A Howling House

  “Everything had to change after that after all. They would all get lost in my reality and only live in my memories. I, on the other hand, have been forgotten forever from their innocent memories. 

There was a blurred line between dream and reality. I simply do not exist anymore. The sadness made me forget my birth name. What can I name myself at this moment? I like fluttering butterflies in deep wild forests. So I am naming myself a butterfly. 

I am here to tell you about my dream. A nightmare. A reality? This is what had happened.

I am living in a huge house alone, with two-three doors and windows, I always stayed Inside for safety, my neighbors used to comment on me, I never knew why I had kept a maid who helped me because the house was big, I never came out...one day my neighbor tells me who works in my house I tell her Ms. Yadav or Khan something like that...The neighbor tells me that the maid already died many years ago, that's why people talk because they see me talking to myself...as if to distract me from the present...

The neighbors are spooked by me and concerned at the same time. 

Then a voice started narrating a different story, I was scared in the house I never went downstairs, the voice narrated and I saw another dream of a young girl playing with a chicken, that chicken could speak but before I could hear what it said, another little girl who was looking very normal but was possessed with something was hiding nearby, apparently the chicken had something to do with her life, but it was slaughtered for biryani. I was watching all this like a ghost in that dream...I sat in a rickshaw and went to another part of the story, for some reason or another I would be stopped or something always happened before I could reach the floor I wanted, the rickshaws were stuck together and that man told me to get down and I managed, everything was creepy for me but everyone else found it normal... suddenly, I was walking alone in the dark, and in that dream again the voice which was guiding me to explore the places suddenly stopped, I understood it did not want to reveal something to me, and the places which I had been to in my dream was getting closer to reality but that was just to make me forget what I saw in a dream that I know is the truth even if it sounds magical or haunting, and now as I write this I feel so unreal.

I remember, very very well that something supernatural happened and I have made to be forgotten the links of this real-world because I remember very well the glimpses were changing and something of importance was revealed to me...it was most probably a spirit of death, reminding me to have courage so that it would reveal something more but only if I remained humble...When I woke up I was the most peaceful human, as if I know what lies beyond life and death. 

I want to go back to those neighbors and ask what was the truth. But I realize that all this was just a mere dream. 

Nobody has talked to me in years. I don't mind it, it gives me the privacy to write the novel I have been trying to write for years now. It was in the year 1999 that my best friend died. I understand why humans have become bitter and have lost the spark of love and compassion. 

I stand and say hello to everyone and yet it seems no one seems to even take notice of me. I get it, I have a different way of living. I am a sentimental old school. I keep myself as my own companion. 

Why do I keep hearing this every time… The neighbor screams in terror every night when I type. It’s her habit you see. Here again! I know my typewriter is old and makes horrible noises. How strange can fear make someone? 

I would decide to leave this place and go somewhere else where I won't be bothered. But you know I feel I am trapped here. This place works like illusions. So beautiful and aesthetic. The mirrors are so old that they have stopped reflecting my reflection. I am a mystery to myself. 

I eavesdropped on my neighbor. I hear her superstitious fear of me again. I am convinced they hate me for late-night typing. She never answers the door when I ring her bell late at night. I could be troublesome sometimes. Not every day though. But would you tell anyone that a ghost keeps typing all night and lives as if she’s alive after someone killed her many years ago? I cannot believe she thinks I am dead. That's so rude to say, isn't it?

Everything had to change after that after all. They would all get lost in my reality and only live in my memories. I, on the other hand, have been forgotten forever from their innocent memories.”