Ten years ago, my family and I moved into a new apartment. The building was brand new and it felt great to be surrounded by brand new fittings. Everything was clean and tidy. The walls were newly painted, the tiles sparkling. The windows didn’t have a speck on them.
A few days later, a dark handprint appeared on top of the window. There was no reason why it should be there. The building cleaners couldn’t have reached it until they used a ladder. And what for anyway?
After that, I noticed a handprint near my bed. And it was then that a strange cold feeling crept over me. I did try not to overthink it all too much, after all, I am a writer with an active imagination. My love for horror was obviously making me believe that the ghosts and demons in my stories were real.
I ignored what I felt for days. The dark, gloomy feeling that had taken over me, that sudden tightening in my chest whenever I walked down the small passage to my room, all of it was disregarded by my logical side of the brain.
One day, while I was in the kitchen looking for a snack in the fridge, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A fuzzy, dark figure that sped across the passage. It had either entered my parents’ bedroom or mine. I couldn’t be sure.
I ignored it once again, though I was certain I knew what I had seen. Still, Logical me said it was a trick of my weary brain. That or a manifestation of something I imagined while watching a horror movie or reading a Stephen King novel.
The second time I saw it, I wasn’t half-asleep. Something was there. No, someone. The black fuzziness had smoothed. Colors were beginning to seep into the figure. He was wearing a cream-colored jacket. The face was still unrecognizable but he stayed glued to one spot in the passage. He was either trying to enter a bedroom. Since both bedrooms are side by side, I couldn’t be sure which.
I still remember how scared I had been. I could no longer be quiet. I told my family my doubts, knowing I wouldn’t be believed. Even told my friends. After being told all around that I had too much of an imagination, the people who cared about me asked me to perform a prayer.
I did what I could and a few days later, the house didn’t feel gloomy anymore. The anger that was attached to the apparition wasn’t felt anymore. Something worked. The prayers, I guess.
I want to believe that I was rid of the ghost or whatever it was. All that was left behind from that incident was an idea.
Aadita wasn’t only a result of one incident. It’s a book that combines two of the most impactful incidents in my life－bullying and possibly a haunting.
Maybe what I saw was just a trick of my mind, but what I felt afterward like a burden had been lifted off me, that can’t be denied.
Whatever it was, it gave me the inspiration to write a horror novel－Aadita.
Just like in the novel, I wondered if there was a reason that ghost/apparition made its presence felt.
I’m just thankful that I no longer see it anymore. Even after watching more horror movies now than I ever did.