The Stairwell Visitor

Ravi was a textile trader who lived in the bustling city of Surat, Gujarat. Every month, he traveled to Mumbai for business, returning home late at night. His building, an old three-story structure in a crowded lane, had a narrow staircase with a single flickering bulb on each landing. The tenants were a mix of families, and the building had a certain charm, though Ravi often felt a chill when climbing those stairs at night.

One night, returning from a long trip, Ravi noticed an elderly man sitting on the second-floor landing, chewing tobacco. He wore a crisp white kurta and a dhoti, and he nodded at Ravi with a toothless smile. Ravi assumed he was a relative of one of the tenants and returned the nod before heading up to his flat. This became a regular sight; every time Ravi came home late, the old man was there, silent and still, watching him.

Months passed, and Ravi grew accustomed to the old man’s presence. But one fateful night, as Ravi climbed the stairs, the old man spoke in a raspy Marathi voice, ‘Hey Ravi, how are you? How is business going?’ Ravi froze. He had never spoken to this man, and how did he know his name? He looked closer, but the old man’s face seemed indistinct, almost hazy. Ravi forced a smile and hurried past, a cold dread settling in his stomach.

The next morning, Ravi asked around about the old man. No one knew who he was. The tenant on that floor, a young software engineer named Kiran, said no one visited him at night. Ravi’s wife, Priya, grew worried and urged him to stop traveling so often. But Ravi couldn’t afford to lose his clients. He continued his trips, and the old man continued to appear, now asking about his family, his health, and even his childhood.

Ravi’s fear turned to paranoia. He started drinking to steel himself before climbing the stairs, but one night, as he staggered up, the old man stood up, blocking his path. ‘Ravi, I’ve been waiting for you. Your time is near,’ the old man said in a low voice. Ravi’s blood ran cold. He pushed past the old man, but when he reached his door, he turned back—the landing was empty.

That night, Ravi had a nightmare. He saw the old man standing at the foot of his bed, grinning, surrounded by a faint blue glow. The old man pointed at him and said, ‘I am your ancestor. I’ve come to take you home.’ Ravi woke up screaming, drenched in sweat. He told Priya, who begged him to see a spiritual healer. Ravi agreed, but before he could, he received a urgent business call from Mumbai. He decided to go one last time.

During his business trip, Ravi couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. At night, in his hotel room, he saw the old man’s reflection in the mirror. In a panic, Ravi called his wife and asked her to conduct a special puja at home. She did, but when Ravi returned to Surat, the old man was still there, now with a sad expression. ‘You didn’t listen,’ he said. ‘You cannot escape your fate.’

Days turned into weeks. Ravi’s health deteriorated mysteriously. He grew weak, and doctors found nothing wrong. He started seeing the old man everywhere—on the staircase, in his bedroom, even in his shop. Finally, one rainy night, Ravi collapsed on the very landing where the old man used to sit. As he lay there, the old man appeared beside him, placing a cold hand on his forehead. ‘It’s time,’ the old man whispered.

Ravi passed away in the hospital that night. The doctors said it was a sudden cardiac arrest. But Priya, when clearing his belongings, found an old photo in his wallet—a picture of her great-grandfather, who had died in the same building many years ago. He was wearing the same white kurta and dhoti, and the same toothless smile. Ravi had never met him, and no one had ever told him about the photo. But the old man had known his name, his life, and his end.

The staircase in the building remains the same, but now, on some nights, if you climb late, you might see an old man sitting on the second-floor landing, chewing tobacco. And if you sit beside him, he might just ask, ‘How are you? How is business going?’