Divya 
Mumbai, the city of dreams, never sleeps. Its streets buzz with life, its people race against time, and its skyline is a blend of the old and the new. But within this metropolis, in the heart of Mahim, stands an aging structure that harbors whispers of the past. The D’Souza Chawl is a cluster of timeworn apartments packed with stories, secrets, and, as some say, spirits.
It was a humid evening when Ananya and her family moved into Flat 203. The chawl had been their last resort after her father lost his job. The rent was cheap, suspiciously cheap, but in a city where even air came at a price, questions were a luxury they couldn’t afford. Their neighbors welcomed them with hesitant smiles, but something about their eyes the way they darted to the hallway, the way they never lingered near the old well made Ananya uneasy.
The first night was quiet, almost too quiet. The ceiling fan hummed, and the occasional honk from the distant streets reached them, but within the chawl, the silence was heavy. At around 2:30 AM, Ananya awoke to a faint dripping sound. Drip. Drip. Drip. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and noticed something strange. A patch of water had formed near the door, leading towards the hallway. She tiptoed forward, her heartbeat thudding against her chest, and peeked outside.
The corridor stretched dimly ahead, the flickering tube light casting eerie shadows. And then she saw her. A woman in white, her back facing Ananya, standing near the old well at the end of the hallway. Her long, damp hair clung to her body, her saree appeared drenched. Ananya opened her mouth to speak, to ask if she needed help, but before a word escaped, the woman vanished.
The next morning, Ananya brushed it off as a half-dream. That was until she heard the whispers. While filling water from the communal tap, she overheard two elderly women whispering in hushed tones.
“She’s back again… near the well. I told you, it’s not safe after dark.”
The other woman sighed, shaking her head
“Poor thing. She’ll never find peace.”
Curiosity gnawed at Ananya. She spent the day asking around, piecing together the legend. Decades ago, a woman had accidentally fallen into the chawl’s well and drowned. Some said she was pushed, others believed she took her own life. But one thing was certain—her soul never left. Over the years, residents reported seeing her specter gliding through the corridors, hearing muffled sobs at night, and feeling an unnatural chill even on the hottest days.
As night fell, a sense of dread settled in the air. Ananya tried to dismiss it, yet the feeling clung to her. The clock struck 2:30 AM. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound returned, louder this time. A shiver ran down her spine as she turned towards the hallway. The air grew colder, her breath visible in the dim light. And then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps approaching her door.
She wanted to scream, to run, but fear rooted her in place. The doorknob twisted slightly as if someone—or something—was testing it. Then, silence. Heart pounding, she inched closer, placed her ear against the door, and held her breath.
A whisper. Faint, yet unmistakable. “Help me…”
Ananya staggered back, her mind spinning. This wasn’t a dream. The ghost of D’Souza Chawl was real. And it wanted something.
Little did she know, this was just the beginning.
About The Author
