“Wedding Night: My sister-in-law insisted on sleeping between us… and what I saw at 2 AM froze my soul.”
The light Jaipur rain tapped incessantly against the windowpane as the wedding feast finally drew to a close. The last of the guests departed with lingering laughter, leaving the Rajawat Haveli to sink back into a heavy silence. The air was still thick with the cloying scent of roses, perfume, and burnt candle wax.
I—Arya—was exhausted. After shedding my heavy white lehenga and washing away layers of makeup, I thought I could finally find a moment of peace. But as I sat on the edge of the bed, three soft knocks echoed at the door— Tap, tap, tap…
I assumed it was Aarav (my husband), who had gone downstairs for water. But when I opened the door, the words caught in my throat.
It was Meenakshi—Aarav’s elder sister. Thirty years old, unmarried, wearing that strange, innocent yet restless smile that no one could ever quite decipher. She was dressed in a deep maroon strapped nightgown, clutching an old pillow to her chest.
“Can I sleep with you both tonight?” she whispered with a smile. “Aarav and I have never slept apart since childhood. Now that he’s married… it feels so empty.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t find my voice. Behind me, Aarav tried to laugh it off: “Didi, you’re joking, right?”
But Meenakshi looked at him with such stillness that the air in the room grew heavy. She turned to me and said, “I’m not joking. I’ll just sleep in the middle. It will keep everything ‘pure’… and I won’t miss my brother so much.”
A silence fell over the room, as if everyone had held their breath. I had been in the Rajawat household for only a day—arguing with my sister-in-law on my wedding night felt impossible. Then, from the hallway, came the voice of my mother-in-law, Shobha Devi: “Let her sleep there, beta. It’s no big deal, it’s just for one night.”
And so, it happened. Aarav lay toward the wall, Meenakshi in the middle, and I on the other side, staring at the ceiling.
Two O’Clock in the Morning
The clock struck one. I closed my eyes, but the air in the room felt stagnant—thick and suffocating. Every time Meenakshi moved slightly, her sheet brushed against my hand, making my soul shiver. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or hesitation.
I hoped that if I fell asleep, this would all turn into a foolish story. But around 2:00 AM, I heard something. First, a faint whisper—so low I thought I was dreaming. Then, ragged breaths—right behind my back. My heart hammered so hard I could hear my own pulse.
It wasn’t Aarav; he was in a deep sleep. The voice belonged to Meenakshi.
I lay paralyzed. The whispering drew closer, like someone speaking feverishly into an ear. A strange, damp, trembling voice. I told myself it was a dream. But then…
A cold, trembling palm brushed against my back.
My breath hitched. Swallowing my terror, I slowly turned around. In the dim light, Meenakshi’s eyes were wide open—gleaming like an animal’s in the dark. Her lips were moving, muttering something I couldn’t understand. Her body was hovered over Aarav—far too close.
The whispering had turned into whimpering. Then, she raised her head—and our eyes met. What I saw in those eyes made time stand still. Emptiness, grief, and something… that wasn’t human.
My lips parted, but no sound came out. Only the ticking of the clock remained—2:15 AM.
And then, I heard it—a sentence so faint it was like a dying breath: “I told you… I won’t share him with anyone.”
A gust of wind blew through the window, the candle flickered, and silence returned.
The Aftermath
Twenty years have passed since that night. Sometimes I think it was all a dream. But when I close my eyes, I still hear that voice.
The next morning, the sunlight streamed through the window—warm yet merciless. The withered scent of flowers still lingered. And on the bed—Aarav didn’t move.
I called him, shook him, screamed—but there was no response. His lips were cold. His chest was still. And Meenakshi—beside him—had her eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if listening to an unheard song.
When Shobha Devi stepped into the room, her scream froze the entire Haveli. The neighbors said, “Heart attack.” The police closed the case that same day. No one questioned Meenakshi. No one spoke of the faint red mark near his throat.
A few weeks later, she vanished. Some said she went to Haridwar; others claimed they saw her begging in a black veil outside a temple. Shobha Devi never spoke her name again. She had the room purified, the sheets burned, and the locks of the Haveli changed.
I left Jaipur—and vowed never to return. But time… and guilt… always find a way.
The Return
Yesterday, after twenty years, I returned. The Haveli was exactly the same—the mud walls, the lace curtains, and the old portrait of Mr. Rajawat in the hall, whose eyes seemed to follow me everywhere.
I went to that same room. The air was damp, but there was something else… something I couldn’t name. I sat on the bed—in the exact spot where I had lain that night. The wood creaked, and I heard a faint sound of breathing.
Then I saw it—the old pillow, with the faded floral design, placed neatly on the table. And caught on its edge… a single, long, black hair.
My skin crawled. The house was empty. Yet the air began to chill, the clock struck two, and a gust of wind blew from the window—as if someone had just entered.
“Aarav…” I whispered.
Silence. But from the part of the bed where Meenakshi used to sleep—the rustle of a sheet. A breath. Then… a voice.
“You shouldn’t have returned, Arya.”
I froze. I turned slowly. And there she was. The same maroon nightgown, the same sallow face, sunken eyes—and that same smile.
“It’s fine now,” she said. “After all, the three of us are together again.”
The candle went out. The clock stopped. And the last thing I remember was her cold palm resting on mine… and three breaths—beating in perfect unison.