Shadow on Granny's Park Bench

Granny walked slow to the park every day. The place sat in her Rajasthan village like a forgotten yard. Dry dirt crunched under her chappals. Bent trees dropped long, spiky shadows across cracked benches. Her house waited close by, small and dark inside. She wore a plain saree that hung loose on her thin frame. Grey hair pulled tight in a bun. At seventy-two, the park felt like her only friend.

One hot afternoon, she dropped onto her bench. Sweat beaded on her wrinkled forehead. She fanned her face with a folded rag. Then she saw it. A shadow stretched from the nearest tree. Tall and thin, like a man made of black smoke. No feet touched the ground. It just hung there, head tilted, watching her. Leaves rustled softly above it, but this shadow did not sway. Granny's mouth went dry. She gripped the bench edge till her knuckles whitened. Park sounds faded. Dogs barking far off. Kids laughing somewhere. All gone. Just her and that thing. 

She stood up fast, legs wobbling. The shadow stayed put. At home that night, it came back. Black shape in the kitchen corner. Arms too long, fingers curling like claws ready to grab. Lantern light flickered yellow on mud walls, but the shadow ate the glow. Cold air bit her skin. Granny backed away. Heart thumped loud in her ears. She told herself it was nothing. Tired eyes. Hot sun. But sleep would not come. Every creak in the house sounded like steps.

The next day in the park, the shadow waited closer. Halfway between the tree and the bench. It matched her steps as she walked. One foot, then hers. Slow and heavy. Other old women sat near, talking loud about prices at the market. They saw nothing. Granny sat stiff. Sweat soaked her saree back. The shadow loomed now, right behind the bench. She felt eyes boring into her neck. Sharp. Hungry. Like it wanted to crawl inside her head.

Nights turned to hell. Shadow slid under her door. Pooled on the floor like spilt ink. Rose up tall in her room. Whispered in a voice like wind through dry leaves. Her name. Over and over. Granny huddled on her cot. Blanket pulled tight. Nails dug into palms. Bruises bloomed on her arms overnight. Finger marks. Small and perfect.

The twist came slow, like poison. One morning, she grabbed a neighbour's old phone. Snapped pictures in the park. Hands shook badly. Later, alone, she looked close. There, faint in the shade. A shape. Hood up. Face hidden. Real person? Stalker playing games? Fear twisted her gut. She stopped going out. But Shadow followed anyway. Into dreams. Chasing her down park paths. Grabbing ankles. Pulling her down into the dirt.

The bigger twist hit hard. Park talk spread. Other grannies whispered the same. Shadow in the trees. Touching them too. Village well water turned bad, they said. Chemicals from fields. Made heads swim. Made eyes lie. Granny tested it. Drank from a sealed bottle. Shadow faded some. Bruises? Her own hands in blind panic. Marks from gripping tight.

The deepest twist cut the worst. Sitting alone one dawn, truth sank in cold. No water. No stalker. Shadow was her mind cracking. Alzheimer's creeping quiet. Memories mixed up. Late son she blamed herself for losing; his face was in every dark spot. Park routine hid the fog growing inside. Doctors nodded later. Scans showed the brain shrinking slowly. Hallucinations fed on old guilt. Shadow is not outside. It lived in her skull. Eating pieces away.

Now Granny stares from her window. Park empty in her eyes. Shadow dances on the wall. Always there. Closer every day. Waiting to take it all. 

Yours might come too. Look behind you.