The night after Rajiv's tragic death unfolded like a slow, painful wound. Meera sat on the edge of the bed, her daughter asleep beside her, clutching the stuffed rabbit Rajiv had bought months ago. The birthday cake lay untouched in the kitchen, the candles melted into a pool of wax. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air inside the house felt heavy — as if something invisible had taken residence within its walls.
The house, once warm and vibrant, now felt hollow. Yet, somewhere deep within that emptiness, a faint presence stirred.
The Lingering Spirit
Rajiv's soul did not depart with his last breath. Somewhere between the blinding headlights and the deafening crash, a part of him clung to the world he loved — to the promises left unspoken, to the birthday gift he never delivered, to the daughter whose smile had been his guiding star.
He found himself standing outside his own home, rain dripping from his phantom skin though he no longer felt cold. The gate creaked open though no wind blew. The scent of home — damp earth, Meera's jasmine oil, the faint sweetness of the cake — pulled him inside.
He saw them: Meera curled in grief, and little Anaya sleeping fitfully. His fingers twitched, wanting to brush her hair away from her face, to whisper, "Papa's here." But the moment his hand hovered near her, the air trembled. The curtains shifted though the window was shut. The lights flickered once… twice.
Meera stirred and looked around. "Anaya? Did you open the window?" she murmured, but the child slept on.
Rajiv stepped back, a hollow ache filling him. They can't see me… not yet.
The First Signs
Over the next two nights, small disturbances began to ripple through the house. The clock in the hallway stopped at 7:45 — the exact time of Rajiv's death — though fresh batteries had been put in just that morning. The birthday gift he had bought — a tiny golden locket with a photo of him and Anaya — mysteriously appeared on the living room table, even though it had been lost in the crash.
Meera tried to explain it all away. Grief played tricks, she told herself. Exhaustion made her careless.
But Anaya was the first to feel it. Children often are.
On the third night, she woke to the sound of the music box — the one her father wound for her every night. But no one had touched it in days. The tune was broken, halting, like a voice trying to speak through static.
She whispered into the darkness, "Papa?"
The music stopped.
And for a fleeting second, she felt a warmth near her cheek — as if someone had just kissed her goodnight.
Uneasy Shadows
Meera could not sleep. She moved through the house in the early dawn hours, her footsteps echoing in the silence. The photograph on the wall — Rajiv holding Anaya at the park — had tilted to one side. She straightened it, only to hear a faint thump behind her.
The kitchen chair had moved. Just an inch — but she had heard it scrape the floor.
"Who's there?" she called softly, her heart quickening.
Only the refrigerator hummed in reply.
By the fifth night, the unease had grown heavier. Doors she was sure she had closed were left ajar. The jasmine plant outside the window — Rajiv's favorite — bloomed out of season. And always, at 7:45 p.m., the lights flickered for a heartbeat.
Anaya Speaks
On the sixth day, Anaya approached her mother while drawing. "Mama," she said, eyes wide, "Papa came last night."
Meera froze. "What do you mean?"
"He sat on my bed. I couldn't see him, but I felt him. He was sad. He said he missed me."
Meera knelt. "Anaya… Papa is gone. Remember what we talked about?"
Anaya shook her head fiercely. "No. He's here. He touched my hair like always."
Meera tried to smile, but her hands trembled as she stroked her daughter's face. "Sometimes our minds make us feel things we wish were true."
But later that night, when she passed Anaya's room, she heard the faintest hum — Rajiv's lullaby, the one only he used to sing.
The Mirror Incident
The first true haunting came a week after Rajiv's death.
Meera stood before the bathroom mirror, brushing her hair. Her face looked pale, sleepless. Behind her, the door was closed. The steam from the shower clung to the glass, making the reflection misty.
Then she saw it.
A handprint — large, unmistakably male — formed on the foggy mirror behind her. Slowly, finger by finger, it pressed against the glass.
She spun around. Nothing.
The handprint remained.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She backed out of the bathroom, her heart hammering. That night, she didn't tell Anaya.
The Whispered Promise
Rajiv wandered the house each night, growing stronger as the days passed. His emotions tethered him — sorrow, love, regret. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a whisper lost in the walls.
He stood by Anaya's bed and whispered, "I'm here, sweetheart. I'll keep you safe."
Sometimes she stirred, sometimes she smiled in her sleep.
One night, she whispered back, "Papa… don't go."
His heart ached — if a ghost could still feel such a thing.
Fear Creeps In
Meera began to feel watched. Not threatened — but watched. When she cried, the lights flickered. When she locked the back door, it unlocked again. The smell of Rajiv's cologne lingered in their bedroom, growing stronger on nights she left the window closed.
Neighbors noticed her pale face. "You're still grieving," they said gently. "It will take time."
But in the dark hours of the night, when the clock ticked past 7:45, she knew it wasn't just grief. Something was here.
The Cat's Reaction
Animals sense what humans deny. The stray cat that often lounged on their porch began to hiss at empty corners. One evening, it arched its back at the hallway and bolted, its fur bristling.
Anaya ran after it. "Why did Kitty run?"
Meera said nothing. She had seen the shadow too — a fleeting silhouette at the end of the hall.
The Final Sign of the Chapter
The chapter closed with a stormy night. Thunder rolled across the sky, and rain lashed against the windows. Meera sat with Anaya, reading her a bedtime story. When the clock struck 7:45, the lights went out.
The music box began to play.
This time, the tune was whole — clear, haunting, almost tender.
Meera froze, clutching Anaya close.
Then came the faintest whisper, so soft it could have been the wind:
"Happy birthday, Anaya."
Meera's eyes welled with tears. "Rajiv…?" she whispered.
And for a heartbeat, in the flash of lightning, she saw him — standing in the doorway, wet from the rain that no longer touched him, his eyes full of longing.
When the light faded, he was gone. But the locket lay on the table, shining.
The haunting had truly begun.