The Night the House Rehearsed

I’m not a superstitious person. I grew up in a small flat in the outskirts of Nagpur, where the walls were thin and the neighbors talked louder than the television. My parents worked late shifts, so I was used to being alone. But that night, the loneliness felt different.

It was the week of my board exams, and my parents had gone to attend a family wedding in a village three hours away. They’d promised to be back by midnight. I decided to turn in early, around 10. I set my alarm for 5, closed my books, and switched off the light. The last thing I remember was the hum of the ceiling fan.

I woke up to a cold breeze. The fan was still, but I felt a draft. My clock glowed 1:23 AM. I was too tired to move, so I just lay there, my eyes shut. Then I heard it—the creak of the main door. Then the bathroom tap. Then the kitchen tap. Then the door of my room. Slowly, methodically, as if someone was going through the house, turning on every faucet and opening every door.

I tugged my blanket up to my chin, my heart pounding. I told myself it was just my parents trying not to wake me. But the footsteps were too light, too deliberate. And the cold—it wasn’t normal. It was a damp, penetrating chill that made my bones ache. I felt a presence in the corner of my room, just watching. I kept my eyes shut, too scared to peek.

Then sleep pulled me under again.

In my dream, I was standing in our living room, but it was transformed. The sofa was pushed against the wall, the center table moved aside. Strings of fairy lights hung from the ceiling, and a faint music echoed. There were silhouettes dancing—dozens of them, swaying without rhythm. They were translucent, like steam, and their faces were blank. I asked one of them, ‘What’s happening?’ It turned its head and said, ‘We’re rehearsing for the next performance.’ Its voice was like gravel sliding over glass. Then it pointed to the corner, where a figure stood apart from the others. It was tall, made of shadow, and it was pointing at me.

I jolted awake. The cold was gone. The fan was spinning again. I checked the clock: 4:44 AM. I got up, shaking. I walked through the house, opening every door and checking the taps. They were all off. The doors were locked from inside. I laughed nervously, blaming exam stress, and went back to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream. Then I noticed something on the wall—a small, damp patch in the shape of a handprint. It hadn’t been there before. I touched it. It was warm.

The next morning, I called my parents. They said they’d arrived at 2 AM and had gone straight to bed. They hadn’t opened any doors or taps. I didn’t tell them about the handprint. I couldn’t sleep in that room for a week, but exams came and went.

On the last day of exams, I finally cleaned the handprint. It washed off easily, but beneath it, the wall was etched with faint scratches, forming words: ‘We’ll be back for the encore.’