SHIVERS: Echoes from the dusty corridors of time

By Rajindar chadha

Encounter in the unprecedented collection adorable ghosts, forlorn souls, miserable wraiths, frightened ogres, shamefaced witches, panicked spirits and defeated demons to replace centuries old beliefs and apprehension.
Combining genres of metaphysical adventure with sweet irresistible pleasure yet unspeakable savage, brutal and monstrous, inter spread with occult wizardry and sorcery, a desired accompaniment of gooseflesh and nervous over the shoulder glances at the same time Tremulous suspenseful supernatural adventures of the echoes from the dusty corridors of Time, tinged with occasional shivers of fear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9789383416448

Book preview

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DISTRAUGHT SOUL

No one with imagination can be insensitive to the experiences of nature’s unexpected surprises, mysteries, and unforeseen occurrences, incomprehensive mists and hazes, sudden whistling flights of cheerful little birds, undreamed landscapes, howling wilderness and mystifying whispers from the past. My magnetic attraction towards the undiscovered, untraveled locations lured me to the top of a hill. I was rewarded with a chance discovery of an ancient burial ground from the British era on top of a hill. The cemetery was enclosed with a white wall surrounded with a skillfully pruned hedge. I witnessed several graves scattered between flower beds. The heavenly tranquility, breathtaking view of the snowcapped mountains and absolute solitude, made me think that this world must have been flowing with irresistible forces arrested by the heavenly phenomenon, since the dawn of creation. I should have no objection in spending the rest of my life there itself.

With the wind blowing in gusts in my face off the mountain, climbing had been a pleasant and enjoyable experience. My feet were throbbing and my heart was pounding. I felt the need to catch my breath due my age. Seated over an outcropping with my bag slung on my shoulder with of course my ever-present sketch book and my note pad, half way up the summit. Walking and sketching are the two most compatible pursuits. I brought back with me not only atmosphere, but smells and sound as well. My progress had been slow, with my energy level being low, but my spirits were soaring. I was feeling gratified and exhilarated. I could feel my breathing returning to normal after a short time and the discomfort in my legs subsided; it was time to set off again.

He was at least six feet tall with a pale narrow face, thin as a knife gazing intently surprised, standing not more than a foot from me. He cocked his head. His body still and erect as a post unmoving. A wide grin in his eyes addressed me.

"My name is Smith, could I be of any assistance, Sir?

Thanks for your concern, but I am fine, I replied.

Would you at least allow me to walk with you?

Suit yourself. But it will certainly slow you down, I replied.

I am in no hurry, he added. I don’t mean to offend but wonder, should you not have chosen a less stressful hill for climbing?

No offence taken. You, it seem to have travelled on this track before.

On several occasions, yes.

"Then you must know whether the old British Cemetery still exists on top of this hill?

Yes, it is very much there. Do you have someone of your own resting in there?

Yes, you can say, I have. Old memories flooded my mind.

Let us make a move. The weather like everything else on these hills is unpredictable, besides there is a real nasty, narrow patch with numerous holes and loose rocks a little ahead, but it is nothing against your experience and skill. The narrow steep trail turned out to be arduous and quite challenging, but a walker’s delight once we crossed over.

We came to an almost flat platform. The view of the green valley below was breathtaking. A ribbon-like stream, flanked with lofty pines looking dwarfed from above, snaking through ramparts of eroded earth. Our delight was however short-lived. The view was obscured by a sea on fluffing clouds drifting lazily. Sudden thunder growled and boomed. A bolt of lightning flashed and thunder cracked, making us cling to the mountain wall. Lucky for us the dry storm receded as suddenly as it had appeared. I never felt the mountains unfriendly, rather their beauty and serenity and changing moods are just part of the wonders of nature. Beauty such as this was never born by chance. There had to be a sublime plan I thought.

Soft, spongy and soggy earth underfoot due to pine blister accumulated all over the summit and revived my age-old memories. Twenty years could just as easily have been a long night’s dream. I could not contain myself. I hurried through the cemetery gate, saw the exact spot where I sat several years ago. I distinctly remember my encounter with Sgt. Major Smith on that occasion. I was about to sit down, old memories came flooding with events fresh in my mind as if it all happened only yesterday. I was about to lower my carry bag when heard:

Don’t even think about it. It was an army man in full uniform with a chest full of ribbons and medals, looking down at me menacingly. His bushy eyebrows arched and twisted. His steel-gray eyes red with fury. This is Sgt. Major Smith of the Royal British Army in command, he boomed like thunder. You should know that this is an army area, out of bounds for all unauthorized personnel. His tone was authoritative.

To my knowledge, a burial ground is open for unrestricted entry for living and dead – both, I retorted.

It is reserved for military personnel only and not for any Tom, Dick and Harry. Those are the army regulations and I am here to enforce them, he said with his hateful eyes.

What military, Major? I am astounded at your ignorance. There is no British army in India, anymore.

His smirk faded away and was replaced by an emotional mask. Gone was his crimson glow. His face went pale and haggard. He staggered as he stood.

I can have you arrested, enraged with demonic furry he shouted, I will have you court-martialed. Now get lost, old chap, and do not underestimate me, he exploded furious with rage, before my Johnnies chuck you across the fence.

True to your tradition, is it not, Major? I said. The British officers, even if they are non-commissioned, do not work, even fire their weapon from others’ shoulders. He cringed at my remark, retorted, Do I smell sarcasm, be prepared to face the consequences on several charges of trespass, insubordination and disrespect, stomping his foot with disgust, his eyes burning red with rage, he continued, You civilians have no manners; you clutter and deface the environment, whereever you go."´ He snorted in disgust.

You should be ashamed, see for yourself, if you have eyes to see this beautifully maintained lawn, see these well planned flower beds and freshly painted boundary wall, the watered down green lawn laid for your comfortable living and at the same time to protect your graves from plunder, vandalism and decay.

All this is accomplished by my loyal Johnnies.

Sorry to say, Major, you are a most ungrateful and misinformed guest. We have provided you all the comforts, even knowing how you treated us and what you did to us Indians.

Enough, enough, no more of your nonsense, run along old chap, before I resort to drastic measures. His pale grey eyes narrowed, a mocking sneer from his pompous medal strewn across his chest. You hear me! he screamed. Be gone, while there is still time."

You are daydreaming, Major. Must I remind you once again, that there is no British Army in India anymore, none of your superiors or juniors are now present. No one ever bothered to enquire about your welfare after their departure. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He recoiled, hissed through his clenched teeth, You must be out of your mind.

Get off your high horse, admit it – you are dead and have been dead for ghosts’ number of years. You are a ghost and a lazy one at that, trapped in eternity and condemned to a lowly position, shirking your ghastly duties and lolling in the sun. You are nothing more than a puff of smoke. You are neither here nor there. You are still wet behind the ears. You do not have even the basic knowledge of a ghost. You are not even supposed to appear before sundown. He kept listening to me without displaying hate or anger.

A smug smile touched his lips. I am a fearless, brave and loyal soldier of the queen. I have fought battles and conquered nations. I have a mile-long sheet of my achievements, and awards. I can move mountains, the vainglorious ghost boasted with his chest proudly extended. The veins in his neck pushed further out in bristling anger. While he was bragging, a beautiful young village lass pushed in through the cemetery gate with a flock of sheep and goats for grazing. Her long unkempt hair blowing in the swift wind and her home spun inadequate dress was revealing her charms more than concealing her flesh. Her rosy cheeks inflamed in the sun and with her defiant large brown eyes she must be a heartthrob for many a village youths, I thought. Shoo them away, Major, if you do not wish them to trample your flower beds and have your beautiful lawn littered with their droppings, I challenged him. He just stood with anguish strained wide eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists, gnawing his teeth. His knuckles burning white from strain and his drooped lips taut in a thin line. I took the initiative to expel them and closed the gate. .

Please, I know nothing, would you actually help me? He shook his head in desperation. I am terribly frightened. Please don’t abandon me, he pleaded.

You are even unaware of your capabilities. Do you know that you can appear and disappear at will, transform yourself in any horrible form or any ghastly, shape. You can terrorize anyone. You have unlimited capabilities as a ghost. I suggest that you go back to your wife. He cringed visibly, his forehead knotted with pain and closed his eyes.

Don’t scratch my old wounds, please. I am a victim of circumstances. You know nothing of my miserable past. I am an orphan, grew up in poverty, on charity and doing odd jobs in a bakery in a poorer section of old London. I was lured by the owner into marriage with his daughter. I fell for her beauty. She had silver locks, ivory skin, pale blue eyes. When I saw her for the first time she was leaning against a wall, moving her buttocks side to side and quivering her loin and rounded thighs. She laughed a great deal, locked her arms around my neck and would not leave. Trembling with eagerness and throbbing heart, I was almost swooning. I fell head over heels in love with her. I wasted no time at all, married her. I only realized soon that she adored her long dead mother to the extent of madness. She spent hours talking to her picture, set prominently over a table in the bedroom, it gave me jitters. Her mother was sinfully ugly, her face far too white, almost grotesque, frightening hellish misshapen creature with loose skin and gazing hungry eyes, forced me to avert my eyes. ‘She can’t hurt you’. I heard a brutal laugh. My mouth went dry with a mounting sense of horror and revulsion. She went back and forth with not a stitch on her, eyes turned red as if gone mad with rage. Her teeth bared, howling accusations with a grin of appalling ferocity, she charged me with her clawing long nails, called me spittle drooling bastard. She could put a drunken sailor on shore leave to shame by her fowl mouth. Her continuing humiliation and abuse drove me to plan her murder, but I did not have enough courage. It was to escape her, I went and enlisted with the army and volunteered myself to be posted in India, even at the time when the mutiny war was at its peak. I preferred a bullet in my back to occupying the same roof with her any longer. I would rather stay somewhere here.

My own knowledge in these matters is limited to a few horror movies and very little through printed material, I told him. You must, first of all establish a base if you decide not to leave. Find, first of all, yourself some kind of ruined structure like the one they show in horror movies. You must find a fairly large chamber with heavy drapery to block sunlight furnished with a heavy dusty moth-eaten carpet on the floor. There is usually a four-poster bed, complete with nets, a rocking chair beside the bed to rock on its own accord with or without breeze. A grandfather clock placed in a corner in order to catch moonlight from a strategically smashed window pane. That is not all, the picture as I have witnessed in movies is incomplete without three or four life-size portraits painted in oils with massive gilt frames depicting gruesome looking turbaned characters dressed in heavy ankle length robes and huge mustaches, waxed and twisted with their hands resting over the hilts of the long swords. On the walls in the background a pair of antique guns and swords nailed crosswise on the wall. The stage is set for the spooky atmosphere to assist you immensely for you to practice your devilish craft.

While, I admire your concern to establish me, I am still not convinced why I must follow the old tradition.

There is a reason and a very important one. A large number percentage of population directly or indirectly depends upon you for their entertainment, providing employment and their daily bread. First of all let us take literature. A whole lot of writers glorifying your fiendish horrifying and devilish acts and nerve shattering chilling accounts of your ugly gruesome and evil episodes are very popular in England and Europe thriving in describing murky acts of ghouls, ghosts, wraiths, gravediggers and of unimaginable outlandish creatures, prowling in the dark. Think about the ghastly tales of grisly corpses, mischievous undead, and the morbid preoccupation. You may unleash terrifying horror to provide poor writers with your tales of macabre beastly, of cruelty, murder and violence, lurid evil spirits, blood sucking vampires, witches and werewolves. In addition, let me inform you that a massive industry is also thankful to you. Not only limited to authors and writers, the printers, distributers, the salesmen and their offspring and lately the television and cinema, millions of actors and countless employees all benefit. Let us not forget the holy men, the ghost layers Indian ‘sadhus fakirs, tantric and priests delving in voodoo, sorcerers and wizards, the producers of charms and amulets, the fortune tellers. Personally, I do not see much potential for you in India. Some of the European ghosts, who were stubborn, failed miserably and eventually vanished, following frantic building activity and population explosion. It is no myth but a proven reality that scores of Indian families live side by side with the dead. There is a colony in the capital known as Kabar Mohala where most everyone have graves in their living rooms, bedrooms, even inside their kitchens and bathrooms, where they eat, cook and their children are seen doing their homework with their notebooks spread over graves to do their homework. The inmates do not even acknowledge any presence of wraiths or ghost or evil spirits. The so called ghost layers ojhas, babas and tantrics either don’t find customers or even looked down upon. As far as the literature is concerned there are hardly any names worth mentioning. The Englishmen on the other hand show an enormous amount of interest in the paranormal and evil spirits. Writers and authors enjoy immense popularity and are virtually minting money. It made a lot of sense to him. He was still in deep thought when I took my leave of him some twenty years ago.

After a great deal of deliberation, I landed in London on one fine morning. An English bobby saluted me smartly, perhaps on account of my military uniform. He was in conversation with a scantily clad youth, who was explaining to him his plight.

Her lips and thighs were slightly fuller that other women, her hands face and features were extraordinarily fine. I fell for her charms. She escorted me to her pad. In an instant she was upon me covering, rolling, and smothering me like a hungry beast. I was trapped like a lamb. She disappeared while I was dressing against a blackened window pane. She returned with wine and tapped me on the shoulder for my attention. My heart skipped a beat. There was no image of her beside me in the blackened window glass. I leapt up in panic, smashing the window and ran for my life, disregarding the blood running down my leg and the cuts on my face.

You by any chance didn’t go to that dark lane? The British policeman asked?

Yea, that is where I was lead. I arrived only last evening, he lamented.

Follow me to the station to record a formal statement, the police officer ordered. The young one was reluctant. I quietly slipped away, while they were occupied.

I entered the familiar cobbled lane. It was darker than the other buildings around. There was a deathly silence. Not a soul around, no activity and no movement of any kind. It had an abandoned, deserted look. Rows of dwellings on either side of the lane were heaps of rubble and ashes. Most of them bore pock marks from German strafing. The open spaces were littered with garbage and gaping holes, left after Bombings. A dismal gloom prevailed. Surprisingly, I found the building I was looking for was still intact. I was astounded to find her at the door, smiling sheepishly as if she had previous knowledge of my arrival. Depicting a nervous-looking housewife, gnawing her knuckle, dressed in a scallop neck blouse, bee-sting lips and downcast eyes. She encircled my neck affectionately with her peach bloom cheeks on my chest, wetting with her tears. A sob escaped from her. She led me to the all familiar bedroom, all weathered and worn, dark, damp, and it reminded me about how unhappy I had been then.

She had the cheek to tell me, Leaving your wife and coming back, no vow is broken, even if some of the years have dribbled away. The joy of reunion is tremendous. I often mourned in misery. How marvelous a life we would have had. Don’t worry, we will soon find domestic harmony. You had to distort the pattern of life of one so young and pretty wife. I was in no mood to talk. I thought that my action was a true test to myself not fooled by her. I was content to listen to her for a few minutes, not-participating,, wondering where she was leading me. She stood up facing me, ripped away her dress boldly, she was wearing, sucked in a deep breath in a most provocative allurement with a panther like grace. She grabbed my face in her hand, glued her lips on my mouth tightly. Dazed with desire she stabbed her tongue with ticklish flicks. She was naked warm and possessive, shamelessly moving her pelvic bone against me. I could not contain my horror, recoiled, reached out and grabbed her naked venerable breast and squeezed brutally. Her scream echoed throughout the building. She lurched and fell with a hideous shriek that escaped from her throat. Her voice was trembling with shock and hurt as she saw me burst into laughter like that of the Devil himself. Tears streamed down between her breasts. I burnt in a hell of desire. I paid heavily for my sins, she said in an emotionless, soulless voice, grunting and cursing, showing her real color, transforming into an ugly distorted old hag with her tongue sticking out of her mouth dribbling saliva. My heart leapt into my mouth. She was exuding a nauseous reek of sweat and sick. She screamed to make the hair stand up at the back of my neck. I was astonished at the stream of sewer invocative that poured out of her lips. Swearing vengeance she lunged with all her strength. She raged and ranted screaming obscenities and lashing out. She was in some sort of a trance which gave her unnatural strength. Her eyes were glazed. I drove my right fist hard as I could into her protruding stomach that floored her. She was wheezing to draw breath and was trembling all over. My head began to pound violently. I went rigid holding my breath. My head seemed to be swaying from side to side. There was a ringing in my