The Other Side: Dare To Visit Alone?

by Faraaz Kazi

  “You!” he replied, “Now I can look at you without a crick in my neck or worrying about the road. I find you beautiful.”

  There was that tinkling laugh again. “Thank you. You aren't all that bad either.”

  He felt a sudden stab of desire shoot through him as he found himself unable to look away from her face. There was something about her; he couldn't exactly point out what that was screaming for his attention. She was exquisite. And she definitely seemed to be interested. They sat there; sipping the red wine from Sula he had ordered and made small talk. Savio felt a strong feeling of charm towards the young lady across the table and he had a feeling that his interest was being reciprocated.

  He looked at Annie again. He wondered if he should make a move. He looked around. The lawns of a plush five-star hotel were hardly the right place for what he had in mind. He smiled at the incongruity of his thoughts.

  “Hey mister! What are you smiling at? Are you sure you are not trying to get me drunk?” Savio found the challenge being thrown at him.

  He looked up, flustered. He wondered if she could read his intentions.

  He was interrupted by the tinkling laughter again. “Just kidding! I was wondering if we could go for a drive.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Miramar beach. It is not all that far and we can have the entire stretch to ourselves at this time of the night.”

  He was a bit surprised at the direct suggestion. This was too easy! But this was another offer he just could not refuse so he nodded in concurrence. He called for the bill, added a generous tip and they moved towards the parking. As he approached his car he wondered if he should kiss her. He noticed a couple of large bats flapping around his car just as the thought entered his mind. He got a bit distracted seeing the flying mammals fly so low but they vanished as soon as he neared the car along with Annie. He opened the door for her and gave her a little bow as she eased herself into the car with feline like grace.

  He drove in silence; going back the same way they had driven down from. He noticed Annie hardly batted an eyelid as she looked ahead with a hazy focus, her face expressionless. Within minutes, they reached the beach and found it deserted. The usual crowds had left a long time back and even the hawkers and stall owners had gone home for the night. He parked his car, got down and ran across to open the door for her. He offered his hand to her. He almost pulled it away, the moment she held his in a strong grip. Her hands were cold, very cold.

  “Your BMW has very powerful air-conditioning,” she said as he flinched. They walked slowly in the sand, holding hands, feeling the silence of the night whisper in their ears.

  They approached the sea as the waves just about grazed their feet. They sat side by side on the uneven sand. Savio wondered whether it was the right time to make a move but Annie surprised him again. She leaned towards him and put her head on his shoulders. She smelled of some exotic perfume. Or wait, was it rose water? He could not decide. Her smell intoxicated him more than the wine he had consumed. He felt a wild stab of desire again and allowed his hand to run across her waist and caress her hips. She did not shoo it away and he took that as an encouragement to proceed further. He leaned in and kissed her lightly before consuming her red lips between his. One hand went on her back and one hand slid comfortably into the front and soon Annie was out of her white dress. She moaned, egging him on with eyes shut, experiencing the slow ecstasy of a rushing wave. Savio soon undid her bra and slid off her panties, ogling at her pink nipples with a thirst that seemed unquenchable. He mouthed one, biting it a little too hard than he intended, making Annie cry out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. He squeezed the other breast with one hand, a little harder than intended.

  “Ouch, do it again!” Annie cried in an almost ethereal voice. And he did.

  Annie soon unzipped him, holding his organ between her fingers and soon built up a steady up and down rhythm. This time it was Savio's turn to moan and moan he did with all his might. Savio traced her red lips with his fingers, working up towards her face and gaining a firm grip on her head with both hands. Slowly he lowered her head between his legs, pushing her down gently and squirming when her lips swallowed him whole.

  The wind whistled in the coconut palm trees and waves glowed with phosphorescence as they crested and broke on the shore. The lights of Panaji twinkled and shone across the river. Far away, the light from Fort Aguada lighthouse blinked in monotonous regularity. A few ships in the distant seas appeared as moving dots of light amidst the inky blackness of the sea. The full moon went behind the clouds cloaking the beach in a layer of darkness. Savio felt uneasy and let his hand slide down into the sand, instead opting to drop his head on hers.

  “I never could make out where river ends and the sea begins,”

  Savio said feeling Annie's soft fingers entwine in his.

  “You too? I have been wondering about that ever since I was a

  kid. And till date, I have never been able to reach any conclusion,”

  Annie replied.

  Suddenly, the full moon broke through the clouds lighting up

  their surroundings with a silvery hue.

  “It is so beautiful,” sighed Annie. “It almost feels like I am dead

  and floating in heaven.”

  “Then let me grant your wish!” Savio's voice came so harsh that

  it hurt her ears. She looked up in alarm. She watched, paralyzed

  with terror, as Savio began to transform. Dense hair sprouted all

  over his body as his skin slowly disappeared beneath. The nails grew

  into long claws that could rip the throat with a single swipe. The

  twisted face elongated, the nose turning into a dog-like snout,

  the teeth protruding out of it like a row of pointed blades. The

  deformed creature looked at Annie with a strange amber glowing in

  his eyes. Annie tumbled as her nervous feet tried to rise above the

  sand but sank into it as she watched the handsome man complete

  his transformation into a hideous monster. She gathered all her

  strength and screamed. The sound was cut short by the sharp fangs

  that pierced her throat, squeezing the life out of her naked body as

  the beast shook the body like a ragdoll between its jaws, slashing at her juggling breasts. Blood mingled with the waves and bones sank deep into the sand as the beast fed on its victim. A huge wave crashed ashore, taking with it their discarded attire. It was followed by the mournful howl of a wolf that nobody heard on the deserted beach.

  “No I'm not a dream, I'm your worst nightmare.” ¯ C.T. Todd

  The Muse Comes Calling

  A

  bhijit Mukherjee double-checked the bolts and locks on the main door, twisting and pushing them more than once. He then checked the windows, pulled them inwards to ensure that they were securely fastened. He drew the curtains, walked to the bar, poured out exactly three fingers of single malt, added the regulation amount of ice, and carried the glass to his writing table. He placed the unopened pack of cigarettes and the lighter on the table. Taking the first sip from the glass, he switched on the music system and nodded in appreciation as the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony played through his prized Bose Speakers. He was all set. Now all he needed was that flash of inspiration that would mark the beginning of his fifth book. He was now waiting for the muse to visit.

  Abhijit was now a household name in English speaking urban India. His first three books were reasonably successful, but it was his fourth book that had propelled him into the reader's mind and carved out a territory for his literary intellect.Thirteen - tales of the unexpected, a collection of short stories about the bizarre; had caught the attention of the reading public in an unexplained manner, making him field dozens of questions from the eager media personnel and address many seminars on the subject. The massive royalty cheque which he had received along with an unheard of advance from the publisher for his nex
t had made him immediately quit his job and leave the urban chaos of Delhi far behind. He had bought this Bungalow in the quaint hill station of Shimla, planning to lead a solitary existence that the writers of yore were renowned for.

  The tall, lanky middle-aged author had to pay a King's ransom for this dilapidated Bungalow situated in the outskirts of the town but he had considered it a worthwhile investment. A circular balcony protected with iron fencing at the top gave a palace-like feel to the structure that was built symmetrically from all sides with French windows all around. On the ground level, an open corridor ran beneath the porch, stretching up to the façade of the bungalow. Massive trees that swung intensely in the wind surrounded the property and it appeared like they were shielding the house from the other forces of nature; some seen but most that kept in the shadows. The trees seemed wild; almost like they had their own personality and they would make weird creaking sounds as their branches rubbed against the windows of the house. The property was old, dating back to the times around the settlement of the East India Company. The interiors were full of vintage tarnished wood, broken panes, squealing furniture and many unsolicited sounds with no explanation of their origin. It was said many a creative genius had flourished under its shadow, the peaceful environs giving them no excuse to do anything else other than dabbling in their own fanciful energies. He had hoped that the bungalow had imbibed some of their flair and a bit of it would rub on him if he stayed in it.

  Another rumour afloat was that the property was supposed to be haunted. As a man of science, he did not believe in ghosts even

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  though he had to deliver lectures on the occult and had written a best-selling book on the topic. But who cares about your personal beliefs. He was of the opinion that when the market demanded, a writer had to deliver. Fame and money were at stake. People were stupid enough to accept plain mumbo jumbo overcooked with his vocabulary and served with a spooky setting. And he laughed at his good fortune, not the sarcastic kind of laugh but the oh-I-am-sotalented-and-I-know-it kind of laugh.

  But he did believe in the passage of energy onto the matter surrounding it. He simply thought that there were places, which had vibrations that stimulated the human imagination and made their thoughts, come alive. Weaker minds would call them supernatural experiences. For him, they would be manifestations of a powerful imagination. He was sure the tales of the haunting were just excuses to keep the nose-poking locals away from the area. He sure hoped that the end result of his stay would be even more vivid and colourful than Thirteen- tales of the unexpected.

  Now all he needed to do was start writing and that was proving to be difficult. Used as he was to the constant buzz and commotion of Delhi, he was finding the utter quietude and serenity of Shimla disconcerting. It would take some time getting used to the surroundings, he was sure about that. He was also missing his office, friends and acquaintances. But he had not despaired yet. He was waiting for the muse to come calling. It was just a matter of a single flash of inspiration. That is how he had written his earlier books. A blinding flash of inspiration, a single moment of revelation, and everything fell into place. He would know what he had to do post the call of the muse. Now all he had to do was to wait for that moment of illumination, wait for the muse to knock on the door of his mind. He lit a cigarette, dragged deeply on it and sighed in pleasure. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize a new story and new characters. Nothing! He sipped the single malt delicately and tried to think again. Blank!

  “Argh, no muse is going to visit you today, Mr. Mukherjee!” he said out aloud, banging his glass on the table in frustration. Suddenly, the tape stopped, a cold sensation rose in his bowels, crawling upwards making him shudder. Something seized his mind, freezing his thoughts to a succinct absorbing standstill and then the feeling dissipated just as quickly as it had taken over him.

  “What happened, Mr. Bestselling author?” He was surprised to hear a feminine voice say, “Writer's block?”

  He swirled his chair around in the direction of the sound. He was startled to see a young woman dressed in a blue lacy nightgown, sitting cross-legged on the settee.

  “Who are you? How did you get in?” he blurted.

  The woman broke out in peals of laughter. Despite his shock and surprise, he noticed that her laughter was pretty musical, almost as melodious as Beethoven who had gone quiet by then.

  “I am your muse,” she answered with a smile.

  “Huh? What?” Abhijit frowned.

  “The muses are ghosts and sometimes they come uninvited,” the woman laughed.

  “Huh? Stephen King in Bag of Bones? But who are you?” Abhijit asked again.

  “So many questions, friend! So many questions! Be patient and the answers will come… will come when your time comes,” the woman said, her lips still curling upwards.

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  “That is a line from my book,” Abhijit recognized the dialogue from a story in Thirteen.

  “Yes! And if you look hard enough, you'll find more things from your book around,” the woman winked.

  Strangely Abhijit did not feel any emotion overtake his mind that was occupied with solving the conundrum of the woman's sudden appearance in his room. He looked at the whiskey glass in his hands. It still had something left, so he was not drunk. The cigarette he was smoking was a simple stick, so he was not hallucinating either!

  “Abhijit, don't tell me you cannot recognize me,” the woman bemoaned. “You created me.”

  “I created you? What does that mean?” Abhijit looked at the woman closely. She did look vaguely familiar but he could not really place her. He squinted at her and thought hard. She was petite, dusky, had delicate features and a hooked nose. Large wavy hair fell down her shoulders in cascades. Large expressive brown eyes, a generous mouth and a sharp pointed chin augmented her beauty. A faint feeling told him that he had seen this woman somewhere yet in the back of his mind he was sure he had not.

  “Well, bestselling author, any conclusions?” the woman asked.

  Abhijit shook his head in bewilderment; seemingly confused.

  “So you cannot recognize your own creation?” she mocked again.

  “Stop this nonsense. It is not as if you are my daughter or something. Tell me what is this all about!” Abhijit demanded.

  She sneered in contempt and her nose quivered. “I hate this nose and you have given it to me. 'A hooked nose that curves down to touch her delicate lips?' Don't you know any other way to describe a nose?” the woman shouted at the top of her voice.

  “Look miss! I don't know who you are. I have nothing to do with you. I don't even understand what are you doing in my house at this time of the night and how you got in. Please go away or I'll have to call the cops,” Abhijit threatened.

  “You are trying to say you don't recognize me. Look you gave me this!” The woman screamed, undoing the top two buttons of her gown and pushing it off her shoulders, not bothering to hide the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra inside. Abhijit was shocked to see a series of ugly circular scars on her body below her neck, all the way till the top of her bust.

  “Huh? Wh…What are those marks?” Abhijit quavered.

  “Cigarette burns!” the woman hissed. “And you are responsible.”

  “Me?” Abhijit could not take his eyes off her. Her almost perfect smooth skin was spoilt by the hideous burn marks that clouded her shapely chest. “I can't imagine doing that to anyone.”

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  “Yes, you can. And in fact, you have. You are responsible!” The unknown woman's eyes blazed with fury.

  The woman was obviously a lunatic. She had to be, who else would go around in the cold in such a flimsy nightgown. He had to be tactful in handling her lest she hurt herself or him. There was nothing to do except humour her and get rid of her at the earliest. He got up, and patted her on the back. “Relax. Whatever is the matter; I am sure we can
resolve it,” he said.

  The woman recoiled. “Keep your filthy hands off me, you scoundrel. You have scarred my body, defiled my spirit and now you dare touch me?” She spat at his face, a thick red mucous-loaded liquid entering his shocked eyes, making them burn. She gestured with her hands and Abhijit found himself hit by a tremendous force. The force lifted him, throwing him back on his chair.

  “Stay there! You cannot move. Stay back and pay for your sins,” the woman commanded.

  Abhijit tried to move but found that he was unable to. It was as if someone had tied him to the table with invisible ropes that were boring into his flesh above his thick winter jacket.

  “Please let me go!” he screamed, suddenly feeling afraid.

  “How does it feel, Mr. Bestseller? You have played God all your life. You have molded our characters, our fates and our lives with impunity, with just a few strokes of your pen, or on whims of that fertile mind of yours. And now, we'll teach you a lesson. We will show you how it feels to be a puppet in hands of others, others… the very folks whom you have crafted and designed and thrown around to entertain the rubbish around,” the woman said, a sinister flame burning in her eyes.

  “W...who are you and what do you want?” Abhijit stuttered.

  “You still do not comprehend? It's high time to make you then… Come in, everyone!” the woman thundered and the walls shuddered in response.

  Abhijit watched in horror, as the door to his bedroom broke open, a tall man wearing a black cloak entered followed by a huge black dog that resembled a wolf.

  “Wh… What the hell is happening? How did you get into my house?” Abhijit tried to struggle against his invisible bonds.

  “The same way you got into our lives. Do we remind you of something that took shape in that productive mind of yours?” The man said in an almost robotic manner.

  Abhijit stared at the unwanted guests. The man was ugly, evil permeated his pockmarked face. He wore a striped sweatshirt and jeans beneath the black cloak that almost swept the floor. It was again a strange choice of clothes for unpleasantly cold Shimla.