The Terrace of the Unseen

My name is Arjun Mehta, and in the autumn of 2001, I was a ten-year-old boy living in the dusty town of Jodhpur, Rajasthan. The incident that people whisper about, the one they call the ‘Chudail of the Lanes’ or the ‘Monkey Man’ depending on who you ask, is often dismissed as mass hysteria. But I know what I saw, and I will carry that terror with me for the rest of my life.

It was the week of my cousin’s wedding, and our haveli was alive with preparations. On that particular evening, the women were decorating the courtyard with marigolds and lanterns, and the men were busy with the caterers. I was supposed to be helping my mother with the garlands, but the lure of hide-and-seek with my cousins was too strong. We had strict rules: no hiding outside the house, no going to the forbidden terrace of the old wing—the one that faced the desolate wilderness. But my cousin Vikram, who was two years older, had bragged about hiding in the old attic, and my pride wouldn’t let me be outdone. So, when it was my turn to hide, I snuck up the creaking wooden stairs to the terrace, a place that had been off-limits for years.

The terrace was not like the modern open roof; it was an ancient rooftop with crumbling parapets and a single, gnarled peepal tree that had grown through the stones. The air was thick with the scent of dust and dry leaves, and the evening sun cast long, twisted shadows. I found a spot behind a large water tank, thinking myself clever. I waited, listening for the footsteps of the seekers, but the house below seemed to have fallen eerily silent. That’s when I heard it: a low, guttural breathing, like something large and predatorial drawing air. I peered out from behind the tank and saw a shape, silhouetted against the orange sky, crouched on the parapet. It was taller than any man, with long, gangly limbs and a hunched back. Its head was too large, and its eyes—Oh, God—its eyes glowed a dark, malevolent red. It turned its head slowly, and I saw a face that was a mockery of a monkey, with a wide, grinning mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth.

My blood ran cold. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. The creature let out a low, chittering laugh that sounded like bones rattling. It then stretched its long arms, and I noticed its fingers ended in cruel, black claws. It began to walk toward me, its steps unnaturally silent, and I finally snapped out of my paralysis. I scrambled to my feet and dashed for the staircase, but my foot caught on a loose stone, and I fell hard. The creature was upon me in an instant, its fetid breath washing over me, its claws digging into my shoulder. I screamed, a piercing shriek that must have been heard for miles. Just as I thought I was done for, a sudden gust of wind rattled the peepal tree, and the creature paused, tilting its head as if listening. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, it leaped over the parapet and disappeared into the gathering darkness.

I lay there, trembling, my shoulder stinging with deep gashes. I finally managed to stumble down the stairs, and when my family saw me, there was an uproar. They saw the wounds, the claw marks, and they heard my incoherent babbling about the monkey-like beast. Some believed me, but the elders dismissed it as a stray dog attacking me, or a figment of my imagination. The next day, they sealed the terrace door, claiming it was unsafe. But the terror wasn’t over. That night, I lay in my bed, the window open to the hot desert wind, and I heard that same chittering sound echoing across the neighborhood. It was coming from the terrace. And then, a voice, if you could call it that, rasped in my mind: ‘You saw me, boy. You’ll see me again.’

I never told anyone about that voice. The days passed, and the wedding proceeded, but I could feel the creature’s presence lurking, always just at the edge of my perception. I would catch glimpses of its shadow in the corner of my eye, or hear its breathing under my bed at night. The adults called it trauma, but I knew. I knew it was biding its time. A week after the wedding, my family decided to move to Mumbai, partly to escape the strange events that seemed to follow me. I hoped, foolishly, that leaving would break its hold. But on the last night before we departed, I went to the window one final time, and there it was, standing on the roof opposite, its red eyes fixed on me. It smiled, and then it was gone.

Now, years later, I am an adult, but I have never forgotten. I moved back to Rajasthan for work, and I could not resist visiting the old haveli. It was abandoned, crumbling, and the terrace was now open to the sky. As I walked up those stairs, my heart pounding, I saw that the peepal tree had grown wild, and carved into its bark was a crude symbol: a spiral within a circle. And I heard the chittering again, louder, closer. I turned, and there it was, waiting for me, its eyes burning. It spoke, and its voice was like dry leaves scraping stone: ‘You returned, boy. Now you are ready to join the dance.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out. And then the world twisted, and I was no longer on the terrace, but in a dark, endless pit, where the creatures dwelled, and I knew I would never leave.

So when people say it was all mass hysteria, I tell them this: the Chudail of the Lanes is real, and it is patient. It has claimed me, and it will claim others, one by one, until the land is silent save for its chittering. And there is no escape for those who have seen it, for it lives in the shadows of the mind, waiting for the moment when you are alone, on a terrace, under the dying sun.