The Shadows Inside

They said the old woman had gone mad. The grandchildren whispered it when they thought she was asleep. Neighbours who once greeted her at the gate now crossed to the other side, shaking their heads. She had begun talking to the corners of her house, scolding shadows no one else could see. When her daughter placed trembling hands on the admission papers, the destiny of the old woman was sealed.

The asylum stood at the edge of the city, surrounded by trees that never seemed to sway, as if frozen in time. Its gates opened with a groan that seemed to echo too long, as if unwilling to let her leave once she entered. The walls inside were damp, with stains that looked like faces melted halfway into the plaster. The smell of bleach mixed with something older, like dust that had been locked inside for decades.

Her room was bare: a narrow bed, steel railings, a small covered window, and a single dim bulb that buzzed at night. Silence here was different. It didn’t soothe her—it pressed into her chest until she felt she could not breathe. 

The Mirror in Granny’s House

Granny’s old house stood at the edge of the village, hidden by twisted trees and overgrown vines. No one came near it anymore. The walls, once white, were now stained with moss, and the windows always seemed too dark—as if they were hiding something behind them.

The villagers whispered that shadows followed Granny, and they weren't wrong.

For many years, she had felt them. Shadows that slipped under doors. Shadows that breathed against her neck when she was alone. Shadows that whispered in corners, calling her name in voices that sounded like forgotten lullabies. But whenever someone came to check, there was nothing. No footprints. No sound. Just Granny, pale and shaking.

But now, the house was quiet. Her children were grown. Her friends long gone. Granny was alone with the shadows. 

The Blind Crow on the Terrace

Before she was Granny—the one who smelled of warm turmeric and wore glass bangles that jingled softly—she was just a quiet girl living in a village. Her family’s house stood on the edge of a field, a weathered old structure with cracked lime walls and a roof that held more secrets than tiles.

Whenever relatives visited, which was often, she was asked to sleep in the terrace room. It was expected. She never protested. Her own room would be given to the guests, and she’d climb the steep stone steps to the roof, where a small room sat like a forgotten corner of the house.

That room had a wooden bed, rough and slightly tilted, and a ceiling fan that shook with each turn like it might fall at any moment. The windows had no glass—just iron bars and a curtain faded by the sun.

One evening, after the guests had settled in and the house had gone quiet, she made her way upstairs. The village was still, the air thick with the smell of earth and distant cow-dung fires. Crickets chirped somewhere in the darkness.

As she stepped onto the terrace, her eyes caught something unusual.