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by Sayan Chaliha
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“It’s been over a century now since the time the construction of this house was begun. There were so many people who lived here, many of them died here…. The walls of this house have seen so many things, and recorded them in a form you and I may never know. But record them, it has. And in some strange and inexplicable moments does this house convey fragments of the past to the inhabitants, in what eventually turns out to be something bizarre…
“Grandpa, there is no way you can get me to sleep with another of your ghost stories… I am not really scared of them anymore. And it’s not like you could scare anyone to sleep anyway.”
“O, okay! Just go to bed before your mom and dad are back. And, by the way, these stories are not made up, you know. Did I tell you that your great grandmother walked out of this very bedroom for an evening walk, and she never returned? They never found her again. Yet sometimes, when the moon is a sickle and the curtains billow in the cool breeze of the night, they say you can hear a soft, gentle voice, humming her favourite song.”
“Goodnight, grandpa.”
The night was cold and dark. And outside the little window, the boy could hardly see the flicker of light from a distant lamp. Electricity was a scarcity in these areas – there had been no electricity in the grand, old house for an hour. The burning taper rose and fell in the socket. The boy’s room was engulfed in darkness, and the howling wind sent a shiver down his spine. He got up to close the window, and then jumped right back into bed. He slept, and he dreamt horrible dreams. It was only a matter of hours before the sun reached for the sky, whispering into everybody’s ears, “You can wa |
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