The clone faced Nagaraj Sir and began speaking. “You’ve been such a fool,” he rasped. “What a waste of three months! You haven’t learned anything from the monks.”
Nagaraj Sir moaned.
The clone stood behind him and whispered into his ear. “This is our special day, Nagaraj. There is someone here who can help you bring your daughter back without fail.”
The clone turned around and looked right into Rachita’s eyes.
Fear exploded inside Rachita as she trembled violently. The clone walked up to her and smiled. Rachita felt like smiling back. It was her English teacher’s face, after all. She had seen him so many times inside class, outside class, in the library, in the staffroom, in the corridors, on the bus. . .
“There you are, Rachita,” he said.
The clone knew her name, she realised. He took her hand and she followed him like a lamb. She tried to keep her mind alert as they reached the dining table. She saw that the tennis ball had ruptured. She heard a strangled cry behind her and turned towards the voice. Nagaraj Sir had seen her only now.
“No-no-no!” he pleaded. “Please. . . I’ve had enough of this evil quest,” he whispered. He fell at the clone’s feet. “Leave her be. She’s my favourite student.”
His words filled her with strength. She tried to find a weapon inside the room.
The clone looked at Nagaraj. “Get up,” he spat. “Your weakness is so predictable that it makes me want to throw up.” Gently steering Rachita with his hands, the clone made her stand next to the tennis ball. He walked to the far end of the room.
The shadows on the bare walls flickered. Rachita looked down. Her rapid breathing had caused the flame of the diya to waver.
Fire! she thought. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to formulate a plan. Her hands clenched the sides of her shorts. She felt a little bulge in her left pocket.
Her eyes flew open. Her handkerchief. She glanced at the diya. She had one chance.
Taking a deep breath, she put her hand in her pocket and held one end of her handkerchief. The clone was now walking back to her. She stood as before, with her back towards Nagaraj Sir and the clone.
“Now, Rachita,” she heard the clone say, “Let me tell you a story. Nagaraj has a special connection with these tennis balls,” he said, his voice quieter. “Ever since he accidentally killed his daughter with one, he has been trying to use them to bring her back.”
“This brand of magic is dark and powerful,” the clone continued “Your teacher is too weak to control it. Instead of his daughter, he keeps conjuring a clone of himself. He needs a stronger, tougher version of himself to get the job done.”
Rachita grit her teeth. It was time. She carefully drew her kerchief out of her pocket.
“Nagaraj performs this ritual repeatedly. Each time, he hopes that his daughter will emerge,” said the clone. “However, he is always crushed with disappointment to see me instead,” sniggered the clone.
“I can’t stay for more than a few hours. Tonight, however, we have a real chance of bringing his daughter back, thanks to you.”
Rachita felt a shiver of doubt. Her teacher had lost his wife and his daughter. What if he wanted to sacrifice her?
As if he had read her mind, Nagaraj Sir whispered, “No, Rachita, don’t believe him. He has taken over my life and my identity. I’m sick of this.”
I was right, she thought. This monster is the reason why he seemed so different after his return to school.
Rachita heard the clone walking towards her. She gathered her courage. Her kerchief was out of her pocket now, dipped in the oil from the diya.
One chance, she thought.
“Stay right where you are, Rachita. I need you to think of your strongest connection with your favourite teacher.” Rachita closed her eyes and smiled.
She remembered Nagaraj Sir conducting a class discussion on courage. Courage meant going after something even when one felt absolutely terrified, he had told them.
The clone was chanting loudly.
Rachita held the kerchief to the flame of the diya. Twisting around, she screamed with all her might as she stuffed the burning cloth into the clone’s mouth. The clone screamed in agony and collapsed. Rachita ran towards her teacher and grasped his hand. They ran out of the bungalow together. The clone’s cries of pain bounced off the walls.
As they reached the gate, there was a sickening boom from a massive explosion behind them. The bungalow crumbled into itself.
Rachita fell down on the road, reeling from the impact of the blast. Nagaraj Sir sat down beside her.
“It’s over,” he whispered, looking at the flames. “It’s finally over.”
The Taxi Ride
- Priyanka
Tharunika walked down the dimly lit road, pulling her overcoat closer to shield her from the cold. Making her way through the fog, she hoped she could spot a cab soon. The faster she got out of the street, the better it would be. She had a feeling that she was being followed. However, every time she turned back, there was no one there.
She walked on for a little longer and decided that whoever was following her may be facing the same problem as her: the fog made for poor visibility. Taking advantage of that, she crossed the street and walked back to where she came from.
Sweat dripped down her back sending a chill down her spine. Oh god, I need a taxi. Now! she thought. As if in answer to her prayers, a car screeched to a halt next to her. The driver slammed the brakes, kicking up a lot of dust. Startled, she jumped back a few paces.
Tharunika realised she was over-reacting. She opened the door and was about to get in, when she heard a thwack behind her. She turned around. Once again, there was nobody there. She frowned and got into the car.
“Where, madaaaam?” asked the driver, turning back and giving her a good view of his face. Tharunika pushed herself back into her seat and tried not to panic. The driver had dark circles around his deep-set eyes, bushy eyebrows, and an unusually large forehead. His face was covered in small, circular scars. He looked menacing. “First. . . First Main Road on the South end,” she mumbled.
As the driver pulled away, Tharunika rummaged through her handbag. “I am so sure I brought it . . .” she muttered, trying to find her cell phone.
“You said something, madaaaam?” the driver enquired, showing her his tobacco-stained teeth. She looked up, the disgust obvious on her face. “No. . . No. . . just looking for something.”
“You don’t like my face, madaaam?” he asked, all of a sudden. His eyes glinted at her through the rear view mirror.
“Huh? What? No, nothing like that, sir,” she replied timidly, quickly looking down, hoping that the driver wouldn’t take offence. She was already afraid of him. She didn’t want to make him angry.
“My brother loved to burn holes,” the driver said. “I was sleeping one afternoon when he was playing with an thin stick. He put it on the fire and waited for it to become hot. Then he looked around the house to see what he could burn.”
“Please, just stop. I don’t want to hear any more,” said Tharunika. The driver did not listen to her. “He saw me sleeping on the sofa. He was the one who gave me these scars.”
Encouraged by the look of utter horror and fear in Tharunika’s face, he continued. “Don’t worry. I took my revenge. He will never light a match again, let alone burn anyone.” He guffawed in a manner that terrified Tharunika. His face, his words, and his evil smile repulsed her.
“Please let me out here!” she said, panicking. The driver didn’t stop the car. He carried on as if he hadn’t heard her. She tried to get out but the lock clicked into place. Terror began flooding her senses. She found herself losing her voice. “Pl. . . Please. . . let me out of here. . .” she pleaded.
“Madaaaam, First Main Road is a long way off. Where you will get another taxi? I will take you where you have to go. . . where you deserve to go,” he finished, with a whisper.
Tharunika looked around in panic trying to find a way out w
hen her eyes focused on the seat next to her.
“He’s not letting me out,” she said loudly, looking at the seat next to her. She startled the driver.
“Who are you talking to?” he asked, his eyebrows forming a frown. Tharunika did not pay any attention to him.
“I have to get out. This cab feels stuffy,” she said again.
“Who are you talking to?” the driver repeated. His anger was evident in his voice.
“Can’t you see?” she asked him simply, turning her head back towards the seat. Tharunika cocked her head to the side as if the person sitting next to her was telling her a secret.
“My friend tells me that she doesn’t like you. . . And. . . And that she doesn’t like your face either.”
The driver leaned back to see if there was anyone hiding behind the seat but saw no one. “Who is your friend?” he asked Tharunika.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” she said, exuding confidence and a touch of arrogance. She began digging through her handbag.
“My friend tells me that you have a dark soul and that you like scaring young girls. That’s not nice, you know.”
“How does your friend know that?” the driver said, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.
“Oh, she knows,” she told him and turned back to her invisible friend. “Now I know what to do,” she said.
“What? What are you going to do? What are you going to do?” asked the driver, who was starting to panic. Sweat dripped down his face despite the air-conditioning. He peeked at the rear-view mirror and saw Tharunika holding a shiny blade in her hand.
“I am sorry! I am so sorry! I will not scare anyone again. I am sorry! Tell your friend I am sorry too,” he said, turning back, trying to negotiate his way out.
“Please madam, I was just trying to make a joke. These are measles spots,” he implored.
“Please maa...” Quick as a flash, Tharunika moved her hands around his throat.
Within seconds, the car spun out of control. It ran off the road and hit a tree with a bang. Smoke rose from the engine, sparks flickered under the hood, and the stench of motor oil filled the car.
There was no movement from inside the car for close to two minutes. If the people inside did not get out soon, they would burn with it.
Just as the sparks hit the trail of oil, the back door kicked open and Tharunika pulled herself out. She looked back at the driver with a sardonic smile. He was dead even before the car crashed. Tharunika wiped the blood off the blade and walked towards the road.
Holding her invisible friend’s hand, she stuck her hand out at a passing car, repeating over and over again, “We did good. We did good.”
The Bleeding Finger
- Priyanka
Rap, rap, rap! Rap, rap, rap! came an urgent knock on the wooden door. Dismissing it as noises made by the wind, Ranthiya sat back and ordered his wife Subamma to pour some more curd on his plate.
Rap, rap, rap! There it was again.
“I think there’s somebody at the door,” Subamma said meekly.
“Who would come by at this time of night? There’s a storm blowing outside,” he grumbled. Annoyed with the interruption, he licked the curd off his fingers and got up to open the door.
A thin, frail man with long, dirty, stringy hair stood outside. It looked like he had not washed his hair in years. His face was sunken. The dark circles under his eyes stood out even in the poor light. His clothes were worn out, tattered in places, and spattered with dirt. He was drenched from the rain.
“Please, sir, may I have some food? I am lost. I don’t know where I am and I haven’t eaten for days. I am hungry and feeling faint. Please spare me a handful of rice. Please, sir,” he said, without a breath.
Ranthiya was about to slam the door on the poor man’s face when his wife called out to him.
“Oh, please, let him come in. The rain looks like it’s strong enough to kill him,” she said.
“I am not allowing a stranger to eat all our food!” he replied harshly over his shoulder, closing the door.
“He can have my portion, if that doesn’t bother you,” she appealed to him.
“Fine! Your loss,” he said, opening the door to let the man in.
“Sit in that corner. I don’t want you to smear mud and water all over my house,” he told the man. The stranger did as he was told. He sat down, pulled his knees up to his chest, and rubbed his arms to give himself some warmth.
Subamma came back into the room with a bowl full of curd rice and gave it to the man.
“Thank you so much, madam. Thank you so much,” he said, gratefully. Ranthiya grumbled in the background about feeding strangers.
As the man began eating his food, Subamma noticed that the white rice was slowly turning red. “Oh my god!” she cried. “You are bleeding profusely!” She pointed to his finger.
Ranthiya didn’t bother looking in the stranger’s direction. He continued to watch television as he finished his dinner.
The man smiled at Subamma and said, “Oh, please, don’t worry. I had an accident a long time ago and my finger got hurt,” he said. He showed her his hand. It was covered with rice and curd, with a streak of red flowing down the middle. He had only four fingers. His ring finger was severed. The wound was open and spurting blood.
“What happened to your finger?” Subamma asked. She was curious, though the sight of the man’s hand made her nauseous.
“It’s an interesting story,” the man said. He continued to eat his food, unperturbed by the blood and his cut finger. “Would you like to hear it?”
At her nod, he began narrating his story. Ranthiya’s attention was still on the television.
“About 30 years ago, I was travelling through Muchivolu,” he began.
“Oh! We are from there! We moved here just five years ago,” said Subamma, excited at the prospect of hearing a story from her native village.
Sporting a smile that suggested he held a secret, the stranger continued.
“I was travelling to the North to acquire some property. It was pouring worse than it is tonight. One could only hear the wind blustering through the forest. The rains were so heavy that I could hardly see what lay ahead of me. All of a sudden, my car sputtered to a stop outside a village.
“I tried starting my car several times, but to no avail. I was resigned to spending the night in the car. I was getting comfortable in the back seat when I saw a dim light from a hut in the distance. By the time I reached the hut I was drenched, but I was glad for the protection it offered. I was about to appeal to the house owner to let me stay just for the night.”
The stranger paused to take a bite. Subamma was rapt with attention.
“The owner had an irritated look on his face when he opened the door. However, when I appealed to his good senses, he allowed me to come in and even offered me some food. I should have known then that it was all a ploy,” he said, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” probed Subamma. Ranthiya stirred in his chair.
“Well, I learned later that all he wanted was the jewellery that I was wearing. I will come to that part. I joined the man and his wife for dinner and halfway through the meal, I realised that the food was poisoned.”
Subamma unconsciously leaned in closer. Ranthiya’s forehead was covered with beads of perspiration.
“Late in the night when the lady of the house was asleep, I felt myself being dragged through the rain, over stones, and then over a soft surface. Soon all I could hear was a thak-sloosh, thak-sloosh, thak-sloosh noise.
“When that noise stopped, I felt my pockets being searched. My chain was removed. I felt someone trying to pull my ring off my finger. My finger was too thick and the ring wouldn’t budge. With a swift crrracccckkk, my finger was cut. I was kicked into a hole. Mud was thrown over me. It buried me whole.”
As he paused, Subamma had a look of terror on her face. Ranthiya had got up from his chair and was sweating profusely.
“I have been wait
ing,” he continued. “I have been waiting and watching for the perfect time to take revenge for the crimes done to me,” he said, raising his head to look at Ranthiya.
“No, please, no. . . It was a long time ago. I’m. . . I’m very so-so-sorry,” said Ranthiya, trembling and slowly walking backwards.
Subamma looked at the two men, still not understanding.
The stranger stood up. Advancing upon Ranthiya, he asked his wife in a low, menacing voice, “Have you never wondered, madam, how you became rich so quickly?”
Subamma stared at her husband in horror.
“P-p-ple-please. . . N-n-no, you were dead! You were dead! No!”
The Ouija Board
- Priyanka
“I don’t want to do this. We shouldn’t toy with things that we don’t know about,” Suravi appealed. The other girls were too excited to pay her any heed. Suravi was worried about the prospect of contacting spirits using an ouija board.
“People around the world have done it before. Why not us? The internet has given us all the information that we need anyway,” said Reema, making light of Suravi’s anxieties.
“Let’s start by grouping the benches together at the centre. Pallavi, can you light the candles? It says on the website that we have to be surrounded by candles,” Reema continued.
The other girls got to work. Suravi gave in and helped them rearrange the furniture. They had sought permission from their teacher to use the classroom after school hours on the pretext of working on a class project. Once they had made all the arrangements, they sat in a circle with an ouija board in front of them.
The board was made of plain, brown wood with alphabets and numbers written on it. The words “Yes”, “No”, “Hello”, and “Goodbye” were each enclosed in a square on a corner of the board. A small wooden piece with a hole in it would be the medium of communication between the girls and the spirit.
“We should all hold hands when we summon the spirit,” Reema instructed. The girls did as they were told and chanted, “OH HOLY SPIRIT, GRACE US WITH YOUR PRESENCE. WE WANT TO TALK TO YOU. OH HOLY SPIRIT, GRACE US WITH YOUR PRESENCE. WE WANT TO TALK TO YOU.”
The Taxi Ride: and Other Spooky Stories Page 4