After 12:45

The rickety blue hostel gate creaked open just as the afternoon sun dipped behind the old neem trees, stretching long shadows over the ground. Myra stepped through first, suitcase rattling behind her, breathing in that oddly familiar mix of detergent, dust, and warm cement. Nia followed, dragging her overloaded duffel bag with both hands as if it weighed more than her entire body. They were back at Brookfield College, a place that had once felt like home before it turned into a maze of unanswered fears. The college—tucked in the quieter outskirts of Noida—was where both girls were pursuing their second year of Psychology (B.A. Psychology). “Back to jail,” Nia muttered dramatically. Myra bumped her shoulder. “Jail with free Wi-Fi and unlimited gossip.” “That Wi-Fi died more times than I did last semester.” Both laughed—easy, familiar laughter that had built itself over years of being best friends. Myra and Nia had been inseparable since their first year: same classes, same notes, same sleepy morning walks to lectures. Their return to the hostel after vacation felt like slipping back into a pair of worn, soft slippers. 7 They signed their names in the entry register, waved at a few juniors, and hauled themselves towards the warden’s room. The corridor echoed with distant chatter and the sound of someone struggling with a stuck suitcase zip. The warden, Mrs. Susan, was sorting a stack of keys when they walked in. Her expression brightened. “Oh good, you’re back. Myra… and Nia, right?” Her voice was warm but carried an undertone of hurry. “Yes, ma’am,” Myra replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ll be taking Room 207 this semester,” the warden said, pulling out a key with a faded red ribbon. Nia frowned. “Isn’t that on the corner? Near the staircase?” “Yes,” the warden said quickly, almost too quickly. “It’s been newly… arranged.” Myra noticed the half-second pause. “Arranged?” Mrs. Susan didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flicked to the window, as though checking the time. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice. “Look, girls… there’s only one thing. After midnight—if someone knocks—don’t open the door. Just don’t. It’s hostel protocol.” Nia blinked. “Protocol? Someone knocks… and we ignore?” “Yes,” the warden said firmly. “Ignore it. No matter what you hear. It’s for your safety. Understood?” The absurdity of it made Myra raise her eyebrows at Nia, who fought back a grin. “We won’t open,” Myra assured, trying to sound serious. “Good.” Susan straightened and handed them the room key. “And girls… welcome back.” They thanked her and walked away with the key warm in Myra’s palm. As soon as they were out of earshot, Nia burst out, “What kind of warning was that?” 8 Myra laughed. “Hostel discipline upgrade. Next, they’ll tell us to chant mantras before entering our own room.” The corridor leading to Room 207 was quiet. Too quiet. Most students hadn’t arrived yet, so only a few voices drifted faintly from far-away rooms. The fluorescent lights f lickered once, then steadied. At the end of the hall stood their room—207—with paint slightly chipped around the number plate. A thin layer of dust lined the windowsill, as if no one had opened it in weeks. Myra inserted the key, turned it, and pushed the door open. The room smelled like closed cupboards and old paper. Two beds stood against opposite walls, neatly made with standard-issue floral sheets. Their metal wardrobe doors were shut but dull. A single tube light buzzed faintly overhead. “It feels… abandoned,” Nia whispered. “Or maybe no one lived here because the window faces the garbage area,” Myra countered, trying to lighten the mood. Nia made a face. “Love that for us.” The room wasn’t creepy—just unused. But still… something about it felt like a paused breath, like it was waiting for them. 9 They set their luggage down and immediately got to work. Myra opened the windows, letting sunlight warm the dusty corners. Nia unpacked her posters and stuck them above the bed—an aesthetic collage of black-and-white quotes, sunsets, and soothing pastel visuals. Soon, the room looked lively, almost theirs. As they sat on their beds, catching their breath, Nia pulled out two tiny Dairy Milk chocolates. “A sweet start to our new semester,” she announced. Myra grinned. “You’re so dramatic.” “That’s why you love me.” Myra rolled her eyes but her smile softened. Nia always said things like this—half joking, half slipping something more tender beneath the surface. Myra never called it out. They had a strange, natural closeness that didn’t need labels. 10 The evening passed easily. They ordered samosas from the canteen, played soft music, gossiped about who got new hairstyles, and who dyed their hair without telling anyone. By 10:30 PM, the hostel had settled into its nightly rhythm: muffled giggles from nearby rooms, soft footsteps in the corridor, the distant hum of the staircase tube light. Myra brushed her teeth while Nia tied her hair in a messy bun. “Listen,” Myra said through a mouthful of toothpaste. “What if the warden’s warning was just about some old hostel prank?” “Maybe all seniors got bored and started scaring newcomers,” Nia snorted. Myra laughed, nearly choking on foam. By 11:30, both were in bed. Myra scrolled through recipes she’d never cook. Nia lay on her stomach, doodling something in her notebook—a habit she fell back into whenever she was restless. “Whatcha drawing?” Myra asked. “Nothing important. Just… passing time.” Myra smiled to herself and let it go. Nia always had her little creative secrets. Eventually, the room went quiet. The corridor outside fell still. Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow its spinning, like the entire hostel was drifting into dreamland. After 12:45 AM, a sound broke the silence. Tok. Tok. Tok. A soft, deliberate knock. Myra’s eyes shot open. Nia stiffened in her bed. “Did you…?” “Yeah. Someone knocked.” The sound came again. Tok… tok… tok. Slow, spaced out knocks. Not urgent. Not frantic. Just… persistent. Myra sat up straight, pulse racing. “Who is knocking at almost 1 AM?” Nia pulled her blanket up to her chin. “Maybe someone got locked out?” “But there’s no sound in the hallway.” They listened—nothing. No footsteps. No whisper. No shifting shadows under the door. Just the knock. Tok. Tok. Tok. 11 Myra swung her legs down and padded across the room. She pressed her eye to the peephole. Her heartbeat stuttered. “Nia…” “What?” “There’s no one there.” Nia sat up immediately. “Don’t joke.” “I’m not joking.” Myra stepped back from the door. “There’s literally no one.” 12 Another knock. This time a little softer, almost like knuckles brushing wood. Tok… Nia whispered, “Should we call the warden?” Myra shook her head. “She’ll scold us for panicking.” The knocking continued, steady as a heartbeat. Then… it stopped. The silence that followed was even heavier. Myra’s throat felt tight. “Should we… do something?” “No,” Nia whispered. “Remember what the warden said.” Myra swallowed hard and nodded. They sat awake for a long, long time, watching the door as if it were capable of breathing. The room felt different now—colder, almost too still, as if something unseen had passed by and left a chill behind. The knocks didn’t return. But sleep didn’t either. Myra and Nia stayed sitting in their beds, whispering theories to distract each other—wind pressure, door contraction, maybe a prank, anything that didn’t involve ghosts or hostel legends. By the time the first pale streaks of dawn light filtered through the window, both girls were exhausted, eyes heavy but minds racing. Nia finally whispered, “Myra?” “Yeah?” “Why did she warn us specifically? About knocking?” Myra stared at the door. “I think we’re going to find out.” 13 And the morning light did nothing to make the memory of those slow, deliberate knocks feel any less wrong. Room 207 had been empty for months. Now they understood why.