by Neil D'Silva
CITY OF SCREAMS
An Anthology of Urban Horror Stories
CITY OF SCREAMS
An Anthology of Urban Horror Stories
Edited by
Neil D’Silva
HALF BAKED BEANS LITERATURE
e-mail: [email protected]
First Published by Half Baked Beans in 2019
Copyright © Half Baked Beans
All characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Printed and bound in India.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission by the publisher
Contents
Foreword 1
City of Screams — Neil D’Silva
Lost — Kiran Manral
The Haunting Tale — Suhail Mathur
Kaala Baba — Rishi Vohra
Home — Tim Paxton
Namu Ne? — Nilutpal Gohain
Day One at Pamperium, the Spa — Sid Kapdi
If Only… — Aindrila Roy
Deep in the Dark — Komal Ambardekar
Hotel Comfort Inn — Deepali Joshi
La Marvel Colony — Charmaine deSouza
May You Eat Well! — Santosh Bakaya
The Thirteenth Floor — Hanadi Falki
His Pretty Face — KRIMSON RAVYN
Happy Birthday — ShwetHa H S
FOREWORD
The idea of putting together a horror anthology was on my mind since I wrote my first book Maya’s New Husband in 2014. Providentially then, when Half Baked Beans approached me last year with a proposal to curate such an anthology for their newly launched Better Books imprint, I wasted no time in giving it my wholehearted consent.
My experience has shown that there is a significantly large readership for this genre in India. The many horror-dedicated social media pages, video channels and forums are always abuzz with activity. People share their scary experiences, talk about horror movies they have watched or books they have read, and even post videos. Special mention must be made of the pages dealing with paranormal phenomena; these usually have thousands of active followers.
However, in terms of horror literature, the supply is quite deficient compared to the demand. The number of known horror authors we have on the contemporary Indian literary scene would probably not even go in the double digits. The probable reason why many authors aren’t writing horror is because it suffers the stigma of being considered as a poor cousin of other genres, the black sheep in the humongous family of literature. There is a profound notion, albeit mistaken, that people who write or read horror are the odd ones, the deviants. But if that is the reason for our deprivation of dark fiction, then it is a crying shame.
It is surely a hypocritical view to take. All of us have, at some time or the other, heard and even enjoyed horror stories. We have shared frightful stories among friends, often over campfires in the dead of the night. Many of us have heard them from our elders, most told with the motive of keeping us in check, but they did leave an indelible mark on us. We all know of the dark themes and characters that make up our classic fairy tales and nursery rhymes, which are just sanitized horror stories. Even in the mythologies around the world, we find so much that downright evokes fear. We have all consumed horror in some form or the other, at some time or the other. It doesn’t behoove us then to be averse to the genre, does it?
I have quite a different perspective of the horror genre. For me, writing horror, or even reading it, is emboldening. It is akin to facing my fears. While creating my scenes, I try to push myself further each time, to see how far I can go. The same holds true when I am reading horror or watching a horror movie. As I partake of them, I feel my suppressed fears coming to the fore, bubbling over, and, most times, going away. Some people sit on death-defying rollercoasters to challenge themselves; some others jump off cliffs; I read and write horror. That’s how I take myself to the brink of adventure and back. That has created in me a deep respect for the genre, and this book is an attempt to pay back to the genre I respect.
The creation of this book was quite an amazing journey. Barring three stories — those of Kiran Manral, Suhail Mathur, and myself — this book is the result of an extensive competition that was organized by Better Books, of which I was the judge. We received an unexpected number of submissions (again proving that there are enthusiastic horror writers among us). Our primary goal was to have ten winners, but given the nature of submissions we received, we ended up having twelve.
The brief was simple. We were looking for urban horror stories. In the initial brief that we sent out, I laid emphasis on the fact that storytelling should prevail over mere jump scares. I was looking for unique plots that could capture the readers’ interest. My primary judging factor was the impact that a story would have over the readers. And as you shall see in the stories on these pages, atmosphere, characters, and plot take a prevalence over theatrics. They also adhere to the theme and bear a relatability to our individual experiences. The settings of the stories are familiar, but the plots range from the shocking to the bizarre. And in that, we think we have a winner.
I express my gratitude to Chetan Soni, the founder of Half Baked Beans, for envisioning this project and lending it his able support, and seeing it through till its fruition. I thank Suhail Mathur and Kiran Manral, who responded favorably and eagerly to my request to provide their stories. I would also like to thank Alisha Attarwala of BetterBooks for being there at the start of the project.
My deepest thanks are also to all the writers whose stories feature herein. It was my greatest pleasure to work on the stories during the edits and see the vast scope we have among us for the horror genre. I also thank those who submitted but could not make it to the book.
So, dear reader, before you plunge into the world of City of Screams, I shall take another moment on behalf of all us authors to remind you that the horror genre needs dedicated patrons. Please take a moment to rate and review our labor of love and help us spread the word. Thank you!
— Neil D’Silva
CITY OF SCREAMS
Neil D’Silva
For Hardik, soon to be known as Harry, the dream had come true.
Surpassing all other boys of his remote village town, he had made it to The City. Twenty years of education from borrowed books had borne fruit. The loan his father had taken would eventually be paid. He would miss his mother’s cooking and her persistent pampering, but that was a small sacrifice. Even Veena could wait. With the promise that he would return soon and take her along, he had set out for The City.
The City!
The very thought of it stirred something in him. It was love, of course. He had fallen in love with The City ever since Prakash Sir had spoken about her in a sixth-grade geography lesson. He had then studied her on the Internet and in films, and as the years progressed, his research had become more and more meticulous.
No one could challenge his knowledge of her. He knew that The City was built two-hundred years ago, planned by a foreign urban planner whose bust stood at the museum, which was one of the three largest museums in the country. He knew that she housed people from all states and countries, and they lived together as if they belonged to her. He knew all the sights there were to see, and he hoped to see them soon, and he knew where to go to have the shady kind of fun that can be had only in the cities, and he knew which neighborhoods to avoid. He even knew the color of the soil in its Grand Memorial Park and the graffiti scribbled on the toilet of its largest Metro station (pictures on the Internet had helped). What else was there to know?
It h
ad been a sublime love affair so far. And now, as he got off the train and stepped on her ground for the first time, the love became physical. He shuddered in delight, and he squealed, making the ticket-collector turn at him sharply, but he only proudly flaunted his ticket and walked on.
He had arrived in The City.
***
“This is where you work and this is where you stay,” the man whose designation described him as producer told him.
Harry saw no bed.
“What is my job?” he asked.
“Assisting me. Looking after this production studio through the day. When there’s an outdoors shoot, helping me set things up at the location. When there is no shoot, making sure that everything here is working properly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can I sleep in the studio?”
“Yes, but my cabin is out of bounds. Sleep on the couch or floor or wherever else it suits you.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome to the city.”
He hadn’t got the job easily. He had spent years of research into what he could do, and when he decided that the film world was what excited him the most, he looked for suitable job profiles. He wrote to, mailed, and called about thirty production offices for anything suitable to him, just to get a toehold really, and then this one had responded.
The pay was low, but then he would be in The City!
He looked at the posters of the production office’s previous ventures. The face of The Hero made him sigh. Harry had read in a cheap film-zine that The Hero had come from a small town too, and now his house was a sprawling bungalow in the heart of the city. Would he ever get there? He didn’t look any less handsome than The Hero. But in The City looks were a dime a dozen. Everyone knew how to look good. The need was of something else. People had to figure that out by themselves.
Thus, his life began. The job allowed him the evenings to do as he chose. Seven to seven was his time. This was when he roamed the streets of The City and became intimate with her. He took in her sights and smells and made friends with other people like him who had moved here. Their stories amazed him and though he often sensed a twinge of sadness in them, he did not let those stories faze him. They were the ones The City had discarded; he would not allow himself to be discarded.
There were days that were difficult. The job wasn’t easy, with almost every other person making him struggle and get humiliated for every rupee. There were days he overworked, days he slept hungry, days he did things that he would not mention to anyone he knew. But he smiled through it. He was in The City. Every night after his backbreaking duties, The City took him in her embrace, and showed him new sights and gave him new pleasures as if she had kept them hidden from everyone else and only for him, just like a mother does for her favorite son.
After the salary of the first month came in, he hit the bigger spots. He walked into a multiplex and watched a movie of The Hero. He did not understand the story, for that wasn’t where his attention was focused. The only thing that played on his mind was how The Hero had changed himself and how comfortable he was in the skin that The City had given him.
He sighed.
He decided to spend some money on a drink. He took himself to the best bar in The City, and though the cost of one glass of whiskey was more than what his father earned in a day back home, he felt that he deserved it. He placed the order with a flourish, and when it came, he carefully observed the other people drinking and emulated them. Drinking is not about the drink, someone had told him, it’s about how you handle it.
It was past eleven when he leaped off his chair. He had forgotten to lock the studio.
The studio was just twenty minutes away. Slightly inebriated but also revived by the salty smell of fish and rust, the typical smell of The City, he rushed to the studio. And then he stopped.
His sight had fallen upon an alley that he had never seen before. He could feel something here. He felt as if he were being summoned. Something stirred in his loins.
Drawn by it, he walked into the alley.
***
Right in front of him was The Fracture.
He had seen his share of ugly sights in The City already—from the garbage dumps to the open-air toilets, from the dead shanties built by slum-dwellers to the dangerously filthy open sewage, from the tobacco-stained walls to the carcasses of dead rodents in the middle of the road. He chalked them down as necessary collateral. The City could not be clean at all times. In its ugliness also, he found its beauty. But The Fracture was the lowest The City could stoop to.
It was a gaping crack in a space between two buildings, but it looked very much like a wound inflicted upon the street. Its jagged edges looked ominous even from the distance, like the jaws of some predatory animal lying in wait. From within arose the smell of The City—that of the fish and the rust and the salt—only it was putrid and much stronger than anywhere else, so strong that he had to hold his breath.
Harry hadn’t heard of anything like this. Maybe the ground of The City, after it had lived its life, fell apart in this fashion. This was death and decay that he was seeing. He stepped back.
“Hi, there!” said a voice.
It made him jump. For a moment it seemed as if someone from inside The Fracture had spoken.
But the voice had come from behind him. He turned.
It was a woman. A woman of breathtaking beauty. Dressed in the attire of The City and wearing a fragrance that was perhaps needed to mask the smell of The City.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Mimi. Who are you?”
“Hardik… er, Harry.”
“You don’t seem to be from here.”
“I am new here.”
Something was happening to him as he looked at her. There was something in her eyes, a mysterious allure, and he wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Even in the darkness, he could see that it was the color of The City’s sea.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked.
He could ask her the same question, but he did not want to be the kind of man who points out a late-hour to a woman. He’d have probably done that in his small town, but not here.
“I was just strolling.”
“Here? No one comes here.”
“I can see that,” he said. His eyes moved to The Fracture. “What is that?”
“Just one of the hidden sights of this city. The pictures in the magazines and on the Internet show the beautiful sights, but they hide these ugly spots.”
As he looked at the gaping hole of The Fracture, it seemed to move. It was not just a wound; it was a festering wound.
“You have seen the ugly scar of The City. Sooner or later, everyone sees it,” Mimi said with a smile. “You are not new here anymore.”
And they talked. They walked out from that goddammed place and sat in a café that was still open. She ordered for him and she spoke about the sights he had seen and what else he must see. It was past midnight when she squeezed his arm.
“Where do you live?”
“I live in the studio I work in,” he said.
“Alone?”
He smiled.
***
Mimi did not mind the mattress on the floor. Sensing his reluctance, she sat down on it first and then dragged him down with her. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said.
Half an hour later, she was facing him with her head propped on her hand. “You do not look happy with what we just did,” she said with a laugh.
“It’s not that,” he said sheepishly.
“There is something nagging you. What is it? Are you married or something? Young small-town guys who move here usually have wives back home.”
“I am not married.” He omitted the fact that he was engaged and that he had not called up his fiancée for a week.
“Then what is it? Wasn’t I good for you?”
“No, no… it’s not that.”
Even as he spoke, he realized there was something
bugging him. But he could not put his finger on it.
“I think I know what it is.” She suddenly sat up, crossing her legs, not minding her nakedness. “Your disillusionment is with this place.”
“The City?”
“Yes. It happens to guys like you. I know the type. Young men come here, full of dreams, but the novelty wears off fast. They face the struggle and they experience the loneliness, and they begin to miss their simpler laidback lives back home.”
He pictured it as she spoke. He saw the flashes of everything that had transpired over the last month, and the realized the truth of it.
But soon came denial. How could he entertain that thought? How could he tell himself that he was not happy with The City? It was the only thing he had lived for so far.
And yet, there was The Fracture… Something in him had died when he saw that.
“You don’t worry,” she said. “I will help you make friends with the city. I will help you see its glorious side.”
He looked at her as she spoke, staring into the depth of her eyes that had the shade of the sea. “But who are you?”
She laughed. “What does it matter?”
“Have you always lived in the City?”
“Yes.” In her eyes was a sparkle. “I have always lived here.”
“Where is your home? Is it near the… near the…” He could not bring himself to say ‘The Fracture’.
“It is close, yes.”
“And what do you do?”
“Enough questions!” she said abruptly, but then broke into another tantalizing laugh. “This is not about me; it is about you. Don’t you want to see the best bits of the city?”
“I do,” he said, and they flopped on the mattress again.
***
Days passed on in such confused dalliance. Harry experienced more of the ugly side of The City—when his money ran out, when he fell sick with no one to care for him, and on the one night when he was nearly arrested just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But when the nights came, Mimi would always be waiting for him. She would set all his worries to rest with her promising laughter, she would bring him peace with her assuring talks, and then give him the greatest of pleasures on the shoddy studio floor. When he was with her, he forgot everything else. The worries of his job and his health did not matter to him. All that mattered was her fragrance and the fact that he could touch her wherever he wanted.
