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.
Granny could still picture it—the way the moonlight would shine just enough to cast long shadows across the door, but not enough to make it feel safe. That second door had always intrigued her. A caretaker lived in a small room beside it, his presence barely noticed, but always felt. Granny remembered seeing him a couple of times, a quiet, weathered man who never spoke much. But there was something odd about him. No one, not even Granny, ever saw his wife, though the rumours swirled like dust in the wind. It was said that she was kept locked away in the room because of the caretaker’s strict, almost obsessive nature. No one ever saw her face, and some whispered that she might not even be human.
Then there was the dog. It was a huge, mangy thing that the caretaker fed with leftover meals, scraps of chicken and stale bread. But the dog wasn’t just a pet—it was the guardian of the lot. Friendly with the children, it would often wag its tail and let them pet it whenever they passed by. They all knew the dog, and it knew them. But despite its friendly demeanour, the dog was fiercely protective of the parking lot. If anyone dared to trespass, it would growl from the shadows, sending chills down the spine of any intruder. The children always felt safe around it, but they knew better than to cross the boundaries set by the dog.
One winter night, Granny’s friend, Usha, came running to her house, her breath quick and shallow. "I heard it," she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. "The sound of anklets. And I saw her—she was running down the street, a figure in white, disappearing into the night."
Granny didn’t believe her. Usha was known for telling tall tales, and this one seemed far too strange. But there was something about Usha’s eyes—something that made Granny want to see for herself. So, Granny convinced her parents to stay up that night, to sit quietly by the entrance of their house, listening for any signs of the strange events Usha had mentioned. Granny’s room was close to the main entrance, so she waited, the stillness of the night pressing in on her.
Around two in the morning, the air was cold, and the silence seemed too heavy. That’s when it happened. Granny heard it—light, rhythmic footsteps in the street. And then, unmistakably, the soft chime of anklets, their sound faint but clear, echoing in the air. Her heart froze as she pressed herself against the wall, too scared to move or even breathe.
For the rest of the night, Granny couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching her, the sound of those anklets ringing in her ears, long after the figure had disappeared. She never stayed out late again after that night, always hurrying home before the sun dipped below the horizon.
Days turned into weeks, and Granny’s fear of the night seemed to subside, but then something happened that made everything worse. The dog, the loyal guardian of the parking lot, passed away. Granny and her friends heard the news one afternoon. The caretaker had no reason to stay after the dog’s death, and soon, whispers began to spread. It was said that the caretaker and his wife had left the village, returning to their home in the distant hills. But Granny never believed it. The second door remained locked with its thin chain, and it felt like something was still hidden there, waiting.
Not long after, a businessman came to the village and bought the parking lot, intending to build two large buildings where the lot once stood. The construction began quickly, and in a matter of weeks, the parking lot was gone. The lot was replaced by concrete and steel, but the second door remained, stubbornly unchanged. The chain and lock still hung there, as though frozen in time.
Some say that the wife, the one who was never seen, still lives there, locked behind that door. But it’s not the wife everyone talks about. The rumours grew darker—some say she wasn’t a wife at all. They say she was a witch, trapped in that room for reasons no one dared to understand. Her footsteps can still be heard on the cold, empty streets at night, and her anklets ring in the wind when the moon is full.
Granny doesn’t tell her grandchildren these stories often, but when they stay at her house in the village, she makes sure they go to bed on time, every time. She tells them, in a voice as soft as the night, "The streets are no place for children after dark. You never know what might be waiting for you."
And somewhere in the shadows, past the second door, Granny knows that the night still holds its secrets—secrets that may never be fully understood, but will always be feared.
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