Chapter 4: The Unseen Guest

Around 3 a.m., Rajeev woke up to use the bathroom. He shuffled out of bed, careful not to wake Meera, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the dim night-light.

After finishing, he heard it again: 'creak… clunk'—from downstairs. The kind of sound that made his nani say, 'Beta, raat ko aisi awaaz achhi nahi.'

Instantly alert, Rajeev’s Navy training kicked in. He gently woke Meera, pointed downstairs, and whispered, 'Main check karta hoon. Tum bachchon ko unke kamre mein le jao aur lock kar lo.'

Meera nodded, gathered the boys, and locked the door, phone clutched tight, whispering a prayer. Rajeev opened his bedside drawer, took out his licensed revolver—heavy, cold, a comfort in the darkness.

Goa’s gun laws are strict, but as a Navy officer, Rajeev had a special permit. He’d only ever fired it at the range, never at a person. He prayed tonight wouldn’t be the first.

He moved silently, footsteps muffled by thick carpet, every nerve tingling. He paused by the family’s small mandir, eyes flicking to the idol—seeking a moment’s protection—before continuing.

He crept downstairs, past family photographs, each one eerily unfamiliar in the shadows.

Again: 'creak… clunk.' Close, so close. He could feel the movement, the air shifting. Sweat trickled down his neck. His pulse hammered. He pressed himself to the wall, gun raised, every sense screaming.

Room by room, he searched—doors opened with his elbow, gun steady. Each room was empty. Silence mocked him. Under beds, inside cupboards, behind curtains—nothing.

He checked even the smallest closet. Still nothing. What on earth…

Doubt swirling, he entered the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, gripping the sink’s edge, staring at his reflection.

Through the mirror, he saw the laundry room door across the corridor—frosted glass, a night-light casting eerie shadows. Suddenly, a flicker of movement. A dark, hunched human shape. For a moment, Rajeev thought it was his own reflection, but the angle was wrong.

Someone was staring at him through the frosted glass, unmoving.

A cold shiver ran down his spine—the kind his nani always said meant a spirit was passing by. The figure didn’t move. Rajeev spun around—gone. A faint rustling sound.

'Kaun hai? Bahar aao!' His voice was loud, echoing through the house. He aimed his gun at the laundry room door, holding his breath, finger poised. Ten seconds—no movement.

He rushed in, gun ready—no one. Room empty. Window closed. Laundry undisturbed. He spun around, searching every inch. No one.

Could it really be a ghost? A thought he’d have mocked yesterday now chilled him to the bone.

He checked the overhead storage—just old suitcases and a rusty ironing board. Helplessness settled in—years of Navy discipline couldn’t prepare him for this.

That night, Rajeev and Meera made a bed on the floor of their sons’ room, locking the door. Meera held the boys, stroking Adi’s hair. Rajeev sat upright, gun in hand, checking the locks at every sound.

Luckily, nothing else happened. The night dragged on. At dawn, they were exhausted, but safe.

The next day, a family meeting. They sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, breakfast plates nearby, mood sombre.

Meera gently prompted, 'Arjun, Adi, agar kuch ajeeb dekha ya suna hai, ab batao.'

The boys revealed: their things would disappear for days, then reappear. Arjun’s Lego vanished, reappeared built differently. His Switch came back with all games deleted. The brothers had fought over it, thinking it was a prank, but now the truth was dawning.

Meera squeezed Rajeev’s hand. Even he looked rattled now, skepticism gone. Details piled up—missing socks, half-finished juice, TV turning on late at night. Each detail made Meera’s skin crawl.

They became certain: someone else was in the house. But how? And why?

No valuables stolen, no violence—just toys and food. What was this person’s motive?

It felt like a ghost had attached itself to the family, silently watching every move. The boys huddled close. Even Rajeev looked pale.

They couldn’t eat, sleep, or laugh as before. Fear crept into every moment.

'No, if this isn’t resolved, I can’t stay here another day.' Meera’s voice trembled with tears, her body shivering in the morning sun.

Rajeev nodded, arm around Meera, children between them. But he still hadn’t called the police—pride and shame wrestling inside him. Navy officer, scared in his own house? But the faces of his children left no room for ego.

He called his mother in Pune. 'Bas, aa jao. Sab theek ho jayega,' she said. They’d go, wait for CCTV, then return. Ganpat the chowkidar would keep watch.

That morning, they packed and left. Meera glanced back at the house, half-expecting to see a face in the window. She shuddered.

A week later, the installer called—the CCTV was ready. Rajeev arranged the earliest possible appointment. After some rest, the family flew back to Goa, tense and silent, Meera reciting Hanuman Chalisa under her breath. Even the kids sat quietly, clutching backpacks.

The drive home was tense. The familiar road seemed strange. The house loomed, windows dark, imposing. Instead of warmth, dread filled them.

Meera gripped Rajeev’s hand. Adi whimpered. Rajeev parked, opened the gate, headlights throwing harsh shadows. He scanned the garden—heart pounding. 'Arrey, someone’s been messing around again…'