The Letter-Reading Ghost

The Letter-Reading Ghost

By Javed Bassam
If you ever walk down Seventh Str

eet in Sukh Nagar, you might find nothing remarkable at first glance. The road looks ordinary—lined with big houses behind tall walls, old trees shading the sidewalks, and shrubs whispering in the breeze. One house has a red mailbox fixed to the wall, half hidden beneath the pink blossoms of a bougainvillea vine.

That mailbox once carried hundreds of letters—back when people still wrote to each other. Now it stands silent, a relic of the past.

It was in those days, when letters still fluttered through the post, that a ghost happened to wander into the neighborhood. He had grown tired of haunting an abandoned mansion and was looking for a new place to stay. The quiet street, the trees, and that little red mailbox—all of it felt perfect.

During the day, the ghost slept inside the thorny bushes, but when night fell, he strolled up and down the empty road, humming softly to himself. At first, the new surroundings entertained him, but soon, boredom crept in.

He thought about scaring people for fun, but he was a kind-hearted ghost—causing pain never pleased him. “Maybe a little harmless mischief won’t hurt,” he told himself one evening.

The next night, he slipped into the mailbox and waited.

When the postman came by and dropped a letter, the ghost brushed his cold fingers against the man’s hand. The postman jumped back in shock, staring into the box. Seeing nothing, he shook his head and walked away. Later, when others came to post letters, the ghost sometimes pushed them back out. The people would frown, thinking the letter had bounced off, and drop it again carefully.

For a few days, this little game amused the ghost. But soon even that grew dull. “Maybe I should read the letters,” he thought.

And so, he began.

He read every letter that was slipped into the box—messages of greetings, invitations to weddings, apologies, and small family updates. Most were simple, ordinary words of love and life.

Then one day, he opened a letter written in a shaky feminine hand:

> “Dear Brother Hamid,
I hope you are well. Everything is fine here, but I urgently need the forty thousand rupees you borrowed six months ago. Please send it soon so I can complete my pending work.
—Your sister, Zarina.”



The ghost chuckled softly. “Ah, lending money and expecting it back—that’s pure foolishness.”

Two weeks later, another letter from Zarina arrived:

> “Brother, why haven’t you replied? I really need the money. Please send it soon.”



The ghost laughed again. “So now the brother has vanished. Debts do cut ties, don’t they?”

Fifteen days later came another desperate message:

> “Brother, you’re making things difficult for me. My husband is upset because of this. Please return the money.”



The ghost sighed. “The money’s gone, and so is the peace.”

He decided to see who this brother was. The address on the envelope wasn’t far—just a nearby city. So that very night, the ghost soared through the dark sky and reached Hamid’s home.

From the almond tree outside, he watched everything. Hamid’s wife cooked dinner, the children played, and Hamid returned home from work on his motorbike.

At dinner, his wife said, “Your sister wrote again. She’s asking for the money.”

Hamid frowned. “Business is slow. I’m struggling myself.”

“Then ignore her,” the wife said sharply. “She’ll stop writing eventually.”

Later, Hamid gave his son money for ice cream. The ghost shook his head from the tree. “They live comfortably enough. Lies upon lies.”

The next day, the ghost followed Hamid to his shop—a neat fabric store with two helpers. Business was steady, especially in the evening. That night, Hamid’s wife asked for money to buy jewelry for her cousin’s wedding. Without hesitation, Hamid handed her four thousand rupees.

The ghost’s eyes flared. “So, money for vanity—but not for honesty? Enough is enough.”

From the next morning, he began his silent revenge. Whenever a customer entered the shop, the ghost laughed softly in their ear—a sound only they could hear. The terrified customers quickly left, thinking Hamid was mocking them.

After several days of dwindling business, Hamid grew miserable. His wife started giving alms to every beggar who passed, hoping for divine help.

That was the ghost’s moment.

He disguised himself as an old beggar with a staff and limped to Hamid’s house. The wife offered him food and ten rupees. After eating, the ghost lifted his hands in prayer and said, “My daughter, sometimes prayers work only when we right our wrongs. Is there anyone whose due you’ve withheld?”

The woman froze, thoughtful.

That night, she told Hamid, “I know now why our luck has turned. You must send your sister her money tomorrow.”

Hamid hesitated, but she insisted. The next morning, he went to the bank.

From the sky, the ghost smiled. “Justice served,” he whispered, and drifted back to Seventh Street.

Days later, he opened a letter addressed to Hamid from Zarina:

> “Thank you, dear brother. I’ve received the money. May you always be happy.”



The ghost frowned, murmuring, “He gets the thanks, though I did the work.” Then he chuckled softly. “Well, ghosts don’t need gratitude. We only need quiet streets and long walks under the moon.”

And with that, the letter-reading ghost slipped out into the night, humming once more.