by Paul Haines
'No, I can't ...' she cried.
Other voices sprung from the photos on the walls, as one Daniel and then another called out to her. 'Let him go, Mum.' Deborah—her daughter long dead in a twisted car wreck on a country road—smiled and reached out. 'Open the door, Mother. Let him go. Let us go.'
'I'll have nothing,' she wept into her hands, tearing at her hair. 'I'll have no-one.'
The voices rose and spiralled into a noise that smothered her and filled her ears. The hammering on the door stopped and the room fell silent.
'Mum? It's me, Daniel ...' said the voice behind the door, faltering and hitching.
'Daniel?' She scrambled to her feet, urgency lending her strength. 'Daniel,' her throat too dry to sound the words, 'I'm coming.'
She slipped and staggered down the stairway in the dark, fumbling against the banister, fearful of the photographs' silence, terrified that their voices would return and drain her of all strength.
'Daniel?' she rasped, though her throat lent her no mercy, the words barely a whisper. Her hand closed upon the latch of the door and drew back the lock and chain. Sweat, cold as winter chill, streaked across her palms and she drew down the handle and pulled the door open.
The night swept howling into her house, past the empty front porch, pouring down her throat to still any cry she might have made against it, flowing despair through her veins, and pulling the final blanket down and around her.
Like a drowning woman granted one more breath, she thought she heard her son's footsteps shuffling away through the fallen leaves, fading into the night, but before she could be sure, the whispering from the walls inside the house pulled her back under.
***
Afterword: The Light in Autumn's Leaves
The first and only (I think) ghost story I have written, and a ghost story where the dead are only dead within the confines of the house the elderly woman has trapped herself in. Fear can take many forms, in particular, the fear of change, the fear of loss, and the fear of being alone. Fear can only be overcome from facing it, and if you haven't experienced that or been forced to, then the statement itself can seem trite. Many people never overcome their fears. It becomes too insurmountable, a bridge too far, and like the woman in this story, eventually, the fear will come to define you.
I find it unnerving to go into other peoples' houses and see dozens of photos of people who don't live there lining the walls and the shelves and the corner tables. All these eyes frozen in time, staring at you. I'm still young and I know I don't feel that need to surround myself with memories yet, but it is clear to see in the generations older than me that the need grows stronger when the nest empties, and hearts stop beating, and lungs cease to inflate, where the blood is long cooled and the voices slowly but surely make themselves heard from the photos beneath the glass, trapped in the frames.
The 1970s were the age of the photographic slide, and the 2000s the digital revolution. What the hell are we going to line our shelves with as we enter our prospective autumns? Dozens upon dozens of LCD screens displaying fragmented images from decaying hard drives? The ghosts will be pixellated with voices suffering digital dropout.
My grandmother, in her 80s with a strong dislike of speculative fiction (it's all too far-fetched to be believable in any way whatsoever) liked this story. She thought I got it right.
"The Light in Autumn's Leaves" received a Honourable Mention for the 2005 Aurealis Award for Best Horror Short Story.
***
The Festival of Colour
The town was called Pushkar and it clung to the edge of the desert near the shadow of Nag Pahar, the Snake Mountain. Pushkar circled a lake, an oasis supposedly formed from a lotus blossom dropped by Brahma, if you believed in all that shit. I wondered why high white walls crowned with broken glass surrounded the New Sunrise Hotel.
The only reason I was there was because I couldn't stand another six hours on the road to Jaisalmer. I had been suffering from the joys of exotic travel—hot flushes and chills—and desperately needed to find accommodation for a few days until my affliction passed.
A brawny Indian sweating in a faded uniform guarded the iron gates leading to the courtyard. He ushered me inside with a grunt. The shotgun he brandished did little to alleviate my unease. The hot winter sun glared off its shiny barrels.
The courtyard inside was surprisingly lush, with low wooden seats nestled amongst manicured gardens. Large palms provided shade from the persistent heat, and the rooms on the second floor had balconies overlooking the courtyard. A stone fountain gurgled in the centre of the garden. Several Westerners clad in colourful hippy gear lounged around smoking cigarettes and eating fruit.
A young boy in the early bloom of acne leaned on the reception desk reading a comic. Behind him, a cheap-looking scimitar was mounted on the wall, partially obscuring a faded poster of Vishnu. The boy pushed the guestbook lazily towards me without looking up. I wrote in a fake name.
'Single, fifty rupees. With bathroom, one hundred rupees,' the boy droned.
'Bathroom.' I pushed a pile of dirty rupees onto the page of his comic.
He looked up and stared at me with dark, lifeless eyes. The edges of the room seemed to twist and then snap back into reality as he dropped a key onto the counter. I reached for the key, needing its cold metallic touch, suddenly unsure of myself, of where I was, and even more importantly, who.
Something large moved in the shadows of the reception room. Something watching, wanting ...
I grabbed the key, heard flesh sizzle as my palm seared. A sharp white pain ...
... and the key bounced back onto the counter. An enormously fat man lurched from the shadows towards the desk. He wore a billowing white business shirt, trousers, and a strongly-spiced perfume. Large rings of sweat spread from beneath his armpits and his black hair lay slicked to his scalp. His skin was the colour of chocolate.
'Namaste,' he said, offering his huge, pudgy hand, the fingers adorned with thick bands of gold.
'No.' I recoiled, blowing on my burnt palm.
He cocked his head, studying me with large, murky eyes. He withdrew his hand, a curl at the edge of his mouth. His head rocked from side to side.
'Yes. I can see you are not all here yet.' The gentle, swaying, knowing nod of the Indian. 'Welcome home, my son. You are late.'
He pushed the key slowly back towards me, the sound of the metal on the wood like thunder grinding in my head.
'You are here for Holi, yes?' he asked.
'What? Holi? I don't ...' Sweat leaked from my skin. What the hell was happening? I was going to be sick.
His hand touched mine and I thought I would scream, but, with his touch, clarity returned. His skin was warm and soft, and he turned my hand over gently. My palm was untouched, my skin—white skin—creased with desert dust.
'Take the key.' He pressed it into my hand. 'I'm happy you are here. Guptal here will help you to your room.' He closed the comic and tapped the boy on the back of the head. 'Go.'
Back in the courtyard, amongst the tourists and trees and cigarettes, the memory of what had happened slipped sideways. I looked at my hand again. Nothing. No burn, no tender flesh. Too many drugs, not enough sleep. And in this heat, who knew what I was really thinking? I followed Guptal up stone steps to the second floor and looked back at reception, wondering if there had really been a fat man. He waved at me, then retreated into the coolness of the shadows.
'What's his name?' I asked.
'He calls Harry,' said Guptal. 'Not his real name.'
'What's his real name?'
'I don't know, Darth Vader.' He gave me a sly glance followed by a grin. 'What is yours?'
'You read the guestbook?' I laughed. 'You got me. I'm Shane.'
He wobbled his head, the smile on his face evidence of some small victory. 'We are not stupid as you think. Not stupid as you.'
'I'm stupid? I suppose I am. Harry said something about Holi. What is that?'
'Big party. Lots of fires and
water balloons. All day. It's called the Festival of Colour and we say goodbye to winter and hello to spring. Maybe you have alcohol you give me for the festival?'
'Why would I do that?'
'Because I help you. I know many things of Pushkar.'
'Maybe I have some alcohol.'
Guptal pointed out a rooftop garden on the other side of the courtyard. A blonde woman was bending her back towards her thighs, working through a series of yogic stretches. Guptal grabbed his groin.
'She very sexy.' He thrust his hips back and forth. 'I fuck her.'
'Yeah, little man. I'm sure you do. She catch you jerking off?'
'Ha, ha! So you know?'
She stood, rising athletically on long, lean legs, and turned to face us. Goosebumps rose on my neck, defying the sweat and sun. It was too far away to make out any details, but it felt as if she bored into my head with
(... feline, deep, seductive blue ...)
her eyes. I shuddered and my knees buckled.
Guptal took my arm and helped me to my room. 'Things are not what they seem. Holi comes.'
And though I hadn't spoken to her, or even clearly seen her, I felt I knew her.
#
I rolled myself a joint, then poured myself a shot of whiskey. I figured I'd knock myself out and hopefully sleep through the rest of the day. The whiskey, cheap, nasty Indian stuff, should help kill the bug I'd picked up.
While I waited for it to kick in, I lay back on the bed and leafed through my guidebook, looking for Holi. What had the kid said? The Festival of Colour?
I found two references. The first described the celebration of the passing of winter and the arrival of spring. That fit with the timeframe, though I'd hate to be here in summer, because so far it had been a fucking hot winter. Same legends, different countries. No big deal.
The second described an old legend where an evil Asura king called Hiranyakashyap tried to kill his son Prahlad. The king enlisted his sister Holika, who was immune to fire, to do the job. But she fucked it up, got burnt to death, and Prahlad called down Vishnu, who killed his dad.
The part that interested me most was that India celebrated this by getting drunk and stoned, lighting bonfires, and bombarding each other with dye-filled water bombs.
I knocked back another mouthful of the whiskey and took a deep drag on the joint. I'd be right at home at a party like that.
#
A knock at the door. I awoke with a dull ache in the back of my head.
Dusk had crept into the courtyard and shadows fluttered into the room. The air inside was cooler than before. Another knock, this time harder.
'Hello?' I climbed off the bed and pulled on a shirt.
'It is me,' said a voice behind the door. 'Harry.'
Christ, what was he doing here? I hid the whiskey bottle under the pillow and hoped the room didn't stink of hashish. 'What do you want?'
'I have a gift for you.' A pause. 'And we need to talk.'
I opened the door and Harry stepped inside. He had changed into a dusk-coloured robe and carried a tray upon which were three bowls of brightly-coloured powder: yellow, blue, and red.
'These are for you.' He placed the tray on the dresser, clasped his hands before him, and smiled.
'Thanks.' I returned the smile, waiting for him to leave. Then stared at the faded rug, the threadbare curtains, the open door.
Silence. Awkwardness.
And unease, as Harry shut the door and pulled up a chair at the battered table next to the balcony doors.
'Please sit.' He propped his head up with his hand, the fingers sinking into the fleshy folds of his cheek. He indicated the bowls on the tray with his other hand. 'You will use these, yes?'
'What are they?'
Harry stared at me for a long while, then leaned forwards, the chair creaking beneath his bulk. 'Gulal. Dye for the festival. For Holi.
You are here and you do not know.'
I mistook his statement for a question. 'Know what?'
He leaned closer. Heat emanated from his
(... giant, clutching fingers ...)
body. 'It is not too late. Spring has not yet arrived, my friend. Perhaps this time the winter will not pass.'
I laughed, a nervous hiccupping noise that scrambled from my throat. 'Look, Harry, I'm pretty tired and I don't know what you're talking about. Thanks for the powders, but I'm not going to buy them.'
Harry grinned.
The corners of the room twisted.
'It is a gift,' he crooned through his wide, white teeth. His hand suddenly on my thigh, the thick fingers squeezing. Moving towards my groin. 'You will become aware. I know. You always do.'
I tried to push him away, but I couldn't lift my arms
(... flames ...)
and Harry released me, sitting back straight in his chair. My leg ached from his clutch and my head throbbed. I realised the heat was emanating from me, not from Harry, a thick line of fire sliding up my spine ...
'Have you been drinking alcohol?' Harry's twitching nostrils loomed in my face.
... to the base of my head, fanning around my skull ...
'It's been a while since I've had a drink.' Harry's bulk moved. 'Do you mind if I have one?'
... the room a blur; then a spasm swept my body. The hairs on my skin stood in the sudden chill. And normality returned.
Harry handed me a glass of whiskey and eased himself back onto the chair with one for himself. He took a sip, grimaced, upended the glass into his mouth, and refilled it. He took another mouthful.
'You know this is forbidden.' He tapped the bottle with his finger, one of his rings smacking the glass with a chink. 'Pushkar is a holy place, and you bring this here two days before the festival?'
'I didn't know it was a problem for non-Hindus.'
'Heh, heh, heh.' He drained the glass, grabbed the bottle, and heaved himself to the door. 'No, it's no problem, my friend.' With whiskey glistening on his fat lips, he leered and pointed towards the bowls of dye. 'Just remember to use the gulal on the eve of Dwadashi, the festival.'
Before I could answer, he closed the door behind him. I heard him chuckling as he walked away. I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the whiskey whirling, forever and ever. I swallowed it, relishing the brief flush of warmth in my belly. What was this guy's problem? Did he hassle all single travellers? Most likely he got a kick out of it.
I should've told him to fuck off.
Another knock at the door; a gentle tapping, not the affirmative rap of Harry.
'Shane?' A whisper. 'It's Guptal.'
I opened the door. 'What?'
Guptal danced from toe to toe, glancing down the hallway.
'Quick. No want Harry see me.'
I let him in, and before I'd shut the door, Guptal had picked up one of the empty glasses and buried his nose in it. 'Whiskey!' He rubbed a finger around the inside of the glass and licked it. 'You have more?'
'Harry told me it's illegal. What do you want?'
'I have news for you.' He grabbed the other glass and began cleaning it with his finger. 'You sure you no have whiskey?'
'Perhaps. What news?'
'The woman asked about you. Sexy. She is waiting for you.' Guptal waved the glass, his face shining. 'She is wanting you.'
'Where?' I tried to contain a shiver of excitement. She wanted me? Jesus Christ. I'd had some wild times in India, but they didn't usually come this easy.
He shook the glass again.
And I'd been ripped off before, too.
'First you tell me, then whiskey.' I wasn't going to let the kid push me around, too.
Guptal rocked his head sideways. 'By the lake, on the ghats.' He proffered the glass.
'After,' I lied. 'First you take me to the lake.'
#
Twilight soothed the dusty streets, or perhaps Guptal's presence shielded me from the usual frantic activity at the merchant stalls lining the main road. The shopkeepers regarded us with cool glances as they sat within, s
moking tobacco amongst desert textiles, bright silks, and embroidered cottons. Lights flickered on in small cafes and restaurants, and the smell of spice and curry wafted on the breeze. Most of the tables were empty. The occasional tourist stared uninterestedly as we passed.
Not only the bustle was missing but also the noise; there was no bansuri wail of snake charmers, no rhythmic beat of the tabla, no sitar, no shitty transistor radios rasping into the night. Even the notoriously stoned bhang cafes were quiet, though the tourist population had, as usual, congregated there to drink yoghurt and hashish lassis. They conversed in hushed tones, punctuated with furtive glances and sullen looks. Pushkar was not soothed, I realised, not even subdued. Oppressed.
'Is this normal before a festival?' I asked. 'This place seems dead.'
Guptal didn't answer, but increased his pace, his skinny legs almost trotting. 'Hurry, before Harry sees I am gone.'
He led me to the end of the street and pointed to a narrow, winding lane lined with crooked walls.
'To the ghats. You will find her there.' He turned and ran back down the street, disappearing into the shadows and dust. He'd forgotten to hassle me for the whiskey.
I followed the lane down, wondering what this woman really looked like and why she wanted to see me. Guptal wouldn't even tell me her name. I suspected he had been setting me up, that she wasn't down here and that right now Harry was rifling my room for more whiskey. How could I have been so stupid?
I was almost at the lake now. What if she was waiting? A sensitive guy would have said he was following the unknown, the sense of adventure, whatever, but not me. I followed the wrong brain, the brain below the waist, down to the waters.
#
The lake swam with shadowy reflections of the dying sun. It was cooler down here, a breeze rising from the surface of the water. An ancient, deserted palace hugged the opposite edge of the lake, its stone walls crumbling, encroached upon by neighbouring buildings. Picture-postcard sort of shit if you could be bothered. I couldn't.