The Taxi Ride: and Other Spooky Stories

by Priyanka Sivaramakrishnan

  He couldn’t see anything. He closed his eyes, straining his ears to listen. Minutes passed. He heard a creaking at the foot of his bed, near the window. His eyes flew open and he tried to make out where he was in the room. Clouds shifted from behind the moon and silvery light streamed inside. He saw him. He saw him lean over his bed. He saw him raise his hand, holding a knife. He saw him. . .

  He screamed before he opened his eyes. A piercing line of unadulterated pain burned through his chest. He opened his eyes, sputtering, crying, choking. It hurt to breathe. It hurt everywhere.

  Blinking blindly through the tears, he saw a knife stuck in his chest. He screamed. The pain burned afresh across his chest. He stopped screaming midway when he saw someone’s face leaning over him.

  It was his face. It looked the same, but older. His hair was streaked with grey. There were folds of skin under his eyes. His lips were thicker, and his jaws were covered with stubble.

  His vision began to dim. He found it harder to breathe.

  The face smiled.

  Darkness flooded his eyes. The last thing he heard was a creaking noise, moving away from his bed.

  The Lucky Finger

  - Karishma

  Hyderabad, 2013

  “Let’s tell ghost stories!”

  Thirteen-year-old Mansi was hosting her first sleepover. Sriya, Amina, and Bhavana, her three friends from school, had gotten permission to spend the night at her house. The four girls had eaten junk food, exchanged gossip, and were currently painting each other’s nails.

  “Ghost stories on a dark and stormy night. How scary!” Sriya said, giggling.

  Mansi felt a shiver run down her spine. It’s only the air-conditioning, she told herself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mansi said firmly. “We won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Come on, Mansi,” groaned Amina, “No one actually sleeps during a sleepover.”

  Maybe this is the time to tell the story, Mansi thought. She forced a smile as she looked at her friends. “I know a scary story that took place in Mumbai,” she said.

  Her friends sat around her. I will not be frightened. Mansi repeated the line in her head as she had done many times before.

  Mumbai, 1999

  Atul Kishore Banerjee’s baritone greeted the studio audience of the game show Get, Set, Go!

  He flashed his signature gold-toothed smile at the contestant seated opposite him. “Do you want to take the money and leave or do you want to try and win a greater amount?”

  The contestant looked worried. “I don’t want to lose it all. I need some time to think,” he said.

  Banerjee smiled patiently but inwardly he groaned with frustration. The contestant was wasting air time. This was live television. Wasted time was bad for the ratings.

  He felt beads of sweat form on his brow but dared not use his free hand to brush them off. Govind, the new producer, had made no secret of his hatred for Banerjee’s extra finger. Govind believed that Banerjee’s birth deformity was the root cause of the show’s poor ratings.

  “People do not want to watch a freak on cable TV. They want to escape into a world where it’s possible to win a lot of money. Banerjee’s freaky fingers bring them back to reality. They pick up the remote control and switch channels.”

  Banerjee had pleaded with the producer. “Please give me a chance. I can hide my hand in my pocket or I can start wearing gloves or I can. . .” Govind cut him off. “If you get the sixth finger surgically removed, you can stay. Otherwise don’t bother coming back.”

  Banerjee was faced with a difficult decision. He had struggled on the fringes of the entertainment industry for over two decades before landing the position as the host of Get, Set, Go! He couldn’t afford to lose his job.

  However, Banerjee believed with all his heart that his sixth finger was his lucky charm.

  As a schoolboy his finger was the target of everyone’s jokes and jibes. One day, when a group of bullies had teased him very badly for his finger, he had chosen not to take the school van home. The van had crashed into a water tanker and fallen off the bridge that evening. There were no survivors.

  Banerjee knew without a doubt that his sixth finger had saved him that day. There were more such incidents in the future.

  He had tried to convince Govind that his finger was lucky for him but the producer was adamant. Banerjee gave in. He went to the hospital to sacrifice the offensive digit.

  He never returned.

  Mansi halted. There was a loud crash of thunder. The lights flickered in the room.

  “The weather is scarier than the story you are telling us,” Sriya said, looking bored.

  “Ignore Sriya. Why didn’t Banerjee return from the hospital?” Amina asked nervously.

  “He’s dead,” Bhavana said, with a knowing look. “His luck turned after the finger was removed.”

  Mansi continued the story. . .

  Banerjee felt himself float near the ceiling. His body lay on the operating table. Flustered medical personnel blamed each other for a routine procedure gone horribly wrong. His severed sixth finger lay on a surgical tray.

  Rage coursed through his body. “GOVIND!” he screamed. “I won’t let you forget what you’ve done to me,” Banerjee swore.

  All of a sudden, he felt himself being tugged through a hole in the ceiling. It was his call to the after world. He struggled against the invisible force and was released. He couldn’t go yet. He had unfinished business.

  Banerjee travelled through the walls of the hospital from one room to the next. He felt weak and incredibly tired. Banerjee was drawn to the TV in the waiting room. He nestled inside it and felt better.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed. It could have been minutes, days, or years. Eventually he found a way to travel through the TV cables. He followed the wires into houses and peered through the TV screen at the people outside. One day, he found what he was looking for: Govind. The producer was watching TV. His newborn twins slept next to him on a makeshift bed.

  Banerjee launched himself at Govind but went right through him. “No!” he howled. He surveyed the scene in front of him. Govind smiled fondly at the twins and stroked their hair, before raising the remote control to switch channels.

  Govind has to suffer. This was Banerjee’s last thought before his spirit entered one of the babies.

  Mumbai, 2005

  “Sweety, Shikha! Upstairs! Now!” their mother called out from the balcony.

  “I’ve had enough of your pranks!” she said, as they walked in.

  “What did we do?” six-year-old Sweety asked, innocently.

  “You know exactly what you did.” Their mother was exasperated. “It’s not funny to leave all the drawers and cupboards open in the kitchen. I bumped into an open drawer just now.”

  Shikha and Sweety looked at each other. They were identical except that Sweety had a faint scar on her upper lip.

  “We didn’t do it, Ma,” Shikha said.

  “We were playing downstairs,” Sweety added.

  “Both of you will never admit to being naughty,” Mrs. Govind said. “You are such a handful as six-year-olds. I don’t know how I’ll manage when you become older.”

  She busied herself with pushing back the drawers and shutting the cupboards. She heard the TV come on in the living room. “Girls, don’t try my patience today. You know you’re not supposed to watch TV.”

  “We didn’t switch it on. It came on by itself,” Shikha sang out.

  “That’s enough! I am not going to listen to any more of your stories,” their mother snapped.

  Shikha knew there was no use arguing with her mother. TV sets came on mysteriously when she was in a room with her sister.

  Govind came home with a guest that night. Ray was made the new host of Get, Set, Go! recently. He held a briefcase with the name of the show etched on both sides in bold, golden letters.

  “This is a new idea,” Govind explained to his wife. “After a contestant answers the winning
question, he chooses one of three bags. Each bag has a secret prize. Our consumer surveys show that this will be a big hit with the audience.”

  He left the bag on the dining table and went to the balcony to talk to Ray.

  His wife’s scream brought them running. A knife had been stuck into the briefcase, its tip buried in the soft leather. The twins, who were playing in their room, came out when they heard their mother scream.

  “I’d better leave, Sir,” Ray said, uneasily. “I’ve an early day on the set tomorrow.” He removed the knife with some difficulty and swung the briefcase off the table. Govind walked him to the elevator.

  “Goodbye,” Ray said, as he shut the door to the elevator.

  Govind’s back was barely turned when he heard a terrible scream from within the elevator. He rushed over and saw that Ray’s hand was trapped in the door. He rescued his colleague with the help of his neighbours and the security guard. An ambulance rushed Ray to the hospital.

  The twins’ mother was troubled by the incident. Govind was with Ray at the hospital. She was in her room when she heard a noise in the hall. The girls didn’t seem to have heard it. How could that be? she thought.

  She stepped out and saw that the TV was on. She walked towards it, puzzled. As she drew closer, she gasped in horror.

  It was unplugged.

  Mrs. Govind couldn’t sleep that night. Could there be any truth to the twins’ stories? she wondered. When Sweety was punished for using a foul word, she said her invisible friend had said it. One night, Shikha had woken up the household claiming there was a man in their bedroom. A search had revealed no one.

  She learnt the next day that Ray had lost his fingers in the accident. He swore that a force had rendered him unable to pull his hand away from the door when the lift began moving.

  She didn’t tell Govind what had happened with the TV. However, when he nearly fell off the balcony a week later, she couldn’t remain silent any more.

  “I know you think you slipped but there was nothing on the floor,” she said, after she finished her account.

  Govind laughed this off. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything,” he said, and knelt to examine the TV.

  All of a sudden, the TV came on. On the screen, Govind saw himself in the living room six years ago. The twins were in their mother’s arms. He hugged them and said, “My family is my lucky charm.” The six words played on loop for about a minute. As abruptly as it came on, the screen went dead.

  Govind donated the TV to an orphanage and took a leave of absence from work. The family lived on tenterhooks. A priest paid them a visit and concluded that the house contained a malignant presence. It would need to cleansed with a pooja.

  A priest, who specialised in exorcism, began the ceremony the next day. After a few minutes, the house echoed with wails. Govind gathered his family close to him. Shikha looked at Sweety and knew there was something wrong. “Mama, Papa! Look at Sweety! She’s not herself!” She screamed in panic.

  Banerjee had taken over Sweety’s body. He spoke in his trademark baritone. “I’ve waited for years for this body to be of any use. You were responsible for my death, Govind. Now I will have my revenge,” he said.

  He threw a heavy metal vase at Govind but it hit the twins’ mother instead. She fell to the floor, unconscious. The priest chanted fervently, “Begone evil spirit! Leave this child’s body.” The holy fire seemed to burn brighter.

  Banerjee took a deep breath and blew hard at the fire. The flames scattered in different directions. The curtains caught fire. Shikha screamed. Her father shielded her as the priest commanded the spirit to leave.

  Banerjee didn’t stop his advance. Govind knew it would only be a few moments before the flames spread to the gas cylinder in the kitchen. Without stopping to think about himself, he carried Shikha to the window. There was a dense thicket on the lawn beneath them.

  “Papa, no!” Shikha screamed, as he hoisted her and dropped her out the window.

  Shikha heard a tremendous explosion as she fell. She felt herself crash into something coarse and then everything went black.

  When she woke up, she found her aunt and uncle sitting next to her. They lived in Hyderabad and wanted her to come home with them. None of the members of her immediate family had survived the explosion.

  Hyderabad, 2014

  Pin-drop silence prevailed in Mansi’s room. The girls could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock. A crash of thunder jolted them. To their horror, the TV came on by itself at the same time. Amina screamed.

  “Sorry, I sat on the remote control by mistake,” Sriya said, sheepishly. They laughed uneasily.

  “That was a very creepy story,” Amina whispered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

  Imagine how much more frightened they’d be if they knew that I changed the name of the girl in the story from Mansi to Shikha, Mansi thought, grimly.

  There was another flash of lightning.

  Bhavana shuddered. She must be upset, Mansi thought, guiltily. She placed a hand on Bhavana’s shoulder. “Hey, are you all right?”

  Bhavana clasped her hand tightly. “They’re not your parents, are they?” A baritone had replaced Bhavana’s high-pitched voice.

  Mansi felt a cold, sick feeling well up in her throat. Her stomach clenched with fear.

  It was the voice that had haunted her dreams.