The Midnight Visit

This happened long ago when I resided in my village, engrossed in my studies. Our house, old and sprawling, sat near a place where it was whispered a graveyard once loomed, casting a sinister shadow over us all. One night, something terrifying transpired that has remained etched in my memory.

Our house had a peculiar layout. My room and my grandmother's room were on one side of the veranda, while my uncle, aunt, and parents stayed on the other side. My grandmother, alive then, is no longer among us. She was a kind soul, deeply respected by everyone in the family. Her room, filled with the faint scent of jasmine and old books, had always been a place of comfort and warmth.

But that night, the clock struck 1:30, and I woke up with a feeling of dread. The night was unnaturally silent, amplifying every creak and whisper. As I ventured out towards the washroom, my eyes fell on the large mirror fixed to a pillar in front of my room. The mirror was old and tarnished, reflecting the veranda with an almost eerie clarity.

A chilling sensation enveloped me as I stood before the mirror, waiting for any sign of movement. The veranda was dimly lit by the moonlight streaming in through the wooden shutters, casting long, ghostly shadows. My heart pounded in my chest, echoing in the stillness.

Suddenly, the faint sounds of activity emanated from the washroom—a flush, perhaps, or was it something more sinister? I waited, expecting someone to emerge, but no one did. Instead, the unmistakable sound of a walking stick reverberated through the air, reminiscent of my grandmother's nightly strolls. The sound grew louder, haunting, but no form materialized. A chill ran down my spine, convinced that my grandmother had returned from the beyond.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I resolved to investigate. My heart pounded as I approached her room, the door slightly ajar. I slowly opened it, expecting the worst. There she was, peacefully slumbering, undisturbed by the night's eerie events. Her breathing was soft and rhythmic, wrapped in her quilt, looking serene and untouched by the fears that gripped me.

Suddenly, a cold, bony hand gripped my shoulder. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I turned slowly, expecting to see a figure behind me, but there was no one. The pressure on my shoulder disappeared as quickly as it had come. Confusion and fear seized me. Hastily retreating to my chamber, I sought solace beneath the blankets, hoping to escape the inexplicable terror that gripped me.

The silence became oppressive, the shadows seemed to move on their own, and the air grew colder. I could hear faint whispers, almost like chanting, coming from the mirror. The whispers grew louder, transforming into a chorus of ghostly voices. I glanced at the mirror and saw the faint outline of a figure standing behind me, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

Paralyzed with fear, I watched as the figure moved closer. It was a grotesque apparition, its face twisted in rage and sorrow. Just as it reached out towards me, the figure vanished, leaving me trembling and drenched in sweat. Exhaustion finally overcame my terror, and I fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of shadowy figures and echoing footsteps.

Come morning, I shared my harrowing ordeal with my family. The sunlight streaming in through the windows did little to dispel the lingering fear from the night before. I recounted every detail—the sounds, the mirror, and the walking stick. My parents and relatives listened with growing concern, but none of them had ventured into the washroom that fateful night.

Their faces were etched with worry, and a deep silence followed my tale. It became clear that whatever presence I had sensed was not of this world. The events of that chilling night remained shrouded in fear, a testament to the enduring mysteries that haunt our humble abode.

To this day, I cannot explain what happened that night. Whether it was a figment of my imagination, a residual echo from the graveyard, or something else entirely, remains a mystery. But the memory of that midnight terror—the sounds, the ghostly figure, and the chilling presence—has stayed with me, a reminder of the unseen and the unknown that sometimes brush against our lives.