The Unseen Guest at the Seaview Bungalow

I had just finished college, and the world felt like a freshly unwrapped gift. I was staying with my cousins, two younger girls, at their rambling bungalow that overlooked the sea. The air was always salty, and the constant crash of waves was a lullaby at night. One evening, we decided to make the most of the weekend by visiting our friend, Maya, whose house was just down a narrow lane that hugged the cliffside.

Maya’s place was a colonial relic, all creaking wood and high ceilings, with a musty charm that felt centuries old. We gathered in her grand sitting room, where her mother had arranged a spread of spicy samosas and sweet chai. We had planned a movie marathon, but the conversation soon drifted to the supernatural. Maya, usually the most level-headed of us, began to share something she had never told us before.

She spoke of a cold spot near the guest room, a room we would be using that night. It had two doors, one leading to the main hall and another that opened onto a winding staircase descending to her grandparents’ flat below. According to Maya, her grandfather had passed away in that room years ago, but his spirit never left. She said that sometimes, at night, you could hear him humming an old fishing shanty, and the door to the staircase would creak open on its own.

We laughed nervously, attributing it to drafts and old pipes. But as the night wore on and the clock struck midnight, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The lights flickered once, and the chai in our cups suddenly turned cold. A faint smell of brine and old wood filled the air. My cousin Priya whispered that she felt like someone was watching us.

Suddenly, from the guest room, we heard a rhythmic thumping, like footsteps climbing the stairs. We froze, our eyes locked on the door that led to that staircase. The door began to creak open, slowly, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond. The humming started—a low, tuneless hum that seemed to come from just beyond the doorway.

Maya grabbed my hand, her nails digging in. ‘He’s here,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. The humming grew louder, and the footsteps stopped just outside the room. The door swung fully open, revealing a winding staircase descending into blackness. No one was there.

The lights flickered again, and the curtains billowed despite the closed windows. The chai cups rattled on the table. Then, as suddenly as it started, the humming stopped. A cold draft swept through, and we heard a faint sound, like a sigh, right behind us. We all turned, but the room was empty.

We decided to leave, grabbing our bags and rushing out into the night, our hearts pounding. As we reached the front gate, I looked back at the guest room window. I saw the silhouette of an old man, his face pressed against the glass, and he was smiling. That smile was not of a benign spirit but of a lonely one who had found new company.

From that night on, I could never shake the feeling that the sea breeze carried a faint whisper of that shanty, and every time I saw a dim light in a window, I half-expected to see that face again. The seaview bungalow lost its charm, and I never stayed at Maya’s house again. But the memory of that smile, etched against the night, remained a permanent chill in my bones.