I still remember the chill in the air that night, even though it was years ago. I was a student at an engineering school, and like many of us, I often found myself burning the midnight oil, especially as exams loomed closer. But this night was different—it was the night I encountered something I can't quite explain.

It was late, perhaps around 2 AM. The campus, usually buzzing with life, was eerily silent. My hostel room felt suffocating, and I decided to take a walk to clear my head. The moon was full, casting long shadows that danced across the pathways. The ancient trees around the campus whispered secrets as the wind rustled their leaves.

I found myself wandering towards the old Department of Civil Engineering building. It was one of the oldest structures on campus, with ivy creeping up its walls and windows that looked like they hadn't been cleaned in decades. Rumour had it that the building was haunted, but we always dismissed it as just another campus legend—one of those stories seniors told freshers to spook them.

As I approached the building, I noticed something strange: a faint light flickering in one of the top-floor windows. It was odd because that part of the building had been sealed off for years, ever since a fire had gutted it in the 1970s. Intrigued and perhaps a bit foolish, I decided to investigate.

The door creaked open as if it had been expecting me. The hallway was dark, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something else—something metallic, like blood. I hesitated for a moment but then pressed on, climbing the spiral staircase that led to the upper floors.

As I reached the top, I heard it—a low, mournful humming. It sounded like an old woman singing a lullaby, but the words were in a language I couldn't understand. My heart pounded in my chest, and every instinct told me to turn back, but curiosity got the better of me.

The light was coming from a room at the end of the corridor. The door was ajar, and as I pushed it open, the humming stopped abruptly. The room was empty, save for an old wooden desk and a chair that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. The light was coming from a single candle on the desk, its flame flickering despite the lack of wind.

I approached the desk and noticed a thick layer of dust covering everything, except for a single sheet of paper in the center. My hands trembled as I picked it up. The paper was old, yellowed with age, and covered in strange symbols. But what caught my eye was the name scrawled at the bottom—it was my own.

A sudden gust of wind extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Panic set in, and I turned to leave, but the door had slammed shut. I felt a cold hand brush against my neck, and the humming started again, this time louder, more insistent. I bolted for the door, struggling with the handle until it finally gave way.

I ran down the stairs, my heart in my throat, and didn't stop until I was back in my hostel room, the door locked firmly behind me. I didn't sleep for the rest of the night, the strange paper still clutched in my hand.

The next morning, I returned to the old Civil Engineering building with a few friends, determined to prove to myself that it had all been a dream. But when we got there, the door was locked, the windows boarded up, and the building looked as abandoned as ever. My friends laughed it off, telling me I'd probably fallen asleep in the library and dreamt the whole thing.

But I know what I saw, what I heard. I still have that piece of paper, tucked away at the bottom of my drawer, the ink faded but my name is still clearly visible. I never did find out what it meant, and I never went back to that building.

Some nights, when the wind howls just right, I can still hear that humming, faint and distant, as if calling me back. But I never answer.