The Red Thread

The house in Kodaikanal had always been a place of escape for me, a hill station retreat owned by my aunt. But this time, the escape felt like a trap. The monsoon had turned the roads into rivers, and the constant drumming on the tin roof was the only sound for miles. My cousins, Aryan and Meera, were there, along with my aunt, but the house felt bigger than usual, each hallway longer, each door heavier.

It was the second night when the trouble started. I had gone to bed early, exhausted from the journey. My room was at the end of a long corridor, opposite Meera’s. Aryan’s room was further down, near the kitchen. The house was old, about a hundred years, with creaking floors and windows that rattled in the wind. I was just drifting off when I heard it—a rhythmic tapping on my door. Three taps, a pause, three taps. I called out, but no one answered. I assumed it was the branches of the rhododendron tree outside, beating against the glass. But the sound was too deliberate.

I got up, frustrated, and yanked the door open. The corridor was empty, lit only by a flickering bulb at the far end. A thin red thread lay on the floor, stretching from my door to Meera’s. I blinked. It wasn’t there before. I followed it, my bare feet cold on the wooden planks. It stopped at Meera’s door, but the thread seemed to disappear under it. I knocked softly. ‘Meera, are you okay?’ I heard a whisper, but it wasn’t Meera’s voice. It was a child’s. ‘Don’t open the door.’ I froze. I pressed my ear to the wood. Nothing. I turned back to my room, stepping over the thread, which seemed to have vanished.

The next morning, I asked Meera about it. She looked pale, dark circles under her eyes. ‘I had a nightmare,’ she said. ‘About a girl in a white dress, standing in the corner. She had red thread wrapped around her wrists, like she was tied up.’ I felt a chill. I hadn’t told her about the thread. Aryan, who was listening, laughed nervously. ‘It’s just the old house. Auntie told us it was built on an old orphanage site. They say the children who died in a fire still wander the halls.’ Auntie, who was serving tea, gave him a sharp look. ‘Don’t frighten your cousins with such nonsense.’ But her hands trembled as she poured.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the rain. At 2:30 AM, I heard a scream. It was Meera’s voice, but it wasn’t a normal scream. It was a high-pitched, childish shriek that made my blood run cold. I jumped out of bed and ran to her room. The door was locked. I pounded on it. ‘Meera! Open up!’ I heard her crying inside. I rammed the door with my shoulder, and it burst open. Meera was huddled in the corner, pointing at the window. ‘She was there! She was looking at me through the glass!’ I looked, but all I saw was the rain-streaked window and the dark night. The window was closed, but there was a red thread tied to the latch, as if something had pulled it shut.

I calmed Meera down, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was in the house. The next day, I decided to explore the attic. Aryan had mentioned that there were old boxes up there. I found a trapdoor in the ceiling of the hallway. I pulled it down, and a ladder creaked as I climbed. The attic was dusty and smelled of mothballs. In a corner, I found a trunk. Inside, there were old photographs and a faded diary. The diary belonged to a woman who had lived here in the 1930s. She wrote about her daughter, Lila, who had died of fever. But then I read an entry that made my heart stop: ‘Lila is not dead. She is in the walls. She speaks to me through the red thread that binds us. She wants to play.’

The woman had suffered a breakdown. She claimed her daughter was stolen by the house, replaced by a shadow. She wrote that the red thread was a connection to the spirit world, and if you tied it to a sleeping person, you could hear the whispers of the dead. I closed the diary, my hands shaking. I didn’t want to believe it. But that night, I found a red thread on my pillow. I brushed it off, but it clung to my fingers like a spiderweb. That’s when I heard the tapping again, but this time from inside my closet. I opened it slowly, bracing myself. Nothing. But at the back, a small red ball rolled out. It bounced once, then stopped at my feet. It was covered in dust, as if it had been there for decades. I picked it up, and as I did, I felt a cold hand touch my neck. I spun around, but there was no one.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I told my aunt I had to leave. She looked at me with a strange smile. ‘But you can’t. The roads are flooded. You’ll have to stay until the rain stops.’ I felt trapped. That night, I barricaded my door with a chair. I didn’t sleep. I sat against the headboard, staring at the door. Around 4 AM, I heard a child humming. It was coming from Meera’s room. I crept out, inching along the wall. The door to her room was ajar. I peaked inside. Meera was asleep, but her bed was shaking. A small figure sat on the foot of the bed, humming. It was a girl with white eyes and red threads wrapped around her wrists. She turned to me, and smiled. ‘Play with me.’

I ran back to my room, slammed the door, and shoved the chair under the handle. I called out, but my voice was hoarse. I heard footsteps approaching, then stop. The tapping began on my door again, but now it was accompanied by a raspy voice: ‘Let me in.’ I refused. The tapping turned into pounding, and the door rattled. I screamed for help, but no one came. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. I heard a child’s giggle, and then the sound of a bouncing ball fading down the corridor.

When the rain finally stopped on the fifth day, I left without saying goodbye. I never went back. But even now, when I close my eyes, I see that red thread. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I feel a gentle tug on my wrist, as if something is trying to tie me to a world I don’t want to see. I’ve started sleeping with scissors under my pillow. I don’t know if they’ll help. But I know one thing: I will never stay in that house again, and I will never, ever touch a red thread.