I remember it was a dark winter night.
I was busy writing the last paragraphs of my latest horror story when I heard Captain’s loud hammering on my window. Captain was the wacky vagabond of my neighborhood, whom I admired because of his many eccentric tales which fueled my imagination. Though my friendship with him was not approved by anyone else except him (according to whom I was one of those lucky few whom he graced by his friendship).
I let him in. Captain shut the door hurriedly and pulled down the curtains. It was thundering outside but not raining yet, still his clothes were wet for he was perspiring heavily. I have never seen him so afraid. His face had the horror of a deer being chased by the hunter-dogs. Trembling, he fixed his wide, frightened gaze towards me and held a tiny sand-clock, its copper green and glass dirty due to negligence, over my nose.
“This gives life to imaginations outhor-boy,” he said in his husky, low voice. His eyes reflecting the dreadful awe his heart contained.
But before I can extract details of his babble, he jumped as if he had just received an electric shock and shouted why I had shut him indoors, opened the door and rushed out shouting the cat stole his beer.
Such ‘mood-swings’ made him different from others, sane or insane. I casually examined the little thing-it would be a fine paper weight. Then, went back to my work and the mad man and his clock were soon forgotten.
The night turned unexpectedly wild. The wind howled, the rain battered the windows and the thunder sounded like a hundred roaring lions. Placing the sand clock over the loose sheets of my story, I wondered about the lunatic’s night shelter (which usually was my house on such weathers).
My new story had a starting similar to this where now I, like the protagonist, was having a lonely dinner and thinking something paranormal would seem very normal on such a night.
The wolves’ pack could be heard crying amidst the loud watery noises and it seemed nature was howling and wailing over a dear one’s loss. I retired to bed, hardly knowing if I would be able to sleep or not.
At around midnight, there were stranger voices in my house. Initially, I was naturally startled. But on listening carefully, it seemed to be coming from any radio. I looked around for mine, a small metal box with batteries which I often carelessly kept here and there; a symptom that you are a creative person.
I got out of my cozy bed, wondering how it can turn on its own-maybe some technical fault, when I had this eerie feeling of not being at my real home. The corridors doors for a while had seemed like strangers to me. The usual cheery face of this building was missing that night surely.
Reaching downstairs and crossing the drawing, I found the switch-board, uselessly, as there was a load-shedding. So the sounds must be followed to get to the gadget, doing which I reached the storeroom behind the kitchen.
Here, I must add while I was in the kitchen searching matches for the candles, I heard some small hitting sound. On turning I saw the matchbox on the table (which certainly was not there a few moments ago). Though it was weird, the innocent darkness was blamed like always for making things go unseen.
As I turned the door-knob, unexpectedly, the window at the end of the corridor opened loudly, the curtains flapping wildly in the stormy wind like waving hands frantically forbidding me to go any closer. I reached to close it. The sky wept endlessly. Outside the silhouette of my garden’s apple tree was visible in darkness’s light; apart from that-perhaps I imagined it - there was someone standing under it. Firstly, I thought it was Captain trying to protect himself from the rain. But then the world turned brighter by a streak of lightning for a second, there was nobody. Not giving much thought to it, I shut the window properly and headed towards the room. The first thing visible was the large mirror with a fine coating of dust on its reflecting surface. The room had been cleaned just three days ago, still (Wish dust was invisible like the air too.).
Anyways, I looked for the radio. After a few minutes of searching the mirror caught my attention again. It was dusty enough not to give a clear reflection-and clear enough to at least reflect my candle’s flames. But it showed nothing, stood there like a dusty coffin. I approached it, trembling, hardly noticing the deafening thunder. I rubbed its top-portion with my sweaty palm. My reflection was there holding the candle. The rest of it also worked fine now. I looked at my reflection again; beads of sweat on my forehead, boxes of various shape and size everywhere and the open door of the cupboard beside the door, behind me. Somehow I felt things were weird tonight. But the next moment I shook away these thoughts and explained to myself that it was the tiredness ( I never have explained so many possibilities so many times to myself before this ever). So I turned to lock the cupboard.
It was locked. True! I had not touched it since I entered. Then how the mirror….
I turned back slowly, my heart in my mouth, and a little scream left my mouth involuntarily as in the door near me there stood a figure.
I cast the candle’s glow towards the door immediately, just to find Captain.
“Captain, you know you surprised me?” I sighed, relieved.
He grinned, “I wonted to.” Then, he turned on his little wireless and went towards the hall, “I got in through the kitchen doour, which you never loukh karefulee-been here since Sam’s funeral. Somedhay, you will learn a lisson.”
So the radio mystery was solved. I decided to solve the mirror thing later and got out of the room quickly, nervous of being alone there. Captain stretched on my sofa, listening to a song.
I entered my bedroom, somewhat relieved to have someone’s company tonight. Quite aimlessly, I went towards my study-table. The sand-clock was on top of the fifth page of my story, where the victim enters his bedroom. For a few moments my senses went numb, all the incidents that were happening with me tonight…..were similar to those I had written! The sounds of a radio, the matchsticks, garden’s shadow-person everything! Moreover, I clearly remember placing the clock over the last page, not this one. Means-what the vagabond had said about this clock-was that true? Can a sand-clock really turn stories into actual incidents? Being a fictional writer, I had a rational mind. I was ready to accept anything as long as I got proof (You see, that side of my science student still stayed), unlike others who would not believe in supernatural despite of having a kitty-party with vampires.
But if the sand-clock really made imaginations come true then I would certainly not want this story of mine to come to life.
Suddenly, I remembered Captain’s words ‘I wanted to.’ He could not have answered me. It is impossible for him.
He had lost his hearing-ability years ago. And I had never communicated to him verbally.
I felt my pajama pockets where all the keys were kept for the doors locked before I went to bed and found the kitchen door’s key too. So, I had not been careless.
Then, who was in my house tonight?
I could still hear the music downstairs ‘death strolls with you today; it is going to stay, so you won’t….’
My heartbeats were perhaps audible up to the graveyard yards away. Unconsciously, I called his name. The music stopped. A reply came, a dry whisper over my shoulder, “yes?”
I perspired profusely on hearing such an unearthly voice so close to me. And before I could move, I was pushed hard by some invisible hand towards the bed-post. I heard my nose break on hitting it.
I got up, bleeding and found there was nobody.
Yes. Everything was happening as I had written-this one too!
The unknown was there in this old mansion. Someone was there to harm me in disguise- just like my antagonist, entering a house as a familiar face and killing everyone.
I got back to my feet with difficulty. I wanted to run, but I found it hard to stir even.
‘No escape’ these words were echoing in me which were making me senseless. I was turning numb with fear.
Alas! What fate had I written for me! Was there no way out!
Then it struck me, that killer will either kill within thirteen minutes-or leave, for that was what my fictional one did.
I checked my wrist-watch, I had to hide for six minutes more, and the story would be over. I would betray him, whoever or whatever he is, and remain alive.
Following my script, the next scene of this dangerous play started. The door creaked and opened slowly.
The pen which brings you fame will defame you too. The same is applicable for fear which had dazed me minutes ago, now filled me with new spirits.
Baffled and bleeding, I pushed half of my body out of the window, clutched the blocked, old gargoyle beside (while almost falling down), and then hung the rest of my body from there. It was certainly not a wise adventure on a rainy night, when things turned slippery-still, I clutched hard to dear life.
I was out of the house now, my feet many feet above the ground, not afraid of falling but of being seen-being SEEN-by whom though, I did not know. So there I was, slipping inch by inch.
It seemed this was how the rest of my life is going to be - dangling by a nasty structure. The storm seemed eternal. But, compared to the storm of fright in my heart those winds were nothing.
My house seemed lifeless empty without its only occupant-me. Undoubtedly, I knew there was someone; my doubt was whether he was lifeless too or not. And was he still there? Or he was under me now, outside here? I was coward enough to not look down though. Heights always made me nervous.
After a minute or so, restlessly, I bent my neck to see inside the room, risking my revelation. It became harder for me to suppress my scream as the gargoyle’s stone-teeth bit in my flesh. My finger-tips were turning blue. I couldn’t hold on long, did not have much time, no.
By the candle-light, there stood tall figure. Perhaps, with his back towards me, for I could see nothing-eyes, nose, teeth nothing at all. Everything was just jet black I have never seen a taller person in my life. His head almost touched the ceiling and it was all black. As if someone had poured black paint over him, he had no color other than black to his features.
I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
There! He was out of the room. Without losing another moment, I swung my body sideways, caught the edge of the window and pulled myself inside, collapsing on the floor noisily, wet and shivering.
I froze. Did he hear me? But there was not another sound inside the house. I imagined him coming for me through the same door through which he had left just now. When nobody came, I checked the time to realize still there was a minute left.
Then my eyes went to the wall. By the dim light, I could clearly read the red, glittering words:
I AM BEHIND YOU.
My body seemed to be acting against my wishes and I looked back, breathless, thousand spiders crawling down by spine.
A solid ‘shadow’, thrice my height stood in front of the window. Then the world around me darkened….
I wonder often about the sand-clock, how Captain got that and the night’s presence. It’s quite lonely here. I was not a famous writer, but my mysterious story of sudden disappearance became famous in the countryside. I never saw light again since that day. Like my last story’s victim, I am trapped here. I never mentioned in it though the time when he will finally be free.
I am trapped in this dry well for a century now. Even the bones have decayed long back.