The Night Behind the Library

It was a night long forgotten by most, but not by Granny.

She doesn’t talk about it often. When someone asks about her college days, she usually smiles and speaks of books, dreams, and the pride of being one of the few girls from her village to study. But there’s one night she never speaks of—not unless someone truly insists. And even then, her eyes go distant.

It happened in November, many years ago. Exams had just ended. The college campus was almost empty. Most students had gone home, their laughter echoing only in memory. But Granny and four of her closest friends—Rekha, Sumita, Lata, and Meena—stayed back for one last night.

They wanted to do something fun. Something silly. Something they had seen in English movies.

“Let’s camp,” Meena said. “Behind the library. It’ll be like in the films!”

They dragged their bedding outside and found a quiet patch near the back of the old building. A row of tall trees stood like silent guards behind them. They lit a small kerosene lantern. Its orange light flickered gently, casting shadows that swayed with the wind.

The night was cold, but they were warm with excitement. They sat in a circle, shawls wrapped tightly around their shoulders, sharing snacks.

“Let’s tell ghost stories,” Sumita said. “Real ones. Whoever scares us most wins.” 

Granny and the Winter Terrace

Granny never spoke much about her childhood. But once, by the fireplace, when the wind outside howled like an animal in pain, she told a story that left everyone silent.

She had been just thirteen then.

It was a late winter evening in her old village. The kind of evening where the sun hides too early, and shadows crawl faster than they should. Her home was a two-story red-brick house, surrounded by other homes and buildings made of the same tired stone. The bricks were old and darkened with time, and everything looked like it had once burned and decided to stay that way.

That evening, Granny—then just a girl—had gone up to the terrace to collect the dried clothes before the cold set in too deep. The air was biting, and the sky had turned the colour of ash. No stars, no moon. Only clouds, thick like smoke. 

The Forest Granny Should Never Have Found

Every evening, young Granny and her best friend Amrita walked into the forest that lay behind their village. It was their little ritual. The sun would dip low, the birds would sing sleepy songs, and the wind would rustle the leaves gently. It was a place of peace. A place where they could collect wild fruits, vegetables, and stories to share with their families over warm dinners.

But that one evening—that cursed evening—something changed.

They had wandered a little farther than usual, chasing the sweet scent of wild berries and the soft laughter that only old friends share. The trees seemed taller, the ground softer, and the air cooler. They followed the sight of a group of snow-white rabbits hopping between bushes. Then, a peacock spread its glorious feathers, shining with blue and green. It felt like they had walked into a hidden paradise. 

The Day the School Went Empty

Some memories fade with age. Others carve themselves so deeply into the soul, they stay—silent, waiting, haunting.  

Granny had always been a cheerful storyteller. She laughed as she spoke of childhood games, mischief in the village, and the dusty classrooms of her school. But whenever someone mentioned rain—her face changed.  

It was a quiet fear, the kind that doesn’t scream but lingers in the corners of a room. One evening, as thunder rumbled in the distance and we huddled near the heater, she finally told us the story she had kept locked away for years.  

It was a cold January morning. The air smelled of wet soil and smoke from burning wood. Granny, then a little girl with a high ponytail and an oversized schoolbag, left for school on the back of her father’s old bicycle.  

The rain had just begun—gentle and harmless—drizzling like a whisper. She remembered holding her bag tight and hiding her face from the misty wind as her father pedalled down the muddy lane.  

But by the time they reached the school gate, the world looked different. 

The Secret of the Locked Door

It was in the days when the village still held on to its old ways—before the hum of electric lights and the whir of machines. Granny was just a young girl then, no older than her grandkids, running through the dusty lanes of the village with her friends. But it wasn’t the sunlight that made the children’s hearts race; it was the moments when the power would go out, leaving the village in pitch blackness. That’s when the real fun began.

No one dared to go inside when the sun set, for the darkness felt alive. It was then that Granny and her friends would gather together, seeking refuge in each other’s company. They’d play games like hide and seek, their footsteps echoing through the streets as they raced from one hiding place to another. And when the power would flicker and die, they’d scatter like shadows, hiding in the cottages of the village or seeking refuge in the empty, eerie spaces nearby—places that seemed to hold more than just dust and cobwebs.

One such place was the big, empty parking lot at the edge of the village. It stood as a strange, silent monument, its vast open space often untouched by human feet. The parking had a grand entrance—so large that even trucks and buses could pass through it without a hint of struggle. But there was another door on the opposite side of the lot. This door was different. It was smaller, always closed with a thin chain and a tiny lock that could barely keep the secrets hidden inside.