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.” 

Lata went first.

“This happened at my aunt’s house in the hills,” she began. “The top floor is always locked. Too dusty, too quiet. They hired a maid to help clean, but she refused to go upstairs. She said she heard dragging sounds at night. Like someone pulling something heavy. My aunt thought she was lying, so she sent my cousin to check.”

The others leaned in.

“He found a mattress on the floor, covered in ashes. And on the walls—small, black handprints. Dozens of them. Like someone with burnt fingers had been trying to crawl out. All the prints were reaching toward the door.”

Chills ran through the group.

“My aunt sealed the room with bricks the next day,” Lata said. “It’s still sealed.”

Then Meena spoke of a faceless woman who stood in the middle of the road at night, asking for help. If you answered, she followed you silently and appeared behind you in mirrors.

Sumita took her turn next.

“This one’s from my village,” she said. “There’s a field that people avoid after dark. It’s said to be cursed. A boy once walked through it as a shortcut. The next day, he couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Laughing?” Meena frowned.

“Yes. Laughing. Loud, twisted laughter—nonstop. His voice became hoarse, but he didn’t stop. He laughed through meals, through sleep. When he finally collapsed from exhaustion, his mouth was bleeding… torn from too much smiling. No one knows what he saw there.”

Granny shifted uncomfortably.

The lantern flickered. The circle felt tighter.

Then Rekha said, “I’ll skip mine. I don’t believe in this nonsense.” She gave a crooked smile. “Let’s hear from her.” She pointed to Granny.

Granny, still young then, nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said. “This story isn’t really mine. It was told to me by my grandmother. She said—”

But she never finished.

Rekha stood up.

Without a word, she stepped over to Sumita and slapped her. Hard.

The sound echoed in the still air.

The girls froze. Lata let out a nervous laugh. “Okay… weird prank, but nice try.”

Rekha slapped her again. And again.

Sumita screamed, “What are you doing?!”

Rekha’s face began to change. Her skin flushed deep red, like it was burning from the inside. Her eyes—wide and glowing—looked inhuman, like glass filled with fire.

“Rekha?” Granny stepped forward.

Rekha turned. And what looked back was not her friend.

The girls rushed to stop her. She fought them with strange strength, her fingers clawing, her mouth twisted in silence. She never made a sound. She only stared.

They dragged her to the campus gate. The watchman helped take her to the hospital.

Hours passed in the waiting room, thick with silence. Finally, a doctor came out.

“She’s had a mental breakdown,” he said. “Likely sudden. She’s unresponsive. We’ve moved her to a psychiatric ward.”

But the girls knew better.

What happened next was never printed. Never told properly.

Rekha didn’t just stop speaking. She stopped blinking. She sat in her hospital bed with her head tilted slightly, always to the left. Nurses complained that the room felt “wrong.” Cold, even in summer. One nurse reported waking up at home with fingernail scratches across her arms. Others said they heard whispering—deep, wet whispering—from Rekha’s mouth… though her lips never moved.

A doctor tried to play religious chants in her room. The next day, the walls were covered in bite marks. Human-shaped. Blood was found under her nails, but she hadn’t been touched.

She never spoke again.

And she never blinked.

To this day, Rekha remains in a locked ward, sedated. Doctors still write “acute mental illness” on her files. But no medicine has ever changed her condition.

And Granny… Granny remembers.

Even now, when she passes that old road near her college, she walks quickly. She keeps her eyes forward. But sometimes—just at the edge of the trees—she sees it.

A figure.

Standing.

Watching.

Not moving.

Not human.

She never looks too long.

Because whatever entered Rekha that night behind the library...

…never left.