Best Storyteller
The Midnight Bench on Lighthouse Hill
Everyone in Seaside Valley College knew one rule.
“After 11 PM, don’t sit on the stone bench near the old lighthouse.”
First years heard it as a joke. Final years repeated it like tradition.
Only a few knew why.
1. The Dare
It was the last week before semester break.
Arjun, Meera, Sid, and Ananya sat in the campus canteen, rain tapping gently on the tin roof. The sea breeze pushed the scent of salt and wet earth into the air.
“Bro, last night on Lighthouse Hill I heard someone crying,” Sid said, eyes wide.
Meera rolled her eyes. “Again ghost story ah? Every exam time you remember ghosts only.”
“No seriously ra,” Sid insisted. “There was someone on that stone bench. White dress, long hair. Typical ghost format.”
Ananya smirked. “Then let’s go. Tonight. 11 PM. Group lo veltham. Ghost vachina selfie thisukundam.”
Arjun hesitated. “Oka vela real ayithe?”
(What if it’s real?)
Meera nudged his shoulder. “We’re going together, scaredy cat. Em avadhu.”
(Nothing will happen.)
They made a pact.
At 11:05 PM, they would meet near the old stone steps leading up to Lighthouse Hill.
2. The Hill Road
The path from the hostel to the hill was beautiful in the day—green slopes, wildflowers, and a clear view of the ocean. At night, it was different.
The forest line on one side became a wall of shadows. The sea breeze turned cold, almost like fingers brushing the back of your neck.
At 11:07 PM, the four of them stood at the bottom of the steps.
“Last chance to back out,” Arjun said, forcing a grin.
“Arjun, if you run now, I’ll tell everyone in class that you got 12 in internal viva,” Meera laughed.
They climbed the stone steps, their phone flashlights cutting thin lines through the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against rocks, a constant, low growl.
Halfway up, Sid stopped.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
They all fell silent.
A faint sound drifted down the hill.
Soft.
Broken.
Like someone… crying.
Ananya swallowed. “Acting kakapothe… that’s really crying.”
(If it’s not acting… that’s really crying.)
They continued, each step heavier than the last, until they reached the top.
3. The Stone Bench
The old lighthouse stood tall, its light long dead, just a dark tower against the starless sky. Near it, under a crooked banyan tree, was the famous stone bench.
And on that bench…
someone was sitting.
A girl.
Wearing a pale kurta, her hair falling over her shoulders.
She was looking out towards the sea, shoulders shaking.
“Maybe she’s just a student?” Meera whispered.
Arjun noticed something odd. The air around the bench seemed… colder. His breath came out like faint mist.
“Excuse me…” Ananya called out, voice trembling. “Are you okay?”
The girl stopped crying.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Her eyes were soft, not terrifying—just impossibly sad. But there was something wrong. The light from their phones went through her, as if she were half-transparent.
Sid’s grip tightened around Arjun’s arm. “Nanna, she’s not solid… she’s—”
The girl spoke.
“You came,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Finally, someone came.”
4. The Ghost Who Waited
“Who… who are you?” Meera asked, taking an involuntary step back.
The girl stood up. The wind didn’t touch her hair or clothes.
“My name is Asha,” she said. “I used to study here. B.Com. Three years ago.”
Arjun frowned. “I never saw you on campus.”
“You wouldn’t,” Asha smiled sadly. “I died in my second year.”
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Asha turned back to the sea.
“I was supposed to go home that day. My father was sick. We had a fight on the phone the night before. I said… stupid things. ‘You don’t understand me. I’m not a child. Stop calling me every hour.’”
She swallowed.
“Next morning, they called from home. He’d had a heart attack. I panicked, packed, and rushed down. But I missed the last bus from the main road. So I ran up here, thinking maybe I could catch the highway bus from the lighthouse side path. It was raining. The stones were slippery.”
She looked at the slope beyond the bench.
“One misstep… and I fell. By the time someone found me, it was too late.”
Silence smothered the hilltop.
“I never got to say sorry,” Asha continued. “Never got to tell him that I didn’t mean any of it. So I… stayed. Every night, I sit here. Waiting. Hoping someone will come. Someone who will listen.”
5. The Promise
Meera’s eyes filled with tears. “You’ve been alone here… all this time?”
Asha nodded. “Sometimes students come close, but they run when they see me. I don’t blame them. I must look scary, no?”
Her smile hurt to look at.
Arjun took a step forward, heart pounding but steady.
“You’re not scary,” he said softly. “You’re just… stuck.”
Asha looked surprised. “You’re not afraid?”
“Oh, we are,” Sid muttered under his breath. “Very much.”
Arjun continued, “But more than that… I feel bad. Aunty—your dad—he wouldn’t want you sitting here in the cold every night, waiting in guilt.”
“You don’t understand,” Asha whispered. “My last words to him were cruel.”
Meera stepped beside Arjun. “Look… parents get angry, kids get angry. But real love doesn’t freeze on the last fight. It remembers everything. All the years before.”
She took a breath. “Tell us his name.”
Asha blinked. “Kailash. Kailash Rao.”
“Okay,” Ananya said, joining them. “Then tonight, we’ll do something. We’ll call it… ‘Operation Kailash.’”
Sid squinted. “Operation enti idi?”
(What is this operation?)
Ananya grinned through her fear. “Simple. We’ll become your last phone call.”
6. The Call That Never Happened
They all sat on the stone bench with Asha, the cold seeping into their bones. The forest no longer felt threatening; it felt like a quiet audience.
“Close your eyes,” Arjun said gently. “Imagine the call you wish you’d made.”
Asha hesitated, then obeyed.
“Okay,” Meera said. “We’ll be your dad on the other side. Ready?”
Asha’s lips trembled. “Appa?”
Meera answered softly, lowering her voice. “Ha, Asha. Tell me, amma.”
Tears rolled down Asha’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was angry. I spoke rubbish. You were just worried. I know that now. I… I love you, appa. Please don’t leave thinking I hated you.”
Arjun, eyes closed, replied in a warm, fatherly tone. “Asha… I know you love me. All parents know. We just pretend to be strict sometimes.”
Asha sobbed. “Will you forgive me?”
Sid, voice shaking, added, “I already did, kanna. Long back. The moment you cried after cutting the call.”
Ananya finished softly, “Go live happily, okay? That’s all parents want. Even if… you’re not where I can see you.”
The wind around them shifted, turning gentle, almost comforting.
Asha opened her eyes. They glowed faintly, like morning light through mist.
“It feels… lighter,” she whispered. “For the first time… I feel like he heard me.”
7. The Lantern
Suddenly, the old lighthouse—dead for years—flickered.
A small, warm glow appeared near the top window. Not bright. Not electric. Almost like someone had lit a lantern inside.
“Yavvaraina chusara?” Sid gasped. “Lighthouse on aindi!”
(Did anyone see that? The lighthouse turned on!)
Asha stared, eyes wide. She smiled through her tears.
“He’s here,” she said. “My father. He came to pick me up.”
A soft breeze rustled the trees. Somewhere far below, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
Asha turned to the four friends.
“Thank you,” she said. “For sitting with me. For not running away. For letting me say sorry.”
She stepped back from the bench.
Her form grew fainter, the edges of her silhouette dissolving like fog under sunlight.
“Live well,” she told them. “Fight with your parents if you must, but… don’t leave the love unsaid.”
Then, like a sigh, she vanished.
The lantern-like glow in the lighthouse window slowly dimmed. The hilltop returned to silence.
8. One Year Later
A year passed.
The legend of the Lighthouse Bench Ghost changed.
First years still whispered about it, but now the ending was different.
“They say if you sit there with a genuine regret in your heart,” Sid narrated dramatically to a new batch in the canteen, “you’ll remember the person you need to apologise to. And if you do, your life will become lighter.”
Meera smiled. “And they say sometimes, for a second, the lighthouse glows again.”
“Marketing lo baaga improve ayav ra,” Ananya laughed. “Now it’s not horror story, it’s self-improvement story.”
(You’ve improved a lot in marketing, man.)
Arjun looked out at the distant hill, the stone bench barely visible.
That night had changed all of them.
Ananya finally called her grandfather, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years.
Sid apologised to his younger brother.
Meera wrote a long message to her mother, ending with “I love you” for the first time.
Arjun… forgave himself for not being “perfect” all the time.
Late that evening, as the four of them stood by the hostel balcony, the sky turned orange.
For just a moment, the top window of the old lighthouse glowed.
A small, warm, golden light.
“Appa, she’s okay now,” Arjun whispered under his breath. “You can rest.”
The light flickered, then disappeared into the dusk.
None of them were scared anymore.
The old road, the hill, the stone bench—
they weren’t just haunted.
They were holding stories.
Stories of regret… and of letting go.
And sometimes, the scariest ghosts were not the ones in white—
but the things we never said, the apologies we never made.
They had helped one ghost move on.
And in the process, they had freed themselves too.
