Chapter 1: The Midnight Messages
April 1st, Delhi. My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from an unknown number, its blue glow slicing through the darkness like a blade.
The faint aroma of leftover rajma from dinner still hung in the air, and the mosquito coil in the corner sputtered out its last wisp of smoke. The harsh blue glow of my phone cut through the shadows, sharper than the old tube light in our kitchen that always flickered before dying. The fan overhead whirred lazily, stuttering for a moment as I opened the message:
"Please judge which is not a lie: 1. There will be a power outage; 2. It will rain; 3. There will be an earthquake."
For a second, I wondered if some friend from my old school WhatsApp group was trying to be clever—April Fool's Day, after all. Rohan or Sana, probably. Both were experts at these things. I typed back: "Arre, definitely 1. Power cuts toh daily ka scene hai." I didn't think much of it. Just another prank, I thought.
But before I could even put my phone down, all the lights in my 2BHK flat went out.
I groped for the torch app on my phone, cursing under my breath. The sudden silence pressed in, broken only by the distant hum of Sharma uncle’s generator. There was the familiar "phat" from the inverter, then absolute darkness. Mosquitoes buzzed by my ear, and with the fan dead, the room already felt stuffier. My heartbeat skipped, but I brushed it aside—Delhi and power cuts are like chai and Parle-G.
I looked outside. The colony streetlights glowed as usual; Sharma uncle’s TV bathed his living room in light, old Bollywood songs blaring. The Gulmohar trees along the footpath looked almost haunted in the yellow glow. Only my flat had gone dark. My heart thudded—what kind of prank was this?
A slight panic flickered in my chest. I rubbed my arms, feeling goosebumps rise as I glanced at the old Ganesha idol on my shelf. My mind raced, searching for an explanation. Was someone playing a trick on me?
Then, another message appeared on my phone:
"Please judge which is not a lie: 1. Your mother will die; 2. Your best friend will die; 3. You yourself will die."
My lips moved on their own—Om Namah Shivaya—like Amma had taught me whenever I got scared at night. My skin prickled with goosebumps. The only sound was my own heartbeat, louder than the faint barking of stray dogs outside. The sort of chill that seeps in when you’re alone and the lights are out gripped me.
I shot upright in bed, pulse racing.
I tried to convince myself it was still a prank, but my hands were trembling as I held the phone. Who would joke about death like this? Still, a small voice whispered—what if…?
Just now, I had chosen "There will be a power outage," and my house really did lose power.
I replayed everything—message, reply, darkness. Was it just a coincidence? The air in my room felt heavier, charged with something I couldn’t name.
That meant the answer I picked would become reality.
No, ridiculous, I tried to reason. But my body didn’t believe it. The questions were getting more sinister. I licked my lips, staring at the phone, as if it might bite.
But this new question put me in a terrible dilemma.
My hands felt cold. It was as if I’d been shoved onto a railway platform, a train barreling towards me, forced to pick which track to jump to. I stared at the phone, eyes darting between options, hoping for a miracle.
All three options meant someone would die.
It was the kind of nightmare choice that only came in dadi’s old ghost stories during power cuts. My mouth went dry.
But I couldn’t let myself die, and I couldn’t let my mother die either…
Images of Maa flashed in my mind—her hands dusted with atta in the kitchen, her tired smile after long shifts at the hospital. My own death was unthinkable. What would she do if I was gone? A cold weight pressed against my chest.
So…
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling sick with guilt before I even did anything. Choosing anyone felt like inviting bad luck, the sort of thing Dadi always warned against during eclipses. The words on the screen blurred, but my thumb hovered over the keypad.
I could only choose 2.
Besides, at that moment, I didn’t really believe that answering a WhatsApp riddle could actually cause someone to die.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to rationalise. Had to be an elaborate prank. Maybe Rohan was behind it. That thought gave me a little comfort. Still, my stomach twisted as I pressed send.
Delhi’s electricity board was notorious. Sometimes, power cuts happened for no reason at all, especially at night. The rational part of me clung to this explanation. Maybe the rest was just my mind playing tricks.
So after hesitating for only a few seconds, I sent my answer.
The blue light of the phone reflected off my face, casting weird shadows on the wall. My heart thudded as I waited. Five seconds. Ten. Nothing happened. I let out a nervous laugh, feeling a bit silly now.
Right then, my phone screen flashed with a strange blue-green glow.
It wasn’t the usual WhatsApp notification—more like the screen was underwater, colours swirling. For a moment, my own wide-eyed reflection stared back at me from the black glass.
But it quickly went back to normal.
Just a glitch, I told myself. Maybe my phone was heating up again. But my hands were sweating now, slippery on the phone.
Then I started to worry.
Was this some sick joke? Was someone spying on me? The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant call of a night watchman’s whistle.
Would my best friend really die?
I stared at my contact list, thumb hovering over Rohan’s name. He was the only one I could think of. No, no, this was absurd. Still, an icy dread crept in.
He was my childhood friend from the same town, Rohan. We’d always been good friends and classmates at the same school.
Memories flooded in—running barefoot in the rain, stealing mangoes from Sharma uncle’s garden, sharing notes before maths exams. Rohan was more than a friend; he was family. I couldn’t let anything happen to him.
It was just past midnight, not too late.
The clock on the wall showed 12:18 am. The roads would be empty now, rickshaw pullers sleeping at the chowk, even the stray dogs dozing. I could still call.
I called Rohan on video. We were used to chatting like this.
The call icon danced on the screen. My hands shook, and I almost dropped the phone as I waited. The dull blue light flickered over my face, highlighting my nerves.
Luckily, he hadn’t gone to bed yet and answered quickly.
His face appeared on the screen, hair sticking up in all directions. Behind him, the dim light of his desk lamp made everything look grainy, almost eerie.
But as soon as the video connected, I saw—
Rohan’s eyes were wide open, his facial muscles twitching, lips trembling.
He looked nothing like himself. For a second, I thought he was having a fit. My breath caught in my throat.
He gasped out, "Help! Save me! There’s… there’s a long-haired woman in my room!"
My ears rang. I felt rooted to the bed, phone gripped so tight my knuckles ached. The words felt like a curse, dragging the air out of the room.
I was so scared, I couldn’t even speak, completely frozen.
It felt like a scene from those late-night horror shows Maa told me never to watch alone. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I just stared, open-mouthed, unable to form a word.
But then, he suddenly started laughing—"Hahaha!"
The tension snapped like a rubber band. My fear collapsed into confusion as Rohan’s face broke into a mischievous grin.
His expression returned to normal, and he spoke lazily: "Pagal hai kya, itna late mein call kar raha hai? Kya chahiye?"
He stretched, yawning theatrically, as if he hadn’t just scared the living daylights out of me. Typical Rohan, always the drama king.
That’s when I realised—
My mind caught up with my pounding heart. Of course—April Fool’s. I wanted to throw my phone at the wall, but relief was already flooding in.
He was lying, playing an April Fool’s joke.
His acting was just too good.
I remembered our old school play, when Rohan played the ghost and made half the class cry. Some things never change.
"You… you scared me half to death!" I let out a long breath, but still scolded him. "Arey, pagal hai kya? Doing this in the middle of the night!"
I tried to sound angry, but my voice wobbled. Even as I said it, I was half-laughing, half-annoyed. My heartbeat was finally slowing down.
He ignored me and asked, "You know it’s late, and it’s April Fool’s Day. So, what’s up?"
His voice had that teasing lilt, the one he used whenever he knew he’d got the better of me. I could almost see him smirking, twirling his old cricket bat out of habit.
I knew he wouldn’t believe any strange messages if I told him.
He’d just laugh it off, maybe even post screenshots in the group chat. I imagined the emojis—cry-laughing faces, rolling eyes. Better not to mention it.
So I made up an excuse: "Nothing, just wanted to ask if you want to go out for a late-night samosa."
The thought made my stomach grumble. A samosa from Chacha’s shop at this hour? Ridiculous, but I needed something normal to say.
He replied grumpily, "You think I’ll fall for that? You want to call me out and leave me standing alone in the cold? That’s why I pranked you first!"
His eyes narrowed, mock suspicion in his voice. I remembered last year, when I made him stand near the paan shop for half an hour, pretending I was coming. Payback, I suppose.
I was ready to end the call, since I’d confirmed he was fine.
A wave of relief washed over me. I almost laughed out loud, feeling lighter.
"Alright, if you don’t want to eat, then let’s just—"
The words caught in my throat as a sudden coldness returned. I squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
But before I could finish, I froze.
I clutched the edge of my blanket, wishing I had my old Hanuman locket around my neck.
Because in the video, on the balcony behind Rohan—
There was a blurry human figure standing there.
At first, I thought it was just a trick of the light—a curtain moving in the breeze, maybe. But the shape was too solid, too still.
I quickly asked him, "Is there someone else in your house? There’s someone on your balcony!"
My voice was higher than usual, betraying my anxiety. The words tumbled out in a rush, urgent and sharp.
He was stunned for a second.
For a heartbeat, his face went blank. He turned his head slightly, as if listening for a sound.
But only for a moment.
Then he laughed again: "Trying to scare me? I’m not falling for that!"
His confidence felt real, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes—just for a second. Maybe he thought I was returning his prank, but my panic was genuine.
That meant he really was home alone.
A shiver ran down my back. It was just Rohan and whatever—or whoever—was on that balcony. I licked my lips, trying to think of what to say next.
I grew more anxious: "Turn around and look! There really is someone, and…"
My heart hammered against my ribs. I was almost shouting now. Sweat prickled on my forehead.
I stared at the background behind him, dumbfounded.
It was as if time had slowed down, the video freezing on that ghostly figure in the shadows. The air in my room felt thick, hard to breathe.
"And that figure is slowly getting closer… It’s a woman, with long hair."
My voice cracked. The woman’s hair was wild, black as night, and I caught the faint scent of burnt camphor, like from a bad puja. Every horror story I’d ever heard crowded into my mind.
Rohan was even more amused, laughing harder: "Your acting isn’t as good as mine. My performance just now was real surprise, real fear. What was that you just did? Hahaha…"
His laughter felt sharp, echoing in my ears. But I barely heard him, too focused on that creeping shadow. Goosebumps ran all over my arms and neck, my legs curled up under me on the bed.
Goosebumps ran all over me.
The room seemed to shrink. My breath came out shallow, quick. I felt helpless, as if invisible hands were pressing down on my chest.
For a moment, I didn’t know how to make him believe me.
I opened my mouth, closed it. No words came. Would he ever believe me, or just laugh till morning?
But more importantly, I was truly terrified.
I clutched my phone tighter, wishing I could reach through the screen and pull him away from the balcony. The air tasted metallic with fear.
Because as she walked closer, I could see more clearly…
Her silhouette sharpened, filling the frame. The light from Rohan’s lamp caught her face just enough to show the horror beneath.
Her hair was loose, covering her face, revealing only half of a rotting cheek.
It was like something out of a Tantrik’s warning—long hair, loose and wild, the sign of a restless spirit. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst.
Something was writhing in her hair, like maggots.
My skin crawled. I felt a wave of nausea, bile rising in my throat. The sight was so grotesque, so unnatural, I almost dropped the phone.
And that half-rotted face—both cheeks sunken like dry wells, lips cracked and curled, showing black and yellow teeth—
It was a face torn between life and death, like those old black-and-white photos of the dead that sometimes surfaced in WhatsApp forwards. I wanted to shut my eyes, but couldn’t look away.
With dried blood caked between them.
The blood looked old, like rust on an abandoned rickshaw, crusted in the crevices of her lips. It made my skin crawl with fear and disgust.
Before I could react, she seemed to perform a magic trick and suddenly lunged at Rohan.
One moment she was on the balcony, the next she was inches away from him, moving with unnatural speed. My own scream caught in my throat.
Yes, several metres away, but she ignored the distance and pounced straight onto Rohan.
She moved like something unbound by the world, by walls or floors—straight out of a folk tale meant to terrify children into behaving. Rohan didn’t even have time to turn.
In that instant, our video call went completely black…
The screen went dead, the connection broken as if something had snuffed out not just the call, but a little piece of reality itself. I stared at my reflection in the black screen, mouth open, tears pricking my eyes.
My lips trembled, unable to say a word.
My voice was trapped in my throat. I felt cold all over, shaking with silent sobs. I wanted to scream, to run, but I could only sit, frozen.
That was a female ghost.
The words echoed in my mind—chudail, pret, bhoot—names that elders whispered with dread. I never believed in them before. Now I did.
A real female ghost.
Not just a story, not a prank, but a real spirit. I could almost smell the rot, feel the chill in the air. I pressed my back against the wall, as if it could protect me.
I was truly scared out of my wits.
I thought of every prayer I’d ever learned—Hanuman Chalisa, Gayatri Mantra, even the quick Om Namah Shivaya Maa taught me for nightmares. My hands shook as I tried to remember the words.
Before I could even think, my phone vibrated again.
I jumped, the sudden buzz making me almost drop the phone. My heart felt like it would burst. I stared at the screen, not wanting to see what would come next.
That’s right, another message had arrived.
The notification glowed in the darkness, an unwelcome visitor. I hesitated, then swiped it open with a trembling finger.