The Pillar’s Photograph

Last winter, I had just started a new job at the Meridian Corporate Park in Pune. The office complex was a maze of glass and concrete, and my daily ritual was to park in the basement of Tower A. But that morning, after a frustrating detour through construction traffic, I arrived at 10:45, and every spot in Tower A’s basement was taken. The security guard, an elderly man with a limp, waved me toward Tower B. ‘You can try the lower levels,’ he said, his voice a dry rasp. ‘Many spots down there.’

I grumbled but followed his directions. Tower B’s basement levels were dimly lit, the fluorescent lights flickering with a nervous energy. I drove down the spiral ramp, passing Basement 1 and Basement 2, both filled with cars. Finally, in Basement 3, I spotted an empty slot next to a massive concrete pillar. The pillar was stained with something dark at its base, and the air smelled faintly of damp earth. I parked, killed the engine, and sat for a moment, the silence heavy around me. I knew I’d never remember where I parked, so I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of the pillar.

The flash went off, and in the instant of the image, I felt a chill. When I looked at the screen, I saw the pillar clearly, but also a figure—an old man in a tattered coat, his face a blur of wrinkles and hollow eyes. He stood just beside the pillar, so faint he was almost transparent. I blinked, convinced it was a lens flare or a smear on the camera. I lowered the phone, and there was no one there. I took a deep breath, muttering, ‘Just a reflection,’ and started walking toward the lift.

I had taken only three steps when I felt a sharp slap across the back of my neck. The impact was so sudden that I stumbled, dropping my phone. I spun around, heart pounding, the basement echoing with my gasps. No one was there. My phone’s screen had cracked, but it still lit up. I picked it up, and the photograph was still on the screen. The old man’s figure had shifted slightly—now closer to the camera, his hand raised as if he had just pulled back from a strike. I felt a cold sweat trickle down my spine.

I hurried to the lift, jabbing the button repeatedly. The doors opened with a hiss, and I stepped in, pressing the button for the lobby. As the doors slid closed, I saw him again in the reflection of the metal panel behind me—the old man, standing just outside the lift, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then the doors shut, and he was gone.

The lift rose smoothly, but the air inside felt thick, as if something heavy was pressing on my chest. I looked down at my phone to see the photograph once more, and my blood ran cold. The old man was now in the foreground, his face pressed close to the lens, and behind him, I could see the lift doors—the same lift I was in. He was following me.

The lift stopped at the lobby, and I dashed out, almost colliding with a woman in a green sari. She looked at me with wide eyes, and I realized I must have looked pale and frantic. I didn’t stop until I reached my office on the 12th floor, and I locked the door behind me. My hands were shaking as I opened the photo again. The old man was not in the image anymore. Instead, there was a small, dark shape on the pillar’s base—something that hadn’t been there before. I zoomed in, and it was a name, etched in cracked letters: ‘Arjun Deshmukh.’

I knew that name. It was my grandfather, who had died in a car accident twenty years ago. But I had never met him; he died before I was born. How could his name be on that pillar? My phone buzzed with an unknown number. I answered, and a voice, ancient and thin, whispered, ‘You should not have taken my picture.’

I dropped the phone, and the line went dead. I tried to tell myself it was all coincidence, a prank. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had disturbed something that should have remained buried. Over the next few days, I avoided Basement 3, but the image haunted me. I showed it to my colleague, Rohan, who tried to rationalize it: ‘It’s just a smudge, maybe a reflection of the security guard.’ But I knew what I had seen.

A week later, I had to go to Basement 3 again because my car was parked there. I took the lift alone, the familiar dread pooling in my stomach. When the doors opened, the basement was empty, the lights flickering as if in greeting. I walked to my car, and as I unlocked it, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around, and there he was—the old man, solid and real, his eyes like black pits. He leaned in, and his breath was cold as he whispered, ‘You took my picture. Now you must stay.’

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The next morning, security found my car, but I was nowhere to be seen. The photograph in my phone showed the pillar, but now there were two figures beside it—an old man and a young woman, her mouth open in a silent cry. The security guard, the one with the limp, later said, ‘He’s been down there for years. We refused to park there. Now he has company.’

I have never been found. But sometimes, if you park in that basement and take a picture of that pillar, you might see me standing behind you in the reflection. And if you do, run. Don’t look back. Because the pillar remembers, and it always wants a new photograph.