James Coom

Chapter 2

I turned my back on the courtyard filled with strange students and walked into the library. The transition felt odd, as though stepping through an invisible barrier. From the outside, it had seemed like a modest little room—something I could cross in a few steps. But inside, it was far larger than it appeared. The narrow doorway gave way to high ceilings and rows upon rows of shelves filled with books. It reminded me of those old government libraries I had seen as a child, with their musty smells and worn-out furniture.

The books, though, weren't exactly interesting. They were the kind of volumes you'd find in a school library, thick, dusty, and most likely filled with boring academic subjects. Not the kind of books you'd pick up on a lazy afternoon. I ran my fingers along the spines, pulling one out at random. It was titled something like "Advanced Theories of Mathematics," not exactly my cup of tea. Most of the titles were just as uninspiring—dense, complicated, and utterly uninviting.

As I was putting the book back, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned around, and there she was—an older woman, probably in her late fifties or early sixties, wearing a crisp Bengali Saree. Her graying hair was tied neatly into a bun, with a big red bindi shining in the center of her forehead. She stood there, smiling warmly at me, like she had been expecting me all along.

I smiled back, somewhat surprised. "Namaste, aunty," I greeted her. "Are you the librarian here?"

"Yes, yes," she nodded, her smile never fading. "I am the librarian. The school just got over, and I was tidying up a bit."

Her voice was soothing, but there was something odd about the way she spoke, almost like she was trying too hard to sound casual. She asked me what I was doing in the area, and soon we were chatting like old acquaintances. I told her about the land Ian and I had come to see, how we were thinking of starting a coconut farm and maybe building a small house someday. As I spoke, her eyes lit up.

"Oh, very nice!" she said. "A good piece of land will always grow good things, you know. And around here, coconut trees thrive. You will have a beautiful farm, no doubt." She paused, then added, "We have a house nearby. Why don't you come and see it?"

Her suggestion seemed innocent enough, but there was something about the way she said it that made me hesitate. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was an underlying urgency in her words, as if it was important for me to see this house right away. But before I could overthink it, I found myself agreeing. "Sure," I said. "Why not?"

We walked out of the library together, stepping into a narrow alley I hadn't noticed before. The air outside was thick and humid, the sounds of the city suddenly much louder than I had expected. The street was congested, with people milling about, cars honking, buses rumbling by, and street vendors shouting to sell their wares. It felt chaotic, a far cry from the quiet serenity of the land we had just seen.

I followed the librarian through the bustling streets, her sari billowing slightly as she walked with purpose. Soon, we arrived at a small, somewhat worn-down apartment building. It wasn't tall—maybe six floors at most—and looked like the kind of place built in the 90s, functional but not exactly beautiful. The tiles on the walls had begun to yellow, and the entrance was dark and narrow.

She led me to the ground floor and unlocked the door to one of the apartments. Inside, it was exactly what I expected—nostalgic in its own way, but nothing fancy. The long hallway led into a big, open hall, with dark wooden furniture that looked straight out of an old South Indian household. The tiles were the familiar, colorful mosaic patterns that I had grown up seeing, and the air smelled faintly of incense. It was like stepping back in time, a house preserved in a memory.

An old man sat in the corner, in what appeared to be a Pooja room. There was nothing there but a small table with framed pictures of deities, a lit lamp, and the strong scent of camphor. I instinctively put my hands together in a quick namaskaram to the old man, who barely acknowledged me with a nod.

I turned back to the librarian. "So, this is your house?"

"Yes," she said with a smile, but her smile felt off now, like it was pasted on. "But there's another one just like it available on the sixth floor."

For some reason, the idea of going to the sixth floor unsettled me. Maybe it was the thought of walking up so many flights of stairs in this old, cramped building, or maybe it was the lingering sense of unease that had been creeping up on me since we left the library. But I found myself nodding anyway, as if I had no choice but to follow her.

"I'll just call my husband," I said, pulling out my phone. "He should see this place too."

I quickly dialed Ian and told him I had found something worth looking at. He said he'd be right over, so I followed the librarian back to the stairs. This time, the climb felt different. The air grew heavier as we ascended, and with each step, my unease deepened. By the time we reached the sixth floor, it felt as though the walls were closing in on me.

When we finally reached the apartment, it was eerily similar to the one below—the same hallways, the same worn-out tiles, the same faint smell of incense. Yet something about this place felt... wrong. It was hard to explain, but it was as if the very walls were watching me.

The only thing that seemed nice was the view. From the balcony, I could see the entire two-acre plot Ian and I had been admiring earlier. It looked serene from up here, the kind of place where life would unfold slowly, peacefully. But no matter how beautiful the view was, I couldn't shake the growing discomfort in my chest. Something about this building, about this entire situation, didn't feel right.