The Vermilion Door

In the sweltering summer of 2013, I had just graduated with a degree in literature and was desperate for work. My friends Rohan and Meera were in the same boat, so we pooled our savings and decided to try our luck in the sprawling metropolis of Mumbai. We had heard that the city never sleeps, and neither do the opportunities. But first, we needed a roof over our heads, and the hunt was brutal.

We spent three days tramping through the relentless sun, knocking on doors in crowded chawls and sleek high-rises alike. Landlords took one look at our youthful faces and shook their heads. ‘No bachelors,’ they’d say, or ‘Only families for a year minimum.’ The few who were willing to rent wanted astronomical deposits that would have drained us dry. We were about to give up when we met an elderly woman in a quiet suburb called Vikhroli. Her name was Mrs. D’Souza, and she smiled kindly, offering us two rooms on the second floor of her old, sprawling bungalow. The rent was surprisingly low, and she seemed to take a liking to us, saying she missed having young people around. We moved in that very evening.

The bungalow was a relic of the pre-independence era, with creaky wooden staircases and high ceilings that echoed with every step. Mrs. D’Souza lived on the ground floor, and we rarely saw her except for brief, polite encounters. Our rooms were furnished with heavy, dark furniture and smelled of dust and old books. The one thing that struck me odd was a door at the end of the hallway on our floor. It was painted a deep, glossy vermilion, unlike the peeling white of the others. It had no handle, only a small keyhole, and it was nailed shut.

On our first night, I couldn’t sleep. The heat was oppressive, and the old ceiling fan whirred noisily without providing relief. I tossed and turned, and as the clock struck midnight, I heard a faint scratching sound coming from the hallway. It was rhythmic, like nails on wood. I crept out of my room and saw the vermilion door trembling, as if something on the other side was pushing against it. I called out, but the sound stopped instantly. I convinced myself it was just the wind.

The next day, I asked Mrs. D’Souza about the door. Her smile vanished, and her eyes grew distant. ‘That room belonged to my daughter, Kavita,’ she said softly. ‘She passed away twenty years ago, the day before her wedding.’ I murmured condolences and didn’t press further, but a cold dread settled in my stomach.

Over the following week, strange things began to happen. We would find our belongings moved—a book on the floor, a glass shattered. Meera claimed she saw a figure in a white saree at the end of the hall, and Rohan heard the faint sound of a woman sobbing at night. We tried to laugh it off as urban stress, but we all started sleeping with the lights on.

One night, I woke to the sound of the vermilion door creaking open. The nails that had held it shut lay scattered on the floor like black seeds. I approached with a racing heart, and through the doorway, I saw a room bathed in soft candlelight. It was a bride’s chamber—a bed with silk sheets, a vanity with a tarnished mirror, and in the center, a young woman in a white bridal gown, her face hidden behind a veil. She turned her head towards me, and I noticed her hands, so pale they were almost translucent, were covered in vermilion powder.

She beckoned me inside. Despite my terror, my feet moved on their own. As I stepped over the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me, and the room was plunged into darkness. I could feel a cold breath on my neck, and a voice whispered, ‘You must take my place.’ I turned, and the bride lifted her veil to reveal a face that was not a face, but a hollow void. I screamed, and the last thing I saw was the vermilion wall of the hallway as I collapsed.

I woke up the next morning in my own bed, with Rohan and Meera shaking me. They said I had been sleepwalking and found me unconscious in front of the door. The door was sealed again, as if it had never been opened. We decided to leave immediately, but Mrs. D’Souza seemed unsurprised by our abrupt departure. As we packed, she handed me a small box wrapped in red cloth. ‘For the girl who will marry my son,’ she said with a hollow smile. ‘She will need this.’

We left Mumbai that day, and I never opened the box. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I can still see that vermilion door, and I hear the scratching, as if the bride knows I am trying to forget. And I wonder—what would have happened if I had taken her place?