Chapter 3: Fear in the Corridors

The next morning, Rajeev left for duty, the kids went to school, and Meera was alone. The silence felt unnatural—after the morning chaos of socks, tiffins, and reminders, emptiness pressed in. Even Shanti, the maid, was off.

Meera, never just a housewife, planned to learn makeup skills and try her luck as an Instagram influencer. Her friends from Delhi kept sending reels, saying, 'Meera, tu bhi try kar!' She’d bought a ring light, ready to start. Even her cousin’s daughter was getting brand deals for kajal and scrunchies.

She sat at her dressing table upstairs, YouTube tutorial open, sunlight streaming in, the faint aroma of agarbatti lingering from the morning puja. The distant sound of waves and a koel’s song drifted in. Meera dabbed her brush in eyeshadow, smiling at her reflection, imagining her own followers.

Suddenly—a strange sound from downstairs. Not the pressure cooker or a scooter’s horn. Something deliberate. Two sounds: 'creak… clunk.' Like a door opening or closing.

Alone, Meera’s heart skipped a beat. She froze, clutching her dupatta, whispering a quick, 'Bhagwan, bacha lena.' Her mind flashed with every horror story her bua ever told.

She grabbed Rajeev’s old SS cricket bat, tiptoed past the landing, careful not to let her anklet tinkle. The sticky Goa monsoon warmth pressed in, sweat beading at her brow.

The house was silent. Only the whir of the fridge and the ceiling fan’s whoosh. Gripping the bat tightly, she checked each room—storeroom, bedroom, study, living room, laundry—opening doors with her elbow, peering into the shadows.

She even checked behind curtains and under the sofa, berating herself for binge-watching crime shows. After confirming nothing, she locked every door—latch once for safety, twice for peace of mind, just as Ma had taught.

Still uneasy, she searched the second floor—the guest bedroom, balcony, children’s bathroom. Nothing.

Back at her dressing table, kurti damp with sweat, she wiped her brow and noticed her mascara smudged. The sunlight seemed too harsh now. One thing was certain: she’d heard a door.

Her instincts screamed not to dismiss it. She replayed the sound, trying to pinpoint the source. All the doors were Godrej—same locks, heavy keys, thick bolts. Rajeev’s pride, but were they enough?

'Could someone have slipped out quietly?' Her mind ran wild—someone hiding behind the bathroom door, holding their breath. A cold shiver ran down her spine—the kind her nani always said meant a spirit was passing by.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Even the bright Goa sun couldn’t warm her now. Someone could have been living here all along.

Walls closed in, unseen eyes everywhere. Meera’s skin prickled with dread. She called Rajeev, voice shaking: 'Rajeev, jaldi ghar aa jao na, kuch gadbad hai!'

Rajeev returned, searched the house again, but found nothing. Irritated, he said, 'Bas karo na, Navy is strict. Unless it’s an emergency, don’t call me like this.' But his eyes betrayed concern as he wiped sweat from his brow.

Meera pressed, 'There’s a stranger in the house—isn’t that an emergency?' Her voice cracked, feeling small and unheard.

Rajeev gestured at the empty rooms. 'Meera, please. There’s no one. The kids are fine, you’re fine, I’m here.'

'Phir woh darwaze ki awaaz?' she whispered.

'Maybe it was just the wind.' He tried to sound sure, but he looked uncertain.

Meera turned away, blinking back tears. In Indian homes, sometimes it’s not ghosts, but not being believed that hurts most.

They compromised—ordered a full CCTV system. 'Dekho, CCTV lagwa lo. Then you’ll see, nothing is wrong.' But Goa isn’t Mumbai—delivery took weeks. Lobo uncle, the electrician, would only come after Ganesh Chaturthi.

Meera groaned. 'Yahan toh sab kuch late hi milta hai.'

That night, dinner was dal, rice, bhindi. The ceiling fan hummed, fried bhindi’s aroma lingered. The boys chatted, but Meera picked at her food, anxiety gnawing at her.

She noticed food vanishing from the fridge—dabba of shrikhand, leftover parathas. She wondered if the kids were sneaking snacks, but it didn’t add up.

At night, the house felt empty, the waves outside ominous. Garden lights flickered, shadows stretched across the grills.

Rajeev, exhausted, tried to reassure her: 'Just get some sleep. Itna bhi mat soch.' He patted her hand, switched off the light, and lay down, pulling the bedsheet up like a child.

Meera said nothing. She wished her husband would take her fears seriously. She lay awake, eyes wide, listening for every creak, praying for nothing more to happen.

That night, for a few hours, her wish came true. She slept, but her dreams were full of dark corridors and faceless shadows.

But another bizarre event was about to occur.