I still shiver, when I remember that ghastly summer. It was also my coldest week on the planet. Sweating it out today, you’ll say, “How cool!” Believe me, it wasn’t.
It happened two years ago. I was only 13. Dad took me to Reetigowla, the highest hill station. Mom couldn’t come since Sherni had her entrance test for the art school. Dad had strict instructions from Mom that he shouldn’t leave me alone and go look after some patient. She knew him so well. Because that’s exactly what happened.
The resort was full so we stayed in the summer house. “It’s 200 years old, and empty, except for plants and things,” said Mr. Baila, the manager. “And ghosts?” I grinned.
Mr. Baila paused. “No ghosts, I can promise you that much.” He pinched his throat. “God promise!”
A good time
It was cold inside, full of grey, bare rooms, and rows of plants beneath the windows. Dad and I had a grand old time. We walked a lot in Reetigowla town. Nothing happened the first day. The next afternoon, his friend from Chennai called him. A relative in Reetigowla town was ill. “They’re so worried.”
That’s all Dr. Dad needed. Patients were top priority. “I’ll be back in no time,” he said. “If you’re hungry, go to the main building and order whatever you want.” I laughed happily. “Go, Dad, go! I’ll be super fine here.”
I had pizza and apple juice in the main building. I made a couple of friends who were surprised to hear that we were staying in the summer house. “It’s a haunted house! How can you stay there?”
I said, “Mr. Baila promised me that there were no ghosts.”
One of them snorted. “The haunted summer house is famous! We come here every year.”
I returned to the summer house, feeling nervous. I shut doors and windows against the cold and sat reading a book. It soon grew dark. I switched on the lights. Dr. Dad was still missing! I tried calling him, but my phone didn’t have a signal. I got up and walked briskly around the rooms.
The house was made of granite with ancient fittings and wiring. In spite of the heater and my thick sweater, I was shivering. At dusk, the house looked different. Its silence haunted me.
I decided to be brave. I started talking to the house. The sound of my voice was comforting. I told the house about my family. What’s your story, I asked.
In the hall, there was a large painting of the house in all its splendour. “You lucky house!” I said. “You have existed for 200 years and seen so many things!”
Strange sounds
Suddenly, there was a strange gurgling sound, like a giant moaning. My heart almost stopped. “What! Who!” My voice broke. “Please!” The giant sobbed, chuckled and cleared its throat. My brief bravery fled. “That Baila said there are no ghosts!” I whispered. The voice groaned loudly, as if complaining to me.
A heavy window sprang open, letting in a draft of freezing wind. It roared in my ear. I stood petrified. My teeth chattered loudly. Then a dark shadow began moving towards me. It stretched from ceiling to floor. I screamed and fell back.
I remember nothing else. There was a terrible pain in my head. And everything went dark.
*****
When he came back, Dad found me lying down on the floor. “Get up, lazy fellow!” he chuckled. “I brought dinner from town.”
The back of my head hurt badly. I began to speak, but couldn’t. Dad knew at once. He brought his medicine bag and began to examine me. “You’re not well,” he said.
“Something terrible happened,” I told him.
*****
The truth is out
Next morning, Dad and I confronted the manager Baila. He hung his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t lying about the ghosts, though.”
“Did he dream all that?” asked my father sternly.
“No one lived there, so how can there be ghosts?” Baila asked.
“So?” I made a tough face to hide my fear.
“It’s the summer house,” said Baila sadly.
“I know that!” I said.
“It is sad,” said Baila. “The main building is always full. No one comes to the summer house. So, whenever someone stays there, it starts moaning and trying to tell its sad story.”
“That’s the strangest thing!” said Dad. “A crying house!”
“Poor house!” Baila looked as if he’d cry himself. “Can you imagine? Waiting for someone to come. And when they do come, it chases them away with its own sadness. So, it always remains empty! Please have some pity!”
Dad looked at me. “It’s your choice,” he said. “We can either stay back and comfort the house, or we can find another place to stay.”
I remembered the previous night, the loud gurgling voice, the window throwing itself open, the bitter cold and how badly scared I was. “Let’s find another place,” I said.
It’s been two years, and I have never regretted that decision!
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