The Explanation

I walked to the mansion with the best “I’m totally not scared” face I could put on. John followed me, not even trying. We could almost see it, the huge building loomed in the distance. House no:13, Upper Lt street’s very own haunted house. A classic look and a classic scary story. The guy who lived in it was a Grandpa when his business met demise. He killed himself in the building, the bank which got the house couldn’t sell it, partly because of its backstory, partly because of its very unlucky numbering. Now it lays there in a state of perpetual disuse, its only purpose to be a location where people are sent on dares and to retrieve lost cricket balls. Now here we were, two guys who were promised a gaming system to go in and write an article for a paranormal activity magazine.

“Is a PS4 worth your life ?” asks John. He has joined me solely on the prospect that he would get a 30 min-per day playtime if he came. “More” I reply. The overgrown garden is full of thorny plants through which we carefully thread through. Climbing a couple of stairs to the front door, I try the door handle. It creaks in protest but opens halfway through. A final shoulder push by me opens it fully, the door crashing into the wall, filling the house with the echo of a boom. The grandeur of the house is staggering. Intricate designs are etched on the marble stairs, gold-encrusted chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and a seemingly hand-drawn globe sits proudly beside a withering wooden chair. The oohs and aahs escape our mouth before we can say or do anything. It takes us a moment to regain our footing, and when we do, I turn to him and point to the right. “That should be the grand library at the end of that corridor, you take that. I’ll take the main dining room and master’s bedroom. After that, we can go upstairs to the balcony on the second floor.” I hand him the battery-powered camera and some batteries, taking the DSLR for myself. Nodding to each other, we go to our respective targets.

The left-hand corridor has a bright red wallpaper, the wall itself full of portraits and paintings. A king on a throne, a bunch of guys rushing into battle, and the grandpa himself. Called himself George III. He looks stern, the kind of sir who would send you outside the class for not sharpening a pencil. The painting is visibly old, paint almost entirely faded. I raise the DSLR to my eye and look through it. Except, no grandpa, just a background.

I immediately lower it, and seeing the grandpa clearly, as stern as ever, my pulse returns from Mars. The whole setting must have made me jumpy. But I would take the photo without looking into the camera. A little scared, I move on to the dining room. The table is humongous, easily able to accommodate 30 or so. The intricately carved wood invites my camera. Click, click. The ceiling covered with mirrors reflects the table. I could almost imagine people sitting here, the grandpa at the top. Yelling at the chef that the rice was not hot enough. The very thought makes me shudder. I am leaving when I stop dead in my tracks. Someone’s breathing on my neck. I frantically turn around to see no one. That’s right, I think, of course, there is no one here. It's empty. I chuckle and turn back when something catches my peripheral vision. The ceiling mirror, clearly reflecting the grandpa, sitting on his table, staring right at me.

I run like the wind, nay, like a storm. I’m screaming and only stop at the marble stairs, where I lose my breath and stop. John suddenly appears, looking white. “Dude, you okay ?” he asks, extremely concerned. My hand points to the corridor and a single word escape out of my mouth- “there-.” “They're what ?!” Finally catching my breath, I spill all the beans.

John laughs shakily, “dude, it’s probably just your mind playing tricks on you, happens to the best of us. Look, if you want, I’ll complete this project and we can all go home.” “Thanks” I barely reply. He grins and walks up the stairs. I stay in the stairs, chuckling at the irony. The scaredy-cat that was John is now leading the project. My stupid imagination. I shout “John, we can talk about increasing your time to an hour-per-day” and turn around, only to see the grandpa, three inches from my face.

“Dude ?” the call is from afar. Something is on my face. It slides off. My eyes struggle open, unable to comprehend what I see. It takes a few minutes to fully establish John in my sight, a worried look on his face. He is relieved when I groggily sit up. We’re outside. The thorn from the wild plants digs into my arm. My neighborhood friends have gathered around me, with expressions ranging from amused to worried. One of them helps me up. From what John says, he was in the balcony, taking photos when a scream rocked the house. Running down, he finds me laying on the floor, blood drained of my face. I was immediately rushed out and water poured on my face till I opened my eyes.

The guys went after 5-or so minutes. John helped me walk home. I made him promise that he would not tell of the incident to anyone. With the mansion fading fast behind me, I forced myself to breathe. Relax, it was nothing, ignoring the nagging feeling on my mind. I was brought back into reality when I felt hit by something. A man in a suit. He flashed me an annoyed look as he bends down to retrieve his suitcase. He faced me, face very angry, and then walked off in a puff. While John didn’t care, I did, really did. The grandpa, no doubt. The very stern face as in the portrait.

John dropped me off at my house, bidding me bye and promising that he would send the photos to the magazine himself. I barely heard him as I ran to my bed. Stuffing my face into the pillow. Hoping to wake up sometime later and sigh with relief, thanking the stars that it was just a dream. My luck is not that good. When my dad came to call me for dinner, my heart had nearly stopped when I saw his face, old and sagging, angry but just a hint of a smirk.

 The face has been everywhere ever since. My social science teacher had once flashed me a smile, which I saw as the grandpa doing the same. I went mad. Everywhere, he was there. I babbled to anyone who would listen. My mom, with a very concerned look, had taken me to a local psychiatrist. A few meds still left sitting in my drawer. He had chuckled at my story, telling me that it was “all in my imagination.” Unless my imagination is out to murder me, I don’t think so. He doesn’t care and rights me a plethora of meds.

 My world has gone into chaos. His face lingers everywhere. By night, I swear there is someone sleeping beside me. The mirror is showing him standing beside me. Jawaharlal Nehru apparently wears a suit eerily similar to the grandpa. Because once, Nehru had his face completely replaced by the old dude. Red rose and all. He follows me like a shadow, smiling, frowning, and laughing. I can’t shake him off. The paranormal magazine did an article on me and it went viral. The kid who sees ghosts, that’s how people see me. Pointing, laughing.

I have done everything in my strength. I went back to the mansion and tore down the portrait. Sprinkled holy water throughout the house, took all my medication on time. Studied up on hallucinations. Nothing adds up. I can feel him beside me, hunching over as I write this. He has a smile on his face. He knows what this story is for. He has confirmed it, there is only one solution. To anyone reading this, know what I did was not because of a mental disorder, but because of necessity. Please, close that mansion down. If John starts going mad too, you’ll know why. Save him, please. I can’t let this guy have another victim.

With this, I write my final words. Goodbye, Sayonara, adios. May my story save somebody while it couldn’t help me.

“These,” Dr. S says, “are the final words of the kid who ……. for the lack of a better word, suicided in Upper Lt street. I treated him myself and I can assure you, conspiracy theorists, he was hallucinating. No, he did not see a ghost.” He pauses for a sip of water, ignoring the protests of various members of the audience. “I myself have visited the mansion. There is nothing off with it. His friend has not had any symptoms or ….sightings. He is sad because his friend died, not because he is going mad. Though it is a very unfortunate end of a blossoming life, it was not because of ghosts. This case, though unnatural, has no relation with real”- he rolls his eyes “paranormal activity.” Then, ignoring all the reporter’s questions, he walks off stage.

All the other doctors pat him on the back, saying a mixture of condolences and congrats. He spots the kid’s parents, face red, eyes blotched. Sitting on a crappy old plastic chair with the kid’s friend by them. A man gestures to the “friend” who walks to the stage. He can hear the tsunami of question fill the media house, the cacophony of camera shutters closing as they click pictures that will cover the home pages of conspiracy sites and the third page of the local newspaper. His clinic sales have taken a hit after the incident, people terming him as a psychiatrist who allowed a poor teen to die. His reputation had taken a hit. He would have to earn it back.

 Slipping through a back exit, he finds himself in his car when something in the mirror catches his eye. His face turns pale, but he calms himself, assuring that it was just a coincidence, his mind playing tricks on him.

He had no way of knowing what would soon follow. That the wizened old face he saw was not of a still-living person, that the old man in the mirror was a mailman from death himself.