The Painted Pattern

My name is Arjun, and this happened when I was twelve, in the winter of 1998. We had gone to my grandmother’s ancestral home in a remote village in the hills of Himachal Pradesh for the festival of lights. The house was a sprawling, two-storeyed structure of stone and timber, with a large central courtyard. To enter, you climbed a steep flight of stone steps to a landing, then passed through a low wooden door into a covered veranda, and finally through a heavy oak door into the main living area. On the veranda, there was a low concrete bench, and beside it, a wall with intricate carved wooden lattice panels. Through those geometric patterns, you could glimpse the courtyard beyond.

Our family had gathered from all over, and the house buzzed with the laughter of cousins and the aroma of festive sweets. On the first night, we decided to play hide-and-seek in the dimly lit rooms. I was the seeker, counting to fifty at the main door while the others scattered. When I finished, I began searching. The courtyard was lit with a single bulb, casting long shadows. As I passed the lattice wall, I thought I saw a figure through the patterns—a flash of white, like a sleeve. I assumed it was my cousin, Ravi, trying to trick me. I crept around the corner, but no one was there.

Confused, I shrugged and continued searching. I found Ravi hidden behind an old trunk in the storeroom, Rita under the charpai, and little Kabir in the kitchen. But one of us was still missing—my elder brother, Vikram. I searched the bedrooms, the attic, and the back garden, calling his name. The others joined me, and soon the whole family was looking for him. We searched for nearly an hour, growing increasingly worried. Then, my aunt screamed from the veranda.

We rushed out to find her staring at the lattice wall. With trembling hands, she pointed. There, in the shadowy courtyard beyond the lattice, we saw a shape—a tall, thin figure, motionless. It wore dark clothes, and its face was obscured. As we watched, it raised one arm slowly, as if beckoning. Then it dissolved into the darkness. Vikram was never found.

From that night on, our family was haunted. Strange noises echoed through the house—muffled footsteps, whispers in an unknown language, and the occasional sound of a child crying. We tried to leave, but something prevented us. Every time we packed, the doors would jam, or essential items would go missing. My grandmother grew pale, muttering about a curse. She told us that long ago, a servant girl had been wronged in this house, and her spirit sought revenge on the families who lived here. The lattice wall was her window, through which she watched and waited.

I began to see her more clearly. At night, I would spot her silhouette in the gaps of the lattice, her eyes glinting. She would press her face against the wooden slats, her mouth open in a silent scream. Sometimes, I would hear my name whispered, just as Vikram used to call me. I knew she was imitating him to lure me.

On the third night, I decided to confront her. I took a lantern and walked out into the courtyard, determined to see what she truly was. The air grew cold, and the lantern sputtered. In the corner, near the old well, I saw her fully. She was young, with long black hair, dressed in a white sari that seemed to glow. Her face was mournful, not angry. She pointed to the lattice wall, then to the ground beneath the well, and then she began to fade.

Terrified but compelled, I walked to the well. I saw something white at the bottom. I ran inside, trembling, and told my father. The next day, they drained the well and found nothing but a few old bones, animal bones, they said. But I knew. I knew.

We finally managed to leave a week later, after performing a strange ritual that my grandmother insisted on. The village elders came, chanting and burning incense. They said the girl’s spirit had been restless, but now she could move on. I never returned to that house. To this day, I have nightmares about the lattice wall, and sometimes, I see her face in the shadows of my city bedroom. But the most terrifying part is this: when I visited last year, I saw the house abandoned and ruined. And in the courtyard, a small figure stood, waving. It was Vikram, grown up, but with hollow eyes. He smiled, and I saw the girl’s face superimposed over his. She had taken him, and she wanted me too. I woke up screaming, clutching my pillow, knowing that the pattern on that wall was not just a design; it was a gateway, and she was still waiting.