Granny and the Winter Terrace

Granny never spoke much about her childhood. But once, by the fireplace, when the wind outside howled like an animal in pain, she told a story that left everyone silent.

She had been just thirteen then.

It was a late winter evening in her old village. The kind of evening where the sun hides too early, and shadows crawl faster than they should. Her home was a two-story red-brick house, surrounded by other homes and buildings made of the same tired stone. The bricks were old and darkened with time, and everything looked like it had once burned and decided to stay that way.

That evening, Granny—then just a girl—had gone up to the terrace to collect the dried clothes before the cold set in too deep. The air was biting, and the sky had turned the colour of ash. No stars, no moon. Only clouds, thick like smoke. 

The Forest Granny Should Never Have Found

Every evening, young Granny and her best friend Amrita walked into the forest that lay behind their village. It was their little ritual. The sun would dip low, the birds would sing sleepy songs, and the wind would rustle the leaves gently. It was a place of peace. A place where they could collect wild fruits, vegetables, and stories to share with their families over warm dinners.

But that one evening—that cursed evening—something changed.

They had wandered a little farther than usual, chasing the sweet scent of wild berries and the soft laughter that only old friends share. The trees seemed taller, the ground softer, and the air cooler. They followed the sight of a group of snow-white rabbits hopping between bushes. Then, a peacock spread its glorious feathers, shining with blue and green. It felt like they had walked into a hidden paradise. 

The Secret of the Locked Door

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.