Ghosts of Shoghi’s foggy hills

THE mist in Shoghi was so thick that afternoon, I could barely see a few feet ahead. I hadn’t been back here in years, and everything felt unfamiliar — shrouded in this heavy, ethereal veil.

As I made my way to the old family cottage, I heard footsteps behind me — slow and deliberate, almost in sync with mine. I turned, peering into the swirling haze, but saw nothing. A chill crept up my spine.

I reached the cottage, its outline barely visible through the dense vapour. I fumbled with the keys before finding my way in. The cottage was just as I remembered it — rustic and simple.

Just as I started to relax on the creaky rocking chair, there was a knock at the door.

I froze. The footsteps, the feeling of being followed… had someone really been out there?

I opened the door slowly. But there was no one. Amidst the thick mist rolling in waves, I saw something on the ground — a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up, my hands shaking slightly. It was damp from the moisture in the air, and the writing was smudged, but I could still make out the words:

‘Welcome back.’

My heart skipped a beat. It looked like my handwriting.

The knock came again, louder and more insistent.

I yanked the door open. A man, soaked to the skin, with an umbrella hanging limply at his side, asked with a sheepish grin: ‘Lost in the fog, too?’

He introduced himself as Ruhan: ‘We played cricket as kids.’

The name evoked a distant memory. Ruhan had been the neighbourhood kid always hanging around. I hadn’t thought about him in years.

As we sat by the fire, his presence seemed strangely comforting, though something about him felt odd. The murk outside began to lift, and Ruhan stood up to leave.

As he stepped out, he turned back with a grin. ‘You were right to leave this place. It’s easy to get stuck here, lost in the fog,’ he said.

As he walked away, disappearing into the thinning haze, I suddenly remembered something — Ruhan had fallen off a cliff and died shortly after I left Shoghi, nearly two decades ago.

I called out his name, but there was no answer, just the empty path stretching into the vaporous gloom. Had my mind played tricks on me, weaving memories with reality?

As I closed the door, a thought struck me — perhaps Ruhan had never left, and maybe it was I who had been lost, wandering in the mist of my memories. As I sat by the fire, I realised that the real ghosts aren’t those of the dead, but the memories that linger, shaping our present with echoes of the past.