I was new to the town. It was a much-needed change. From the hustle-bustle of the large city that I had previously called home.
I needed time away from all things noisy. Including the voices in my head. They whispered to me softly, but their language was harsh. They spoke in many tongues, some of which I understood, many of which I didn’t. The medication helped. But only for a day or two. I refused to take my pills anymore.
They woke me up in the morning, the voices did. Chided me throughout the day, nagged me at dusk and when I went to bed, oftentimes, they would sing me a lullaby. The only time I was free of those voices were/was when I slept. As a result, I slept a lot. Now that was something I took pills for.
I had saved up enough to survive for a couple of years in the sleepy town I had just shifted to. I planned on doing some odd jobs, maybe some freelancing to supplement my savings. But would only begin when I felt better. Paula wanted to accompany me, to stay with and look after me. She wanted to nurse me back to health. Or so she says. I declined politely. It was all a farce. She just needed another excuse to get out of the huge rambling house, away from the shadow of the man who once used to be my father.
On the first day I was in town, I decided to explore the sleepy little place. Well, it was less of a town and more of a glorified village. The people were simple, homely and had large families. It made me happy. At least that’s what I thought that warm feeling in my extremities was. I had forgotten the feeling. That of happiness.
As I was exploring, I stumbled upon a library. It was rather pretty and had a café within. I decided to have a coffee and browse through the books. It read ‘Summerfield Hall’ in bold words right at the gate. Fancy name, I muttered to myself.
From the outside, it had a traditional façade. I later learnt that it had previously been a local guesthouse, for moderately famous dignitaries to reside in, that was now used for commercial purposes. It also served as a museum of sorts, because the furnishings were very old and local lore claimed it to originate from the Tudor era. But this fact was never verified.
The structure had a slanted roof, brick walls and gleaming glass windows. The interiors were overdone and fancy. Grandiloquent chairs and long tables. Unnecessary side tables and carved cabinets. Ostentatious portraits of mediocrely famous aristocrats. Mantel pieces kept all around; some even being laid out on the payment counter. Sparse chandeliers that hung high in the ceilings, shining a dull amber light, supplemented by bright white tube lights that lined the sides of the very same ceilings. One just had to look upwards to see the perennial tug-of-war between the old and the new. The old, hiding behind the banner of ye olde tradition, citing age and experience as a valid excuse for lack of accountability and sub-par performance. The new, shrugging of the precepts of ye olde and trying to usher in a new level of change.
I liked the décor. I liked the luxury of the place. I like the battle between old and new.
I ordered a coffee and headed over to the shelves to check out the books. For such an insignificant town, the library housed a formidable collection of literature. I absent-mindedly picked up one of the books of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica. It was K, I think. I flipped through the pages listlessly, pausing periodically, as I gazed at the pictures. I also read random paragraphs here and there, squinting my eyes, for want of adequate light.
The coffee was served. I got engrossed in learning more about the origin and evolution of kiosks. As the horrendous grandfather clock stuck 5, I realised that the library was bustling. School kids came in to do their homework, couple of men were looking eagerly through the latest literary novels and a gaggle of excited women hung by the magazines – cooing and gossiping.
Another hour passed. As soon as the clock struck 6, the air suddenly grew cold. A quiet murmur passed over the room. I glanced at the sales lady at the counter and she looked towards a small door nervously. The door was located at the ground floor, right at the centre of the wall. It was unassuming and at first sight, I had assumed it to be the door to the washroom. I looked quizzically back at her, she seemed calm and agitated at the same time. I saw her hands tremor slightly as she processed purchases, but her eyes seemed steely and composed. I was latched in and extremely curious.
The door opened slowly. It creaked and was badly in need of a good oiling at the hinges. A figure emerged from the door. A long-locked apparition, clad in a loose white robe. From the creature’s face, I couldn’t make out whether it was a male or a female. But the moment I set eyes on it, I knew without a doubt this was not a mortal being. It was an other-worldly creature, a paranormal being. The being seemed to hover a couple of inches above the ground and didn’t seem to possess lower appendages of any kind. It had high cheekbones, a very slanted nose, no ears, and slits for eyes. It’s long locks were jet black and unkempt. It was beautiful, in a grotesque sense.
I looked around. Everyone was staring at the apparition. A couple of women and a man sprinted to the entrance of the library, presumably to escape. Funnily enough, the children looked relatively unperturbed, some of them didn’t even look up and continued scribbling away to glory in their books.
The doors must’ve been bolted, for none of the people were able to open the door. They stood near the doorway, looking extremely scared.
The voices in my head instructed me to sit still. That is probably the only reason I hadn’t sprinted for an escape. They were having a debate about the being. And one of the voices was employed in keeping me calm. She spoke to me in a soothing voice, coaxing me with promises if I were patient and sat quietly in my seat.
The being glided all over the place for the next ten minutes. Everyone looked at it with a mild sense of expectation. With baited breath. With what I can only ascertain was utmost fear.
After a casual exploration of the place, it hovered close to the bunch of men, the literary enthusiasts. It went the tallest man of the group, a gallant looking gentleman with a fine hat. He wore a khaki suit and one could clearly see a sweat stain near either of his armpits. The poor man was whimpering and shivering.
It leaned over the poor soul, and whispered raspily in his ears, “Follow me to the room.”
The aghast man started bawling like a child and shook his head. At that exact moment, the apparition extended one of its arms and began pulling the man in. It’s nails were long and gnarly. Not to mention blood red. Truly an eyesore. It bared its teeth, which were also pointy and uneven. Boy, it had fangs, not teeth.
The creature pulled the man into the room. The man shrieked and begged it to let go. He also implored to the others in the room, to help him. No one moved a muscle. It was a terrifying scene to behold, one that left the audience dumbstruck. Even the voices in my head paused to watch the drama.
Upon reaching the room, the creature closed the door behind him. After a moment, low guttural moans emerged from the room. The moans were not as frightening as they were sad. Sounded like the howls of a grown man, a grown man who knew his fate. And didn’t like it.
After another minute or two of sorrowful moaning, the library went quiet. It was now exactly 6.30 to the dot. People resumed their business. The warmth returned to the room and it was as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.
The voices in my head calmed down momentarily. I was astounded and trying to make sense of what had just happened. What kind of secrets did this supposedly sleepy town harbour? And how had this not come to the notice of the world?
I marched up to the lady at the counter. As soon as I reached her, she pretended that she was busy with straightening up the counter. She refused to meet my gaze. Well, two could play the game. I stood there with a petulant countenance. She had no choice but to finally ask me if she could help me with something. I enquired about what had just happened. For the ease of my dear readers, I shall list out the entire conversation verbatim:
Defiant sales lady: Well madam, how may I help you?
Petulant me: (Stares at her with shock)
Defiant sales lady: (Coughs and nervously fidgets with her hair)
Petulant me: Well, what the BLAZES was THAT???
Defiant sales lady: What madam? (attempting to keep a calm face)
Petulant me: The blinking ghost, the…the…thing. What was all of that about?
Defiant sales lady: Oh, that? Well, how do I put it……
Petulant me: JUST TELL ME ALREADY!
Defiant sales lady: (taking a deep breath and narrating in a fast manner) The ghost has chosen to take up permanent residence over here for around 11 years. Every day, at the stroke of 6 pm, it appears, chooses a victim, and takes the poor victim to the room. No one knows what happens to the person it chooses. But that person is never to be found again. Any attempts at escaping or informing the authorities are always thwarted. There is a curse. The ghost cannot be affected or removed by any means. Many holy men, exorcists, shamans and priests have tried their luck. To no avail.
Petulant me: Oh….
I walked back to my seat shell-shocked. The voices in my head were quietly debating the plausibility of what I had just heard. I tried drinking up the rest of my coffee, but I just couldn’t. I wanted to get to the bottom of this. I kept the book back in its place and made my way home.
When I arose the next day, the first thought that came to mind was that of the spectacle I had seen the previous day. I wanted to investigate further and decided that I would once again pay the bookstore a visit.
The same debacle again. This time a timid old lady.
I frequented the bookstore each evening. Thankfully, the apparition never picked me up as one of the victims. I was trying to figure out a pattern. What rule did the ghost follow each day, as it decided upon the person?
By now, I had grown chummy with Mrs. Stilton. Apparently, she was paid handsomely for her job. Well, she HAD to be paid well. After all, she shared her workspace with a paranormal being. That does make a valid argument for extra remuneration.
I skipped going on the weekend. I decided to explore the other spots in town. But God knows, I was itching to visit the library again. Even the voices spent most of their time debating over the ghost. It gave me some respite from their cantankerous interference in my life.
Monday morning, sharp at the stroke of 5, I alighted at the gates of Summerfield Hall. It was a bright and sunny day. I ordered my usual coffee and sat with my journal. Mrs. Clarkson had told me that I ought to ‘journal’ more. She claimed it would help me more than the pills. Like most of her advice, I was inclined to toss this one aside too. For the heck of it, I decided to give it a go. I began writing.
Mrs. Clarkson must’ve understood my affliction better than the numerous medical doctors I had consulted, for jotting down all that I felt in that little diary DID help me. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I ignored my coffee getting cold. I ignored the little sweat stains forming where I kept my hand. I wrote with abandon. I didn’t even register the clock striking 6. The voices dictated as I wrote. They were also quite keen on this writing exercise. I ignored the sudden chill that befell the library. I ignored the quiet screams in the people’s eyes as the apparition embarked on yet another evening of fear mongering.
I wrote until I felt an icy-cold presence looming over my head. I looked up and met the gaze of the library’s sole eerie inhabitant. Fear gripped my heart, as tightly as I had gripped my pen. My legs began trembling and my palms turned clammy. The voices in my head had gone completely quiet. For once, I actually missed them.
“I suppose its your turn today”, whispered the ghost. As a lump lodged itself in my throat, it suddenly dawned upon me. I had a eureka moment. I knew what the ghost thrived upon!
“Yes, yes. You are correct. It IS my turn today. Fine day too, don’t you think?”, I replied cheerfully as I tossed back my chair and readied myself to follow him to the room.
Mr. Ghost seemed flummoxed. He looked almost comical, with his jaw wide open. I suppose no one else had ever willingly come with him. He didn’t know how to react.
As he drifted (and I walked) to the little chamber, I caught Mrs. Stilton’s gaze and gave her a little wink. She looked as baffled as the ghost. As we neared the door, I reached for the door knob and opened it. “After you”, I said to the ghost gallantly. It gave me a defeated snarl and hovered inside the room. I took a deep breath and closed the door behind me. When I turned around, I saw a brightly lit room but no ghost. I looked everywhere. There was a bookshelf with many books on it. All kept neatly, in order. But no sight of my wispy friend.
I walked to the bookshelf and inspected the books. All of the titles were names of people. ‘Mr. John Galespie’’, ‘Ms. Katherine Brown, Mr. Henry Grisham’….and so on. As the facts started piecing themselves together in my head, I flipped open one of the books -a Mr. Theodore Oswald’. I read through and to my surprise found that it was the story of his life. I picked up a few more books to confirm my suspicions. The last chapter was the same for all of them. How they had been led through the doors of the very same chamber in which I now stood. The script was written by hand, in a slanting cursive. I hurried to the last book on the shelf. It was titled ‘Ms. Jessica Burrough’. I gasped. I WAS Jessica Burrough. I opened the book to find it blank, save for one line, which read – “She entered willingly…”. I rubbed my fingers on the words and watched it smudge. The ink was fresh, the words had just been written. I smiled to myself. After taking one final look at the room, I turned around and walked out of it, with a pompous look on my face. As I walked back to my seat, the book with my name tucked underneath my arm, I winked once again at the agape Mrs. Stilton.
The voices never bothered me again. The apparition never made an appearance again. And I took to the art of journalling very seriously.
(My first attempt at horror. Be kind)
Leave a Reply