The Mirror in the Monsoon

The rain was a constant drum on the tin roof of our old colonial house in Kochi, a city that smells of wet earth and brine. I was seventeen, living with my mother, grandmother, and my bachelor uncle, Ravi. My father had vanished when I was a child, and my grandfather, a stern but loving man, had passed away last year from a sudden illness. The house, with its teak beams and peeling paint, felt like a living thing, creaking and sighing with the weather.

It was mid-afternoon, and the power was out, as it often was during the monsoon. My mother, Meera, was sitting on the edge of her bed, facing the large, ornate mirror that had belonged to her grandmother. I was lying on her bed behind her, half-drowsy from the heat and the rhythmic patter of rain. I remember the smell of coconut oil in her hair and the musty scent of old wood. I was not asleep, just in that floating state between wake and dream.

Suddenly, a weight pressed down on my chest, heavy and oppressive, as if an elephant had decided to rest there. I tried to move, to call out, but I was pinned, my limbs like lead. The air grew cold, and a faint, sickly-sweet odor, like rotting jasmine, filled my nostrils. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it: the walls began to bleed with color, not the colors of the visible spectrum, but shades that seemed to vibrate with a life of their own. I heard screams—not human, not animal—they were screams of pure despair, echoing from somewhere deep inside the house, yet also inside my own skull.

I could see my mother’s reflection in the mirror. She was brushing her hair with her back to me, but in the mirror, her face was turned, her eyes wide with horror. She was looking at something behind me, something I could not turn to see because of the weight on my chest. I saw her mouth open in a silent scream, and then she dropped the brush and spun around. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ she cried.

The weight vanished as suddenly as it had come. I gasped, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. My mother was ashen, her hands trembling as she dashed to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of holy water. She sprinkled it on me, muttering prayers, her eyes darting around the room as if expecting something to jump out.

When she finally calmed down, she told me what she had seen in the mirror. While she was brushing her hair, a black, shapeless figure had appeared in the reflection, hovering over me, its long, spindly arms pressing down on my chest. She said it had no face, just a void, and its fingers were like cold smoke. She had been paralyzed with fear for a moment, but then it had turned its head and looked directly at her, and that’s when she screamed and turned.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. That evening, I asked my grandmother if she knew anything about the house’s history. She was sitting in her rocking chair, knitting, her silver hair glowing in the lamplight. She paused and looked at me with her sharp, old eyes. ‘That mirror,’ she said, ‘was not always ours. It came from the old mansion that stood where the bank is now. It belonged to the wife of a British officer. She died in childbirth, and they say her spirit lingered, seeking a child to hold. But the mirror was sold, and the house was built on the same ground. Some things, you cannot shake off.’

That night, I could not sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the rain, and I felt a presence. Not the oppressive weight, but a gentler, more subtle thing. A whispering, like a woman’s voice, barely audible above the rain. It said my name, over and over, a soft, coaxing call. I was terrified, but also strangely curious. I got up and walked to my mother’s room. The mirror was covered with a white sheet, as she had done before going to bed. I stood in front of it, my reflection a ghostly shape in the dim light.

I reached out and pulled the sheet down. The glass was dark, but I could see my own face, pale and stressed. And behind me, a faint silhouette, not quite a person, but a shifting darkness. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. The silhouette moved closer, and I felt cold hands on my shoulders. ‘You have my child’s eyes,’ a voice whispered in my ear. ‘Let me hold you.’

I wrenched myself away and ran to my grandmother’s room, blabbering about what I had seen. She listened, her face grave. ‘It is the woman in the mirror,’ she said. ‘She lost a child, and now she seeks to take another. We must send the mirror away. It is not safe here.’

But the next morning, when we tried to move the mirror, it was as if it had rooted itself to the floor. Three strong men could not budge it. The air in the room became thick, and a low moan emanated from the glass. My mother started crying, and my uncle Ravi, who had been skeptical, paled and retreated to his room with a bottle of rum.

That night, my grandmother performed a ritual with incense, camphor, and a special paste of sandalwood and turmeric. She drew signs on the mirror and chanted verses in a language I did not understand. She asked the spirit what it wanted. The mirror fogged up, and then, in the condensation, words appeared: ‘I want the one who stole my child.’ We all stared at each other in confusion. Then my grandmother’s face went white. She turned to me, and said, ‘Your grandfather. He bought this mirror at an auction, but he knew the history. He kept it because he thought it was valuable. But it is cursed. The spirit blames him, but he is gone, so she is taking her revenge on the family.’

The next day, my grandmother insisted we take the mirror to a temple and have it purified. We wrapped it in a black cloth and carried it to the ancient temple by the river. The priest performed a lengthy ritual, and at the end, the mirror cracked from top to bottom. We left it there, half-buried in the mud, a shard of it glinting in the setting sun.

But I still feel it sometimes. In the stillness of the night, I hear a faint, ghostly child’s laugh, and I see a reflection that does not match my movements. I know the spirit is not gone. She is waiting, patient, for the right moment. And I fear that one day, she will find a way, and this time, I will not be able to wake up.