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Rated: E · Fiction · Other · #1673688
A ghost story.
“Wake up Mohana, wake up honey!” she was startled out of that intense nightmare by Raj’s soft touch on her forehead.

He tightly hugged her. “Why are you tormenting yourself sweetheart? Have I ever hinted you that I want a child? Did not Dr. Doshi tell you to not think too much about children? Is it essential that every one should have a child of one’s own?”

She cuddled close to him and closed her eyes. His hands were softly stroking her hair.

It was a strange nightmare. Every night she woke up sobbing. They visited the doctor and she said she was tormenting herself because she could never be a mother. They were teenage lovers and completely loyal to each other. They both wanted to have an amply big family but after years of trying they came to know that she can never conceive.



This nightmare started after their shifting to this house. They have bought it after getting the first huge cash-back from their life insurances.

It was a beautiful two storied house situated right in the middle of their town. A lovely town.

She always had the same dream, only it was getting more and more vivid with every passing night.

She saw a frail teenager, who looked barely seventeen or eighteen. Weeping her heart out. There was a small infant in her lap. It appeared he or she was not alive. The girl stood up and started to walk out of the house and Mohana’s nightmare used to end.

“Are you sure you will be alright? I will cancel the trip and stay back. Please tell me frankly.” Raj implored.

He had to go out for a week. He requested his sister to come down for the week, she agreed but at the last moment, that is an hour before his departure time she informed she can’t come. She is sitting at home, her leg plastered. She slipped on the stairs.

“Raj!” she showed him her balled fist. “Do you think I am a small baby? I will be alright.”

“I will call you every morning and evening.” He hugged and kissed her.


This time she stood at the doorway, looked right at her and beckoned her to follow her. She followed her in her sleep. They went down the stairs. Out to the garden, under the old banyan tree.

She knelt down and placed the baby in an already dug hole. Covered it up. Her whole body was shaking with violent passion.

Then she started to walk toward the boundary of the house, she went out of the house and stopped near a well. She turned to look at Mohana; her eyes were red with tear.

Mohana tried to scream, “Please stop! Don’t jump!” but could not make a sound. The girl stepped up on the wall of the well. Mohana tried to run to prevent her but could not move. She jumped inside. Mohana woke up weeping and shaking.

It was early dawn. A beautiful day was about to start.

She came out to the garden. The gardener was working there. She directly went to the banyan tree. And started to look for the place where the girl has buried the infant.

She could see a small stone there. She called out to the gardener. “Ramukaka please bring the spade.”

A small skeleton was discovered after a few strokes. The local priest was called for. He performed the necessary rituals.


An elderly man, he told her the story. A young girl lived in this house with her uncle and aunty. Her parents passed away leaving this house for her, her uncle and aunt came here on pretext of bringing up the five year old child, not a day went without her being abused by them.

She fell for someone’s kindness it seems. No one knows the story because she told none. Torture became worse as they had an excuse now. A dead baby was born. The girl’s body was netted out of the well, the infant was not seen anywhere.


She was standing right beside her bed. Her pale, thin face full of gratitude. She was holding the infant in her arms. The only change was it was playing in her arms. She smiled at her and placed the baby on her laps and vanished. Mohana woke up feeling the baby still in her lap.


“It’s a miracle!” Dr. Doshi said. “But a beautiful miracle!” as she placed the small girl beside Mohana.
© Copyright 2010 Sharmishtha (agnipadmo at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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