The Stillness on the Stoop

After the transfer, we moved into a third-floor flat in a sprawling, gray city. I, Devika, along with my husband Arjun and our two boys, Rohan (six) and little Kabir (two), tried to make it home. But this city felt wrong. The air was thick, the walls seemed to lean in, and the constant hum of the traffic never quite masked the other sounds.

It started with whispers. Not clear words, but a sibilant hiss that seemed to come from the vents, the pipes, the gaps under doors. I’d turn, expecting to find someone, but there was only empty hallway. I began to doubt my own senses. After my previous ‘episodes’ in our old town, Arjun had gently suggested therapy, and I’d gone, but the medications only made me drowsy, not calm. I stopped taking them.

Then the first horrible vision. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I caught a reflection in the dark window glass. There was Rohan, not in his usual playful stance, but standing rigid, his face blank. In his arms he cradled Kabir, who was oddly limp. Around them, indistinct figures—tall, thin, with elongated limbs—seemed to be pulling at their clothes, poking them with sharp instruments. I screamed and spun around, but the kitchen was empty. My heart hammering, I rushed to the boys’ room. They were both asleep, Rohan’s arm draped over Kabir’s small back. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Night after night, I saw them. In the bathroom mirror, in the reflection of the TV screen, they’d be there—my sons, being tormented by those silent, terrible things. I’d cry out, ‘Stop! Leave them alone!’ but Arjun would just stir, mutter, and turn over. One night, I saw Rohan outside, sitting on the apartment building’s front steps, his face as still as a photograph, even though it was 2 AM and the boys were safe in their beds. I ran to the window, pressed my face against the cold glass, and he was gone. Only the flickering streetlight remained.

I tried to tell Arjun, but he looked at me with pity. ‘It’s the stress, Dev,’ he’d say, rubbing his eyes. ‘Maybe you should see the doctor again.’ I couldn’t. They’d just give me more pills, make me more numb, and the visions would still come.

One afternoon, I was dozing on the sofa. The living room was dim, the curtains drawn against the harsh sun. Suddenly, my mother-in-law, who had passed away three years ago, appeared in the armchair opposite me. She was wearing her favorite blue sari, her silver hair neatly pinned. She stared at me, unblinking, and said, ‘We have to sit still.’ Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. Then she fell silent, her posture rigid, like a statue. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I couldn’t move. We sat there, facing each other, for what felt like an eternity. Then she faded, and I found myself gasping for air, my clothes soaked in sweat.

The next day, Arjun was playing with Kabir in the living room. I was in the kitchen, making tea, when I heard a clatter. I turned to see Arjun holding Kabir aloft, both of them frozen, their faces blank. Arjun’s eyes were wide, but not seeing. Kabir’s tiny hands were out, but not reaching. They looked like mannequins in a store window. My heart seized. ‘Arjun!’ I shouted. I ran to them, shaking his arm. For a second, nothing. Then Arjun blinked, lowered Kabir, and asked, ‘What’s wrong, Dev?’ His voice sounded normal, but the fear in his eyes told me he’d felt it too. He just didn’t want to admit it.

Now I sleep with the lights on, and I watch my children breathe. I know they’re here, but I also know they’re not. There’s a stillness that clings to this apartment, a waiting silence that precedes the visions. I don’t know what they want. I don’t know why they choose to torture my sons in the reflections. I only know that soon, I won’t be able to tell the difference between the real world and the one in the glass. And when that happens, they’ll take all of us into their frozen tableau, and we’ll sit still forever.