. The girl was gone. I let out a sigh of relief, thinking it was over. But then, I saw her reflection in the window, standing outside, her face pressed against the glass, her breath fogging the pane. She was not in the mirror; she was real, and she was outside our room. I screamed, and finally, everyone woke up.

When the power came back, we were all huddled together, our parents rushing in. I told them what I saw. They dismissed it as a nightmare, a hallucination from the storm. But when morning came and the rain had stopped, we went to explore the bungalow. Behind the house, we found an old, overgrown well, half-hidden by weeds. Our host, an old man with tired eyes, said the property had been in his family for generations. He told us a story, a girl named Kamala, who had drowned in that well during a monsoon, many years ago. Her betrothed had married another, and in her grief, she had thrown herself into the water. Her body was never found. He stared at the well, then at our room’s window, and said, ‘She sometimes comes back, when the rains are heavy. She stands at the windows, looking in, searching for… something.’ We left that day, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the girl in the mirror was not just a figment of my imagination. She was a warning, a grievance that refused to be forgotten, and in the reflection of every rain-soaked window, I was afraid I would see her again.