The wheelchair squeaked a sad, mournful rhythm against the ancient floorboards, a counterpoint to the wind's low moan outside. Leena, with her legs forever still, navigated her small room, which somehow seemed to shrink with every passing dusk. Shadows stretched out, elongating and then twisting into grotesque shapes as the last sliver of sun vanished. A chill, unparalleled by any winter draft, snaked up her spine.
“It's here again,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. A faint scratching began at her window-not the brittle tap of branches-but something deliberate, insistent.
*Scratch. Scraaaatch.*
“Go away,” she insisted, her tone taking on a fragile edge. The scratching grew louder, a fingernail scraping at glass, then wood, then finally a wet sucking sound along the air itself. The room’s temperature plunged. Her breath plumed white.
A form took shape in the corner of her room: a wavy distortion of moonlight and shadow. It had no features-just a churning vortex of ill will-and yet its presence weighed upon her, a physical weight. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird caught in a cage.
“You have no power here,” she tried, but the words caught in her throat, choked by an unseen hand. The spirit pulsed-a dark star drawing her in.
A low, guttural growl rumbled from its core. *“Your time comes, child. Your essence… it calls to me.”* The voice was a chorus of whispers, a thousand damned souls speaking at once, each word a shard of ice.
She clutched the worn, dog-eared book in her lap, tracing her fingers over the browning Devanagari script. Her grandmother's gift, a lifeline during many dark nights. "I will not surrender," she declared, finding a reservoir of defiance she hadn't known existed.
The spirit expanded, filling the room, the formless mass pushing against the walls. The air grew thick and heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. Her chair started to vibrate and rattled against the floor.
“*You struggle in vain. Your body, broken, tethered to this mortal coil. Your spirit yearns for release. I offer it.*” The tendrils of darkness reached for her, ethereal fingers brushing her hair, sending shivers of profound dread through her.
Leena squeezed her eyes shut-one tear escaped. She opened her mouth, and from her trembling lips, ancient verses began to flow in a reedy, determined chant.
“*Shri Guru Charan Saroj Raj, Nij Man Mukur Sudhari…*”
The spirit recoiled, a low hiss escaping its non-existent mouth. The darkness flickered, momentarily receding.
“*Bala Buddhi Vidya Dehu Mohi, Harahu Kalesh Vikar…*” Her voice had gathered strength, every syllable a shield. The air around her started to warm, the faint golden aura radiating from her hunched form.
The spirit shrieked, a sound like tearing silk, then shattering glass. *“No! That…that light! It burns!”*
“*Jai Hanuman Gyan Gun Sagar, Jai Kapis Tihun Lok Ujagar…*” Her voice rose louder, ringing with conviction, overriding the spirit's fading protests. Words came in a torrent, a dam breaking, unleashing a force that pushed back the encroaching gloom. It writhed, its form convulsing, shrinking.
It let out one last, desperate cry, a sound of pure agony, as the final verses flowed from Leena's lips. "*Jai Jai Jai Hanuman Gosai, Kripa Karahu Gurudev Ki Nai…*"
It was a final, desperate *whoosh*, and the darkness imploded, sucked away into nothing. The room sank back to its normal chill, the air still and silent. Leena slumped back in her chair, breathless, her body trembling, but her spirit, miraculously, intact. The book lay open in her lap, its pages illuminated only by the faint glow of the street lamp filtering through her now-clear window. She had faced the darkness, and she had won.
