Abyss

It’s not the ghost that scares us. It’s the unknown.

 

“So who do you want to file an FIR against?” the constable at the desk asked, a bored expression on his face. It was 9 pm already, and he was probably looking to go back home.

      “I don’t know,” I replied, my body still shaking from the most frightening incident of my life.

The constable got a bit too close to me and inhaled deeply. “You don’t seem a drunkard,” he said, “but you’re acting like one.”

      “Sir, please listen to me at least,” I begged. In response, the constable put his pen down. Taking this as my cue to proceed, I began.

      I was walking home from work. This was just about an hour ago, mind. I took the path I take every day, going through the shortcut near Main Cross. If you’ve ever been there, you know which one I’m talking about. But if you haven’t, it’s a narrow road – not even wide enough to accommodate a four-wheeler – carved through the jungle. It gets eerily quiet there. I still remember the first time I walked through the shortcut, along with a couple of peers from work. I got shit scared. The darkness. The silence. The atmosphere is pretty much straight out of a horror movie. But as time went on, I got used to it. I’ve been taking this route for four years now, with no problems what-so-ever.

      Until today.

      Something – probably someone – grabbed my ankle today. I couldn’t see who or what, for it was too dark. But I felt like I was being pulled down the slope. My mind went blank, but only for a fraction of a second, thankfully. I resisted, grabbed a tree trunk. Tried to wriggled my leg free. I was not being pulled down now, but the grip was as tight as before. The tussle continued, me trying to shake the thing – whatever it was – away. The thing trying to pull me down into the darkness while maintaining control over my ankle.

      I know what you are thinking. Maybe I just lost my balance and was slipping down the slope. Maybe I got my leg entangled in a couple of bushes or vines. I am someone who has both slid down slopes as well as tripped on vines. I know the difference between an accidental grip and a intentional one. Nature is kind. The bushes might make you lose your balance. Gravity might make you fall if you are not careful. But nature doesn’t wrestle you. I assure you, what grabbed my leg was far from natural.

      I thought this was it. This is where my life ends. I remembered my two kids. I remembered my sweet, loving partner, who had admonished me for taking such a desolate path so many times before, especially after so many people had started going missing in our city. How I wish I had taken that advice!

At once, I felt the grip shift from my ankle to my shoe, and I knew it was my only chance. At escaping. At survival.

At life.

I jerked my leg. The shoe came off. I ran. Faster than I ever have.

And so, here I was. A shoe in one leg, shirt drenched in sweat, face white from fear, sitting inside the nearest police station I could find.

The constable’s mouth was agape. He was probably trying to find connections between my story and those who had gone missing before me. I had had the same thought while I was running away from… whatever that thing was. Whoever had taken those innocent people away now had their sights set on me.

“I’ll get back to you in a few minutes,” he finally said, going into the cabin of the Inspector.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The door of the cabin had opened only once during the time elapsed. The Inspector took a good, hard look at me, then went back in.

Eventually, the two policemen came out. The expressions on their faces suggested disbelief. I was baffled. I thought at least the constable believed what happened.

And then, the Inspector opened his mouth and asked a question that has been asked to me countless times before. A question that, since childhood, has always invalidated my experiences. A question that turns me from a victim to an unreliable narrator.

“Did you take your medication today?”

I’ll try to keep it short and spare you the sob story. I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia since as far as I can remember. I know the symptoms, I know the effects, I know the whole shebang. I know my brain can’t be trusted entirely; have known it for a long time. But, with time, I have learned to differentiate between a hallucination and a real occurrence. I cannot explain how. But there are tell-tale signs – vibrations I feel in my brain when I’m hallucinating. I think it’s my brain telling me that something isn’t real. That doesn’t mean that hallucinations don’t affect me now. They still do. But now when they come, I am prepared. All thanks to my medication and my therapist, and, of course, my supportive family.

That brings me to the incident. I can confidently say that it wasn’t a hallucination. It wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t my brain playing tricks on me. It was real. As real as you and me.

I explained this to the policemen, but to no avail. An argument ensued. Voices were raised, mostly from my end I’m afraid. Eventually they just sent me away. I’m not even sure how did they come to know about my condition, but they did, and that’s all mattered. To them, I was probably a loon who belonged in a mental asylum.

That incident changed my life. For the worse. Made my suspect everything and everyone. Even my own family. Even though the first thing I did after being kicked out of the police precinct was go home and give them a big hug. The second thing was to draft a will, leaving everything to them. I was suspicious of them, but I couldn’t stop loving them, or caring for them. I’d rather do right by them, even if they turned out to be the ones stabbing my back.

The logical part of my brain was telling me that I was being a bit too paranoid. But there was small voice that wanted me to be a recluse. Keep everyone at an arm’s length. Don’t let anyone get too close. It was repeatedly telling me that someone was out to get me, and that ‘someone’ could be anyone. My partner, my kids, no one was trustworthy.

The funny thing is, I knew that the voice itself was probably the most untrustworthy thing. But still, I’d rather not risk it. Better to be an alive coward than a dead brave-heart.

And so, I moved into the basement of my own home. I started working from home, not allowing any office colleague to visit me. I started scheduling virtual sessions with my therapist, but cut her off when she started asking personal questions. I’d reckoned just the medication was fine for now. Speaking of medication, I took back control of them from my partner. Earlier, my family kept tabs about which tablet to take. But now, I’d rather do it myself. I made sure my partner ate the food we prepared before I consumed it. I avoided going out in the dark, and, in the rare scenario that I did, I started taking a knife with me.

I burned a few bridges along the way. But thankfully, my family was always by my side. I’m not sure what my partner told the kids, but even they were cognizant of the fact that I was not completely fine, and that I should be left alone. I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had decided to leave me, but I was grateful that they hadn’t.

But despite taking all necessary precautions, there was a lingering thought at the back of my head that my time was near. I was going to get taken out sooner rather than later. The thought would make my brain throb every time I read about another person going missing in the newspaper. You’re next, buddy, the voice would squeak. I would squirm. Afraid, but determined to fight. Right till the bitter end. Even if the end was near.

But deep down inside, I had resigned to my fate.

And so, when, on a cold Sunday night – one of those rare occasions I went out in the dark to buy another bottle of medication – when a multitude of hands (at least they felt like human hands) put a sack over my head, I was not surprised. That doesn’t mean I was happy to die. No sir, I wasn’t. Just that I saw the writing on the wall, and even though I was going to try my damnedest to erase it, I knew the efforts were futile.

I kicked and punched, but none connected. I tried to wriggle free, but the grip was too tight. I tried a get a hold of Goldy (my pet knife, I’ve talked about it, haven’t I), but couldn’t reach it. The numbers were too much; the odds stacked too high against me. It was a battle I was destined to lose, and lose I did.

When they finally managed to tie my hands and legs, I knew it was all over. My heart sank.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only part of my body that sank that day.

I don’t know where they threw me, but it sure felt like a highly viscous fluid. Not water-like. More honey-like. I kept going deeper and deeper as the fluid entered my nostrils. I closed my eyes. Knew it was the end.

I’m ashamed to admit that my final thoughts were not about my family. Rather, they were about the two policemen who had refused to believe me. They would now finally realise that I was right all along when they discovered my corpse. But now that I think of it, the people who went missing before me had never been found – neither dead nor alive – so chances are I won’t be either.

THE END

You’re probably wondering why I told you my story. The reason is simple: You’re next, buddy.

You.

Yes, you.

Nope, you didn’t read that wrong. There aren’t any inverted commas in the above sentences. I really am talking to you. You don’t need to look left and right. You are the only one who can read this.

My tale ended five paragraphs ago, but yours, I’m afraid, is just starting.

You see, while I was being carried to my eventual resting place, I heard them mention your name. They are plotting your demise, probably even looking at you right now.

You’re perhaps wondering how do I know who you are. How am I able to even contact you if I’m actually dead?

Well, my friend, the concept of afterlife is too complex to cover in a short story. I would need to write a full-blown novel for it. And trust me, you don’t have enough time to read a novel.

 You’re now thinking if I have any advice for you, right? As someone who has first-hand experience of our enemies (yes, ‘our’, buddy. They are probably more your enemies now than mine), as someone who has seen how they operate, as someone who knows how good they are, I am perhaps the best person to tell you what to do.

Unfortunately, I only have one advice for you:

Prepare your will.