The Light in the Last Room

Tired of the chaos of Dhaka, Tamim took a short break and headed to his ancestral village—Nandipara. Nestled far from the city’s hustle, this quiet little village always brought him a strange kind of peace. Since his grandfather passed away, their old house had remained abandoned. Tamim thought this was the perfect opportunity to stay there for a few days—maybe even do some writing.

The house was old—wooden floors, a tiled roof, wide windows with broken glass. Dust had claimed every corner, yet there was something undeniably beautiful about the place. It had character. History.

His first day went smoothly. He greeted the villagers, went to the market, and spent some time cleaning a couple of rooms. As night fell, a chill settled over the house. The sound of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the wind made the atmosphere feel almost otherworldly.

Around 11 PM, just as Tamim was about to go to bed, his eyes wandered toward the room at the very end of the hallway—the one that was always locked, the one people in the village whispered about.

They said something lived there.

Tamim had never believed in ghosts or spirits. A modern man, he saw horror stories as pure entertainment. Still, a strange curiosity gripped him that night.

With a flashlight in hand, he slowly approached the room. Oddly, the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.

The air inside was unnaturally cold—as if winter had crept into just that room. Old portraits hung crooked on the walls, a dusty bed sat in the corner, and a broken wardrobe leaned awkwardly to one side. But one thing stood out: in the far corner, a candle was burning.

Tamim froze.

No one had been in this house for months. Who lit the candle?

He had the sudden, sinking feeling that he wasn’t alone.

He turned around.

No one.

But in the candlelight, a shadow stretched across the floor—a shadow with no feet.

Tamim’s breath caught in his throat. He bolted out of the room, and as soon as he did, the door slammed shut behind him.

The Next Morning

Still shaken, Tamim tried to rationalize what had happened. Maybe it had just been a draft. Or maybe he was half-asleep, imagining things. But he couldn’t shake the image of the footless shadow.

He decided to ask an old local man, Aziz Mia, about the room.

“Uncle Aziz,” Tamim said, “what’s the story with the last room?”

Aziz’s face turned grave. “You shouldn’t have gone in there, son. That room... it belonged to your grandfather’s youngest sister—Rubina.”

Tamim leaned in, intrigued. “What happened to her?”

Aziz lowered his voice. “One night, there was a fire. The room burned, but no one ever found her body—just a melted hair clip. People say she was trapped in there. Since then, strange things happen in that room. Lights, whispers, crying. We sealed it for a reason.”

Tamim chuckled nervously. “Come on, Uncle. It’s 2025. You don’t still believe in ghosts, do you?”

Aziz didn’t laugh. He just shook his head and walked away.

The Third Night

Tamim locked his door that night, determined not to think about that cursed room again.

But around midnight, he was woken by a soft creak.

His door had opened on its own.

Cold air flooded into the room.

His heart pounding, Tamim stepped out into the hallway.

The door to the last room was open again.

“No. I locked it. I’m sure I locked it,” he whispered to himself.

He picked up his flashlight and approached the room once more.

No candle this time.

But from the corner of the room, he could hear it—a soft sobbing.

Tamim entered the room, his steps cautious.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

The crying stopped.

Then, from the middle of the floor, something fell with a thud.

A doll.

A doll Tamim had never seen before. Its eyes were unnervingly lifelike. He bent down to pick it up—and the doll’s mouth curled into a grin.

Tamim screamed and ran, slamming the door behind him.

The Following Morning

He decided: I’m leaving today. No more games.

As he made his way toward the bus stop, he passed an old woman sitting under a banyan tree. She looked up and said, “You went into Rubina’s room, didn’t you?”

Tamim was startled. “How do you know that?”

“She was my granddaughter,” the woman said, eyes full of sorrow. “But she never left. Her soul is trapped there. No one ever prayed for her. If you want to help her, sing her favorite song. Blow out the candle. She wants to go, but no one ever let her.”

Tamim didn’t know what to say.

Part of him still didn’t believe it. But another part... the part that saw the doll smile and felt that cold shadow behind him—that part believed.

The Final Night

Tamim stood once again at the door of the last room, this time with a candle, a glass of water, and a plan.

He stepped inside.

The room felt even colder than before. The crying had returned, softer this time.

He placed the candle in the center of the room, sat on the floor, and began to sing—a lullaby his mother once told him Rubina loved.

The air shifted.

The crying stopped.

The shadows on the walls grew long, then disappeared. The candle flickered wildly, then blew out—on its own.

Tamim felt a light touch on his shoulder.

And then a voice. A whisper.

“Thank you…”

Epilogue

The next morning, Tamim left the village. As he passed the house one last time, he glanced at the window of the last room.

It was open.

But there was no light.

He smiled quietly.

He knew now—the room was finally empty.

And Rubina was free.