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The Flatmate





A bone-chilling draft snaked through the rented flat in Delhi, a stark contrast to the stifling summer heat. The only relief came from the balcony, a narrow concrete ledge overlooking a sight that sent shivers down my spine – a dilapidated house shrouded in an unnatural darkness. It had been abandoned for years, a skeletal silhouette against the dying embers of the city's twilight.

One night, returning from a particularly grueling business meeting, I glanced at the house as if compelled by an unseen force. My breath caught in my throat. A young girl, no older than fifteen, stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, her white dress billowing in the non-existent breeze. Panic clawed at my throat. This deserted house, this spectral figure – it couldn't be real.

"Who's there?" I croaked, my voice hoarse in the oppressive silence. "What are you doing there?" The words tumbled out, desperate and disjointed. But before I could finish my question, a heart-stopping scream tore through the night. The girl had launched herself off the roof, a silent, horrifying plunge into the abyss.

My bare feet slapped against the unforgiving tile floor as I bolted towards the door, the scream echoing in my ears like a death knell. I burst out onto the street, adrenaline pumping, my frantic yells for help shattering the night's stillness. Reaching the building's entrance, I skidded to a halt, my chest heaving.

But the scene before me defied all logic. There was no girl, no crumpled form on the pavement, no blood staining the dusty concrete. Just empty space and the bewildered faces of my neighbors who had been roused by my commotion. The watchman, a wizened old man with eyes that held the wisdom of countless sleepless nights, approached me slowly.

"You saw her, didn't you?" he rasped, his voice laden with a chilling certainty. "The girl who took her own life all those years ago. They say her spirit still roams these halls, a lonely soul forever seeking solace."

A cold dread seeped into my bones. The girl's family, unable to bear the weight of her tragic demise, had abandoned the house. But it wasn't just empty. It was a vessel, a chilling reminder of a life lost, a love unfulfilled. And now, it seemed, I had become a witness to her unending torment, a stark reminder of the horrors that lurked in the shadows of this seemingly ordinary city.


A story shared by a JustUtter reader Radhika Gupta. The story will be published in the next series of "Bhoota Gappa", stay tuned..


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