The Last Cry

I used to think every haunted place had the same problem.

Too many stories.

By the time you visit, somebody has already told you what you are supposed to hear, where you are supposed to feel cold and which dark corner supposedly contains a ghost.

That was exactly how I felt about Shaniwar Wada.

Until the night I heard someone being murdered inside it.

My name is Aditya, and at the time I worked with a small audio-production company in Pune. We had been asked to inspect some equipment connected with an event setup near the historic complex.

Most of our work finished before evening.

One faulty audio cable didn't.

By the time I packed the equipment, the crowds were gone.

I remember checking my watch.

8:43 p.m.

The fort looked completely different without tourists.

During the day, Shaniwar Wada feels open.

At night, the walls seem higher.

I was walking towards the exit when I heard a boy crying.

Not loudly.

Somewhere behind me.

I stopped.

The crying stopped too.

Then came a voice.

"Kaka..."

I knew the story immediately.

Everyone in Pune knows some version of it.

Narayanrao.

The young Peshwa murdered inside Shaniwar Wada.

The legendary cry:

"Kaka, mala vachva."

Uncle, save me.

I actually smiled.

Someone was playing a recording.

Maybe another technician.

Maybe security guards trying to frighten me.

Then the voice came again.

"Kaka..."

This time it was much closer.

I turned.

Nobody.

I shouted, "Very funny."

Silence.

Then something answered from behind a ruined wall.

"Aditya."

My smile disappeared.

I hadn't told anyone there my first name.

I walked faster.

The exit should have been directly ahead.

Instead, I found myself standing beside a narrow passage I did not remember seeing earlier.

There was light coming from inside it.

Not electric light.

Firelight.

I should have turned away.

I didn't.

The passage led into a courtyard.

And the courtyard wasn't ruined.

That is the part nobody believes.

There were wooden balconies above me.

Curtains moved behind open windows.

Oil lamps burned along the walls.

I could smell smoke, sandalwood and cooked food.

For perhaps five seconds, I thought some restoration event was happening.

Then a man ran across the balcony.

He was barefoot.

Young.

Terrified.

Behind him came several men carrying weapons.

The young man screamed.

"Kaka! Mala vachva!"

I couldn't move.

They caught him.

What happened next occurred partly behind a wooden pillar.

I am grateful for that.

I heard enough.

The screaming lasted less than a minute.

Then everything became quiet.

One of the men looked down into the courtyard.

At me.

His face changed.

He pointed.

Every other man turned towards me.

The lamps went out.

I ran.

The courtyard became ruins again.

I slammed into a stone wall, fell, got back up and kept moving.

Then I heard running behind me.

Not one person.

Many.

Bare feet hitting stone.

I reached the main path.

The gate was visible.

Maybe fifty metres away.

Then someone grabbed the back of my shirt.

I screamed and pulled forward.

The fabric tore.

Nobody was there.

But four red marks appeared across my shoulder.

I ran towards the gate.

Thirty metres.

Twenty.

Ten.

And the gate slammed shut.

The sound echoed through the fort.

I grabbed the wooden doors and shouted for security.

Then I heard breathing behind me.

A boy whispered:

"Don't let them see me."

I turned slowly.

He was standing less than a metre away.

He looked about eighteen.

Thin.

Barefoot.

His clothes were covered in dark stains.

But his face was what frightened me.

He wasn't looking at me.

He was looking over my shoulder.

"Who?" I whispered.

His eyes widened.

"Them."

Something touched my neck.

I don't remember falling unconscious.

I woke outside the fort.

Two security guards were standing over me.

One was throwing water on my face.

My watch read 9:06.

Only twenty-three minutes had passed.

They said they found me lying near the entrance.

I told them everything.

Neither laughed.

One older guard listened quietly.

Then he asked:

"Did the boy ask you for help?"

I nodded.

He looked towards the gate.

"Did you answer him?"

I thought back.

When the boy had said, "Don't let them see me," I had whispered something.

I couldn't remember exactly what.

Then I did.

I had said:

"I'll help you."

The guard became very still.

"You shouldn't have said that."

That was all.

For the next four nights, I barely slept.

Nothing happened.

By the fifth night, I had convinced myself that exhaustion and the stories about Shaniwar Wada had somehow combined in my head.

Then at 2:14 a.m., someone knocked on my apartment door.

Three times.

I lived on the seventh floor.

I looked through the peephole.

A young man stood outside.

Barefoot.

Head lowered.

I stepped away.

He knocked again.

Then whispered:

"You said you would help."

I didn't open the door.

For nearly an hour, he remained outside.

At some point I must have fallen asleep sitting against the bedroom wall.

When morning came, the corridor was empty.

But there were muddy footprints outside my apartment.

They began at my door.

They did not come from the elevator.

They did not come from the stairs.

They simply began there.

That evening I called the older security guard.

The number was no longer in service.

So I contacted the company that had arranged our work.

They told me something strange.

There had been only one security guard near our section that night.

A young man.

I described the older guard.

Silence.

Then the manager sent me a photograph of several former employees.

"Is he here?"

The man I remembered was standing in the back row.

I pointed him out.

The manager called me.

His voice sounded uncomfortable.

"That man worked there years ago."

"What do you mean?"

"He died."

I stopped breathing.

"When?"

Another pause.

"2018."

I immediately remembered what he had told me.

You shouldn't have said that.

The knocking returned that night.

But this time I didn't hear it at the front door.

It came from beneath my bed.

Three knocks.

I didn't move.

Then the boy whispered:

"Aditya."

A second voice answered him.

From inside my wardrobe.

An adult man's voice.

"We found you."

The boy began screaming.

I ran from the apartment and spent the night at a friend's place.

I never slept there again.

A month later, I moved.

Before handing over the keys, I visited the empty apartment one final time.

The landlord had repainted everything.

New walls.

New cupboards.

New bedroom door.

As I turned to leave, I noticed something scratched into the fresh paint behind where my bed had stood.

It was written in Marathi.

I photographed it and later asked a colleague to translate.

There were only two lines.

The first said:

"Kaka, mala vachva."

Uncle, save me.

The second line was newer.

Much deeper.

And it used my name.

"Aditya mala vachvel."

Aditya will save me.

I deleted the photograph.

I changed my number.

I stopped telling this story.

None of it helped.

Because every year, on the same date, I wake sometime after two in the morning.

There are always three knocks.

Sometimes from the front door.

Sometimes from the wardrobe.

Last year they came from inside the wall beside my pillow.

But three nights ago, something changed.

The boy didn't ask me to save him.

He whispered:

"Thank you."

Then another voice spoke.

Right beside my ear.

An older voice.

Calm.

Almost pleased.

"Now run."

And from somewhere outside my bedroom came the sound of dozens of bare feet running towards my door.