The Uninvited Guest

The old colonial house in Lahore had always had a room that no one used. It was called the ‘mehmaan khana’, meant for guests who never came. It was vast, with a high ceiling and a floor of cool, green marble that felt like ice against bare feet. One wall was a single pane of glass overlooking a wild, overgrown garden, while a heavy teak door led to the veranda and another to the dining hall. We, my wife Sara and I, had lived there for five years, but that room remained shut, gathering dust.

That summer, the heat was relentless. The monsoon was late, and the air was thick with humidity. The ceiling fan in our bedroom was a joke, and the power cuts were endless. One night, after the third blackout, Sara threw her pillow across the room. ‘I can’t take this anymore,’ she said, her voice muffled by the heat. ‘We’re sleeping in the mehmaan khana tonight.’ The door creaked open, and we dragged our beds into the cavernous space. We left the veranda door wide open, hoping for a breeze to cut through the stagnant air.

We lay on our beds, sweating, listening to the drone of mosquitoes. The moonlight cast long, distorted shadows through the glass. Sleep came grudgingly. Then, at around 3 AM, I was startled awake by a sound—a faint, rhythmic scratching, like nails on stone. I sat up, but saw nothing. The garden was empty. I lay back, dismissing it as a branch or a cat. But then, I saw it. A dark shape, just outside the glass, pressed against the pane, with long, thin fingers tapping. It had no face, just a smooth, black surface. My blood ran cold. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, and the scratching stopped. I didn’t tell Sara, thinking it was a trick of the light.

The next night, we were in the room again. The air was even heavier, if that was possible. At 3 AM, precisely the same time, the scratching returned. This time, Sara heard it too. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging. ‘What is that?’ she whispered. I looked towards the glass, and there it was again—the shape, now more defined, like a tall man with elongated limbs. Its head tilted, as if observing us. Then, it pressed its palm against the glass, leaving a greasy smear that glistened in the moonlight. ‘It’s a trick,’ I said, but my voice shook. We decided to close the veranda door, and we didn’t sleep that night.

For the next three nights, we avoided the room, enduring the heat in our bedroom. But the power cuts grew longer, and one night, with no fan and no air, Sara begged to go back. We entered the room, but we locked the veranda door. Sweat poured down our faces. At 3 AM, we heard a knock on the glass. We turned, and the thing was there, its face pressed against the pane, its mouth open in a silent scream. I saw its teeth—too many, too sharp. ‘It’s not trying to get in,’ Sara said, her voice strangely calm. ‘It’s trying to show us something.’ She walked closer to the glass, despite my pleading to stop. She placed her hand on the pane, mirroring the creature’s gesture. And then, the glass shattered.

The creature’s arm shot through, long and boneless, and wrapped around Sara’s waist. She screamed, but the sound was muffled by a hand like wet clay. Before I could move, it dragged her through the jagged opening, into the darkness of the garden. I ran to the broken glass, but there was nothing—just the overgrown bushes, swaying in a wind that had suddenly picked up. I called her name, but the only response was the rustle of leaves.

I no longer sleep in that house. I wait for the dawn outside, listening to the sounds of the night. But I know, the creature is waiting too. On certain nights, when the air is still and the power fails, I hear a faint scratching at my bedroom window, and a voice that sounds like Sara whispering, ‘Let me in.’ And I am terrified, because I know one day I will, thinking it’s her.