The grave by the window

The bungalow stood at the edge of the village, its moss-covered walls breathing in the damp monsoon air. From the upstairs window, one could see the old graveyard beyond the fields, quiet, half-forgotten, veiled in mist.

She had come there with her parents and younger brother, along with a few relatives, to perform the last rites of a family member. The house had been full that morning, footsteps echoing, soft voices murmuring prayers. Some whispered of strange things like sounds in the corridors, a shadow that seemed too familiar, the feeling of someone standing just behind them.

She had smiled faintly at their unease. Ghosts don’t exist, she’d thought, drawing the curtains shut.

By the time she woke from her afternoon nap, the house had emptied. The echoes and murmurs were gone. Her family had gone to make arrangements for the ceremony. She vaguely remembered hearing them mention it before drifting off. It made sense they hadn’t woken her. She was never into rituals anyway. They would be back by night.

The house felt larger now, as though it had taken a deep breath in their absence. The corridors stretched longer, the ticking clock louder. A curtain at the far end of the hallway fluttered softly, and the scent of damp roses drifted in from the garden.

She walked to the window. Beyond the rusted iron railing, the graveyard lay still, an ocean of crooked stones dissolving into fog.

A faint drizzle began. The clouds pressed low and swollen before breaking into a thunderstorm. Somewhere, a crow called once, then fell silent.

She turned away. Ghosts don’t exist, she reminded herself again, smiling faintly at her reflection in the glass.

When the power went out, it was sudden, a breathless blackness swallowing every corner of the house. The sound of the rain rose louder.

She found a candle in the kitchen, struck a match, and let the flame bloom. The soft light trembled.

She sat by the closed window, the candle beside her. The flame danced each time the wind slipped through the gaps. Outside, the storm gathered force, rain slanting in sheets, thunder rolling from one end of the sky to the other. The graveyard had vanished behind under darkness.

Then, lightning.

A single, sharp flash, white and merciless.

For a heartbeat, the world outside was visible again.

And in that instant, she saw it, her own name carved clean into a gravestone. The date glistened wet beneath the rain.

Her smile faltered. She blinked, stared harder, as if her eyes had played a cruel trick. Then she shook her head, letting out a nervous laugh. Ghosts don’t exist, she whispered again, softer this time, unsure.

Outside, dogs began barking. One, then another, until the sound rose like a warning while the wind howled through the trees

The candle flickered violently, bending low, then the flame went out.

Darkness.

When her family returned that night, the storm had quieted. The candle had melted into a pale puddle of wax by the window.

They said their prayers quietly.

The last rites were performed at dawn.

For her.