The Tale Of House No 1916

So, guys, today’s my turn to tell a story. And truth be told, I haven’t had the time or energy to think too hard about one. I have been busy looking to get a house for myself, and as some of you might already know, house hunting is a painstakingly long process. And why shouldn’t it be? When you are bound to spend nearly half your life within a few square feet of land, you better make sure it’s the best you can get. We look for electricity, water facilities, number of rooms, and, of course, safety. We ask a myriad of questions to the broker, analysing his every answer with a fine-toothed comb, reading between the lines, paying attention to not only what he’s saying, but also to what he’s avoiding. Sometimes purposely avoiding. Sometimes, but not always.

At the end of the day, a broker selling a house is just doing his job. How many people can put a hand on their heart and claim to know every little detail about their job? Basically, none. No matter how much research a broker does on a house, he is bound to miss something about it.

They say that all houses have secrets, and they do everything in their power to protect them. The older the house, the more skeletons it has in its closet. Well, not skeletons always. Sometimes, what resides in a house is much more sinister than anything we can imagine, something that would make a skeleton look like an upgrade.

Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this one…

The Tale of House No 1916

Manohar was a happy man today. Today, a weight of ten years was going to be lifted off his shoulders. He parked his bike near the campus park and headed towards the steel gates with the number “1916” embossed over them, spinning the bike keys around his index finger, whistling the tune of a song whose name had been escaping him for a while now.

It was ten years ago when his brokerage firm had landed an old, dilapidated duplex in his lap. He had talked to plenty of clients since then, but for one reason or the other, the deal would never get sealed. Until today. Today, he was going to hand over this house to his clients and be done away for good with a hefty commission.

His thoughts were broken when a plastic ball bounced to a stop near him. He picked up the ball and surveyed the neighbourhood, trying to figure out where it came from.

“Uncle! Here!” A little girl, barely five or six, ran up to him. “It’s my ball. Call you to give it –”

“Jinx!” came the voice of another kid from a little distance away. Manohar squinted his eyes to see a boy, slightly older than the girl, sprinting across towards them. “Ha! You cannot speak now till I give you permission,” he spoke to his companion, who had a sulking look on her face.

Manohar gave the ball back to the children, and, with a smile on his face, made his way towards the house where his business was about to pick up.

“Welcome Manohar Bhai, welcome!” The man of the house opened the door before Manohar had even rung the bell. “Any problems with the documents?” he asked, ushering his guest into the spacious hall mostly occupied by cartons upon cartons of boxes.

“Not at all, Sirji,” Manohar replied, sitting on the only available sofa. “Everything is clear as water. I am just here to hand the keys over to you.”

“That’s well and good, Manohar bhai, but there’s an incident about which I wanted to talk to you.”

“What’s the matter, Sirji?”

“We found a small drawer under one of the beds, with a lot of antique items in it. We’re not sure what to do with it? Can you check the previous owners if this belonged to them?”

Manohar’s eyes lit up.

The house had been ownerless for as long as he knew, and there was no paper trail that could connect it to any person, living or dead. In his ten years of looking after the property, not a single soul had come to him enquiring about any antiques. An opportunity presented itself, and he would have been a fool not to grab it.

“Of course, I’ll have them delivered to the owners. But can I look at the stuff first?”

Manohar opened the drawer and examined the contents. Some papers, old insignia, stamps, worn-out coins, probably not even gold ones, and a small box. A small box? What could it contain? He opened the lid and found a very old firearm inside. He lifted it up to check it out: A gun with an abnormally long barrel and an abnormally short handle. He had seen guns like these in various British-era movies. This was probably the most valuable item here.

“Would you be able to take the whole drawer with you?” his client’s voice called from afar.

Probably not on my motorbike, he thought. But he could come later and haul it away. He dropped the gun and turned to say the same. Wait a second. Why won’t the gun come off? He wasn’t gripping it anymore, but the gun was somehow stuck to his palm. Ah, the trigger. The index finger had somehow gotten stuck inside the trigger guard. He brought his other hand to the rescue, pulling his finger away, but failing. Trying again, and failing again.

“What’s the matter, Manohar bhai?”

“This thing…” he had barely uttered those words when his finger slid off the guard, but not before applying pressure on the trigger, enough pressure to fire a shot. The recoil sent Manohar staggering off his feet. Upon regaining balance, the first thing he saw was his client sprawled across the floor, blood pouring out of his chest.

“Sirji!” He ran up to him and checked his pulse. Nothing. Put his ears next to his chest. Nothing.

Shit.

What should he do now? Call the cops? What would he tell them? Accidental firing? Would they believe him? A matter of property. They would try to pin this on him. The broker kills the owner over a monetary dispute. He could already see the headline in the next day’s paper. No, no, no. He wasn’t going to jail for no fault of his own. And it really was no fault of his, wasn’t it? The gun pretty much fired itself. The stupid piece of shit. He glanced at the firearm, fallen on the floor. He picked it up and put it in the small of his back. Nobody else knew of its existence. And nobody else would.

Manohar ran out of the godforsaken house. The little girl he had seen earlier waved at him as he revved up the engine of his bike and sped away. He had only gone a few metres ahead when a horrible thought entered his mind. He braked to a stop and looked back at the girl, who wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her attention was solely focused on the house in front of her. She entered through the gates without any second thoughts like she… like she… he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

Like she lived in it.

Manohar felt sick to his stomach. What had he done? Killed an innocent man. Taken a child’s father away from her. He wanted to call the cops and turn himself in. To hell with what they believed! He would face whatever consequences lay in his fate.

But then, survival instincts kicked in, and the logical part of his brain took over. What would his family do without him? If the girl didn’t deserve this, did his own children deserve to lose their father because of a freak accident? Because of the gun. That damned gun. He could feel its heat under his spine. He wanted to throw it off a cliff, or better yet, smash it into a million pieces. But wait, just wait a second. He would think about the gun later. He had more pressing concerns now.

The girl had seen him enter the house; had seen him leave too. If the police came… Who was he kidding? When the police came, she would tell them what she saw. And that would be the end of it. End of him.

He knew what he had to do, but didn’t know if he had the heart to do it. He turned his bike back towards the house. How would he live with himself after this? Would he be able to look his own children in the eye?

No time for maudlin.

He parked his bike and entered the godforsaken house, each step feeling heavier than the last. He could see the pair now, the girl and the father. One smaller, one larger. One sitting, one lying. One not moving, one unable to move.

One dead, one alive.

He pulled the firearm out and took one long, hard look at it. Then another look at the girl. He pointed the gun at her, his hands shaking through the entire therblig. He couldn’t. Oh God, he couldn’t.

He had to. He had no choice. He tightened his finger on the trigger.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t kill an innocent, that too, a little girl. He slid his finger off. This time, he could do it easily. If only… if only.

What was he going to do? Damned either way. He wanted to walk away right now, but he had to stay as well, didn’t he? He couldn’t make a decision.

The gun seemed to make one for him, egg him on. He could feel an invisible force on his index finger, guiding it back inside the trigger guard. He could feel his fingers tighten around the cold, steel frame.

All of a sudden, the girl was dragged away from the corpse by someone. Manohar wiped away the tears from his eyes to see the boy he had encountered with the girl earlier. They ran up the stairs to the first floor of the duplex before he could recover from the shock. Was he, her brother? Where the hell had he come from? Manohar had not seen him enter the house.

There was no time to waste on thinking. If the boy had seen him in the house, he had to be eliminated as well. Manohar ran up the stairs behind the duo, barely spotting them enter a room on the first floor.

He opened the door of the room, expecting to find them cowering in a corner. But, to his surprise, the room opened to another flight of stairs.

He had known this house for ten years. This wasn’t where the stairs to the terrace were. He knew this. A hundred per cent sure. A decade worth of experience. No doubt about it. He shook his head and headed up the stairs. No time to waste.

He reached the top and opened the door of the terrace. Sure enough, the two children were standing near the centre, looking at him. Were they waiting for him? No way. He was just being paranoid. That could be the only logical explanation.

“I am sorry,” he said, pointing the gun at them, his finger on the trigger.

“No, I am,” the little boy said.

The shot was fired. He could hear the explosion. He could feel the recoil of the gun in his hands. He could see the bullet going towards its targets.

Wait a second.

He could see the bullet?

How could he see the bullet?

But he could, clear as daylight.

The bullet, swimming through the air, following its destined trajectory, but a bit slow. Actually, a lot slower. Too slow.

Apparently, the kids could see it too, as the boy dragged himself and his companion away from the shot, quite easily. He looked at the gun. What was going on? He pointed the gun at the pair again, but his arm had slowed down for some reason. He thrust his arm at the elbow to make it move quicker, but the thrust itself happened slowly.

Sweat perspired off his face as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Of his gun. Hell, of his own body.

After what seemed like an eternity, the gun seemed to point where he wanted it to point. But by then, the pair had moved quite a few distances. In fact, he could see the boy pushing the girl back out of the terrace and closing the door. How was the kid able to move so fast?

Manohar moved his arm again to point the gun at the boy, but the boy was coming at him now. Faster than his own movements. He tried to backpedal away. Too slow. By the time he took one step back, the boy had already run up to him and caught his free arm. He swatted at Manohar’s gun-wielding arm, throwing the weapon away.

Manohar could feel his body get dragged by the free arm. He was moving faster now but under the control of the boy. His own efforts to stop his movements were futile. Slow and futile.

He could see himself being dragged towards the edge of the roof. He tried to dig his feet to stop moving. Too slow. He was close to the edge now. Dangerously close.

“Jinx over,” the boy proclaimed as he opened the door of the terrace to let his companion back.

“Is the game over? Where’s the man who was chasing us?” the girl asked, looking around.

“The game is over, and hence, the man has gone back to where he came from.”

“So how can I go back to Papa?”

“Yes,” the boy replied curtly, much to the girl’s amusement. She turned back to go down the stairs but was stopped by the boy.

“Not that way. Your father is this way,” he said, holding her hand, and dragging her towards the edge of the terrace.

“But there’s nothing this way.”

“There is. There is a beautiful place this way, and that’s where your father is,” he said, as both the boy and the girl teetered on the edge of the terrace.

*THREE MONTHS LATER*

“Well, Mr Finn, I have to agree there. Getting such a big house for such a small price is indeed a steal.”

“What can I say, Mr Feynman? As long as people in this stupid, third-world country keep believing in cursed houses, we will keep profiting,” Mr Finn spoke with a smile, cracking open the cork of the whiskey bottle.

“But still, so many deaths in the house. Even our own crew is not very happy with this decision.”

“We don’t have a big budget for this documentary, Mr Feynman. We have to cut costs wherever we can.”

“By the way, what exactly happened here?”

“Well, even I’m not sure. From what I’ve heard, looked like some dispute over money between the broker and the new owner. Both were killed.”

“There was something about a girl as well, wasn’t there?”

“Ah right! The owner’s kid. Jumped off a cliff. Poor lass!”

“Doesn’t make sense, that, does it, Mr Finn? Why would the girl kill herself?”

“Probably discovered his dad’s dead body and couldn’t cope. Anyways, as a wise man once said, I missed the part where that’s my problem. Ha!” Mr Finn hollered, taking a big gulp out of the bottle. Mr Feynman smiled sheepishly, not feeling as blissful as his companion. But then, he hadn’t had much to drink today either. “Have you taken a good look at the house?”

“Yes, Mr Finn. Everything’s all right.”

“And that old-ass drawer?”

“Ah, I never got down to check it out. I’ll take a peek just now,” Mr Feynman said, scuttering towards the drawer.

“Join me for lunch when you’re done, Mr Feynman.”

“Sure.”

It had been quite a few minutes since lunch had been served, but Mr Feynman was still busy inspecting the drawer. “Come on, what’s taking you so long? Lunch’s getting cold,” Mr Finn shouted out to his companion, who still had his back to him.

“Just a second. I found an antique gun in here and –”

“Not much of our use, Mr Feynman. We ain’t making a period film here, are we? Leave the gun for now.”

“Well, I am trying to. It’s just that,” Mr Feynman continued sheepishly, “I can’t seem to get it out of my hand.”

“You can’t what? Surely you’re joking, Mr Feynman!” Mr Finn replied, in between fits of laughter. But, as you might have already figured out, the laughter did not last long.