The Borrowed Flame: A Ghost Story

The rhythmic, ground-shaking rattle of the evening trains quickly became the soundtrack of Hari’s new life.

Hailing from a quiet village, Hari had landed a job as a clerk at a commercial bank in Bhubaneswar. He was a young man carrying a heavy sack of dreams. Chief among them was securing a good marriage for his younger sister, who lived back home with their widowed mother.

To save every possible rupee, Hari rented a cramped, ground-floor flat in Satyanagar, located just a stone's throw from the railway tracks.

By any standard definition, the flat was a dismal place—two damp rooms, a tiny kitchen, and a basic latrine. But to Hari, it was a sanctuary. The local broker had offered it for a suspiciously low rent of just ₹1,000 a month, demanding the cash be paid directly to him.

Hari didn't ask questions. In a booming city, he finally had a roof over his head.

Hari’s days followed a comforting, solitary rhythm:

 Morning:A bath and a prayer to Maa Sarala, whose laminated photograph occupied the center shelf of his bedroom wall.

 Day: A two-kilometer walk to his bustling bank branch, losing himself in spreadsheets and customer queries.

Evening: Cooking dinner over a gas stove while listening to the FM station on his mobile phone.

Though other families occupied the upper floors of the building, his neighbors were like ghosts themselves—distant, silent, and entirely uninterested in interacting with the new bachelor on the ground floor.

But Hari had a flaw common to many young men living alone: he was deeply absent-minded.

Lost in thoughts of his family and financial pressures, he routinely forgot the mundane details of life. Sometimes it was his wallet; other times, he left the ceiling fan spinning into an empty room.

More than once, he had walked out of the flat completely forgetting to lock the main door. Upon returning, he would bite his tongue in frustration, vowing to be more careful. He had nothing of true value to steal, but leaving a door wide open in the city was an invitation to danger.

The danger finally found him in mid-July.

It was a night dominated by a ferocious tropical downpour. Hari walked home from the bank, his umbrella proving useless against the driving wind. By the time he reached his doorstep, he was soaked to the bone.

He reached for his keys, only for his stomach to drop. The padlock wasn't there. The latch yielded to a gentle push.

He had done it again.

Frustrated, Hari stepped inside and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. The storm had knocked out the power grid, plunging the ground-floor flat into pitch blackness. The heavy rain battered the roof, creating a deafening, claustrophobic roar.

Navigating by memory, Hari groped through the dark toward the inner bedroom. Behind a stack of old banking magazines near his bed, his fingers found what he was looking for: a half-burnt candle stub left over from months ago.

He struck a match from the box on his puja shelf. A faint, flickering yellow glow bloomed, casting long, distorted shadows across the damp concrete walls.

Setting the candle down, Hari went back to close the front door against the howling wind. As he reached for the handle, a sudden draft made the flame dance wildly.

In that split second of shifting light, Hari’s eyes adjusted to the darkest corner of the front room.

Hari’s breath caught in his throat. He rushed into the bedroom, grabbed the candle, and held it out like a weapon.

 "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice cracking against the sound of the rain.

No answer. Only the drumming of water on the windowpanes.

Heart hammering against his ribs, Hari took slow, calculated steps back into the front room. The yellow light washed over the corner, and Hari froze.

It was a girl.

She looked to be in her late teens, striking but unnaturally pale, wearing a simple pink two-piece dress.

"Who are you?" Hari asked, terror tightening his throat. "How did you get in here?"

The girl didn't move.

"Why don't you speak up?" Hari added, trying to summon a courage he didn't feel.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was faint, carrying a strange, airy quality.

Bhaina (Brother), please don’t be angry. I was crossing over to the other side of the railway tracks when the downpour started. I ran to your veranda for shelter. I knocked, but the door just pushed open. It was empty, so I stepped inside."

She paused, looking toward the dark window.

"The rain is very heavy. Once it stops, I will go."

Hari’s shoulders relaxed slightly. The terror gave way to the protective instinct of an older brother.

"You shouldn't do things like this, sister," he said gently, placing the candle on a nearby table. "There are dangerous people in this area. They could take advantage of you."

"I know there are bad people," she replied instantly, her eyes locking onto his. "But there are good people too."

"Do you live nearby?"

"Yes. In the slum on the other side of the tracks."

"Then you know this neighborhood well?" Hari asked.

"Yes."

"I’m quite new here," Hari admitted.

"I know," she murmured. "Nobody else dares to stay in this flat."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Hari felt a sudden weight in his chest. "Why do you say that?"

"They say it’s haunted."

"Haunted?!"

Before she could answer, a violent gust of wind threatened to extinguish the candle. Hari quickly turned his back to shield the flame with his hand. When he turned back around, he gasped.

The girl was no longer in the corner. She was standing right in front of him, barely an arm's length away. He could see the intricate patterns of her dress, but her skin was entirely devoid of color.

"Yes, haunted," she whispered firmly. "By the ghost of a girl."

Hari took a step back, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "You... you are trying to scare me."

The girl suddenly burst into a wild, echoing laugh. The sound was sharp, unseasonal, and sent a shiver straight down Hari's spine.

"Stop laughing!" Hari snapped, his nerves fraying.

The laughter cut off instantly. "Sorry," she said softly.

Hari looked past her toward the doorway. "The rain has slowed down. The electricity should be back soon. Once the storm passes completely, you should head home."

"I will," she said, looking down at the guttering flame between them. "But you have used up your candle. It is almost gone."

"I will buy you a new one tomorrow," Hari promised, anxious for her to leave.

"No need. Take this one."

She extended her right hand. Held in her pale fingers was a fresh, unburnt white candle.

"My mother sent me to buy it from the shop across the tracks before the rain started. Light it."

Wanting to keep the darkness at bay, Hari took the candle. Her fingers didn't touch his, but the air around her hand felt ice-cold. He pressed the wick of the new candle against the dying flame of the old one. The room instantly grew brighter, bathing the walls in a warm, steady light.

"Why do they say it's haunted?" Hari asked, his curiosity momentarily overriding his fear.

"Because a ghost lives here."

"A ghost?"

"Yes. A girl's ghost."

Outside, the rain abruptly stopped. A profound, heavy silence fell over Satyanagar. In the quiet, Hari realized he had forgotten his evening duties. He hadn't lit the incense for Maa Sarala.

Feeling a sudden urge to be near the divine, Hari turned and walked into the inner bedroom. He struck a match, lit an incense stick beneath the deity's photograph, and closed his eyes, murmuring a fervent prayer for protection.

When he opened his eyes, a sharp *hum* buzzed through the flat.

The power was back. The overhead electric bulb flashed to life, blinding him for a moment.

Hari walked back into the front room.

The front door stood wide open, swinging gently on its hinges. Hari rushed to the threshold and scanned the empty, rain-slicked street. There was no sign of anyone.

He walked back inside and looked at the table. The white candle she had given him was still there, burning brightly under the electric light.

The next morning, Hari couldn't shake the chill from his bones. On his way to the bank, he stopped by the local rent broker’s office.

"I need to ask you something about the flat," Hari said, his face pale. "Is that place... haunted?"

The broker burst into a loud, mocking laugh, waving his hand dismissively. "Haunted? What nonsense! You are an educated bank clerk, Hari. Don't tell me you believe those neighborhood rumors."

Hari frowned. "So people *do* talk about it?"

"It’s just gossip from the slums across the tracks," the broker said, pulling out a cigarette. "They love making up stories to scare outsiders. Let me guess what they told you... They told you about the 'Candle Girl', right?"

Hari’s blood ran cold. "The... Candle Girl?"

"Yeah," the broker chuckled, shaking his head. "The story goes that a teenage girl from the slum was sent by her mother to buy a candle from the market one rainy evening. She was crossing the railway tracks in the dark, didn't hear the train coming, and was run over. The locals claim her ghost wanders into open doors on stormy nights, offering people a candle to light her way."

The broker took a drag of his cigarette and looked at Hari with a smirk. "Absurd, right? A ghost carrying a candle. You shouldn't let these superstitions get to you."

Hari stood completely frozen, the broker's voice fading into a distant buzz.

In his mind, he could only see the fresh white candle currently sitting on his table—and the open door he had forgotten to lock.