By Shah Tiya Biren
It was the second week of December, and I had just returned to my college dorm after a long day of lectures. The semester had ended, but the dorms were still open for students who wanted to stay back and study or finish projects. Most of my friends had left for the holidays, leaving the building eerily quiet.
That evening, I decided to reorganize my notes and clear up my desk. As I shuffled through my papers, a faint humming sound caught my attention. It was so low that I thought I imagined it at first. But as the minutes passed, the sound grew louder, rhythmic, almost like someone softly humming a lullaby. I paused and listened carefully, trying to trace its origin. It seemed to be coming from the floor beneath me.
The thing is, my room was on the ground floor, and below it was the basement. The basement was strictly off-limits. Rumors swirled among students about why—some said it was due to mold, others claimed it was because of old, unsafe wiring. But the most popular rumor was that a student had gone missing there years ago, never to be found.
Curiosity got the better of me. I grabbed my phone and a flashlight, promising myself I’d only take a quick look. As I approached the basement door at the end of the hallway, the humming grew louder, almost beckoning me. The door was locked, but to my surprise, the key was hanging on a nail beside it, as if someone had left it there intentionally.
I hesitated but finally unlocked the door and descended the creaky wooden steps. The air grew colder with each step, and the smell of dampness filled my nose. My flashlight beam danced across old furniture, dusty boxes, and cobwebs. The humming had stopped, replaced by an oppressive silence.
“Hello?” I called out, half expecting a reply, though I wasn’t sure if I wanted one.
No answer.
I moved deeper into the basement, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. Suddenly, my flashlight flickered, and for a brief moment, I was plunged into darkness. When the light returned, I noticed something that hadn’t been there before: a small, child-sized chair in the middle of the room. On it sat a porcelain doll, its glassy eyes staring directly at me. I swear it hadn’t been there when I first came down.
My chest tightened. “This isn’t funny,” I said aloud, my voice shaky.
I turned to leave, but as I did, the humming started again. This time, it was right behind me. My heart pounded as I swung the flashlight around, only to find the basement empty. Empty except for the doll, which was now on the floor, lying on its side as if it had been tossed there.
I ran up the stairs, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Back in my room, I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination. Maybe someone was playing a prank, I reasoned. But when I looked at my desk, my blood ran cold. Sitting atop my open notebook was the doll, its head tilted slightly, as if mocking me.
I didn’t sleep that night. By morning, the doll was gone, but the unease lingered. I told myself I’d imagined everything, but deep down, I knew better. The humming hasn’t stopped since. Every night, it returns, growing louder, as if it’s coming closer. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can feel the faintest touch on my shoulder, as if someone—or something—is there, waiting.
By Shah Tiya Biren
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