Horror Express Volume Two
Page 9
The flat door is opening. The gnome will see the blood on the floor more or less immediately upon entering if, as I suspect, I’ve left a trail all the way from the shared space. He shuffles about on the other side of the shelving units and then suddenly he stops shuffling and gasps, I hear him gasp, and I reckon that’s him seeing the blood. Then the shuffling recommences and the tapping of the stick and he’s following the blood around and I can also hear his keys rattling, his massive bunch of keys. This really hurts. I am aching really deep down, like the kind of ache you get from intense cold but right now without the cold itself.
The next thing the gnome is standing over me, narrowing his eyes at me, prodding me with his walking stick which I’m not sure he even needs.
‘What’s this?’ he’s muttering. ‘A beast in the library, eh?’ He’s not actually talking to me, I know that. He’s just talking. ‘A big beast broken in to the library, hmm?’ In his hands he’s holding another load of paper, no doubt harvested from his last bin trip. ‘Didn’t think the big beasts could even read,’ he says, ‘because they never pay attention to the stickers.’ And he has the bloody gall to just tap right past me and start putting the new rubbish on the shelves, humming to himself. Humming!
I find I can’t say anything. Library, he called it. I can move my hands and feet but not my legs or arms. More than anything else I feel humiliated. The gnome is up on a ladder, humming from outside of my field of vision, then back down on the floor. Then sitting in the corner, reading a sheaf of envelopes as if it is some kind of book and chortling to himself.
This is probably exactly what he wanted; me all caked in filth on his library floor after having achieved precisely nothing in my anger. A drained old man trapped and dying in his discard monument. All I can see now is the white of paper against blackness, the palest things being the last to fade. Paper all over the floor. I can’t read it but I know the name on the closest envelope is Lily. Who wrote that name I don’t know. The gnome himself could have written it. Or it could have been me. I can still hear him humming and muttering but the sound is distant now, like when you’re waking up and your Lily is singing in the other room. I feel like I’m supposed to have learned something but I don’t know what.
Vishwas R. Gaitonde
ALL IN THE MIND
The car grated to a tortured stop on the gravel driveway beside the sundial, the wheels spitting as they spun around, and Reed stumbled out. Then he looked at the building, and drew in his breath. It was an eerie feeling being suddenly transported to fin de siècle England; no, perhaps further back in time. The building was an architectural mosaic; stone walls were interspersed with timbered posts, an elaborate roof with ornate chimney stacks mimicking gently spiralling barley-twists, gables with deeply fretted bargeboards, and coved overhangs.
But he was in India. Now he could believe there was such a thing as serendipity.
After the chaos of Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras--cities that made his head spin in ways even New York or Chicago could not--he was taking a ‘working break’ up in the Nilgiri Hills, to catch his breath, and re-work his copious notes crammed into several folders. He was due to talk to his faculty advisor in the States next week and was glad to have a few days to evaluate where he stood in the dissertation process before the telephone conversation.
He walked up to the carved wooden door, admiring the owl and kestrel motifs chiselled into the wood. He could not find the doorbell, and then saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it and entered a cool, dimly lit parlour with inviting, overstuffed sofas and padded chairs, the walls decorated with oil paintings in ornate frames and burnished mezzotints depicting portraits of pale women gazing sorrowfully at empathizing cherubs, landscapes, flowers and animals.
The place was dead, not a soul in sight, not even behind the reception counter. But in an awkward attempt to decorate, they had placed a waxwork figure at the far corner behind the counter, and a poorly executed one at that. Reed shook his head with a rueful smile, his excitement at finding this place dampening. Madame Tussaud’s of London had certainly spawned imitators all over the world. Most could not hold a candle to the original--that much was clear--and yet it did not deter mimics from sprouting like weeds. Even the Harrington Inn, shame on them, had succumbed to the yen for showmanship. The British had left India some sixty years ago; was it to commemorate that that they had acquired this waxwork of a stately Englishwoman, in a flowing black dress with a narrow white lace collar? Her sparse silver hair was brushed back taut across her scalp and knotted into tiny bun at the back, her face was ashen grey and the red mottling on the waxy cheeks made it utterly unnatural. This shoddy model of Queen Victoria did not easily blend in with the rest of the décor. In fact, it spoiled it.
Then the waxwork mechanically rotated its left eye. Just when Reed, startled, thought it was his imagination, the figure rose jerkily and unsteadily on its feet, like a motorised mannequin that has been wound up after years of storage. It shuffled to the counter.
‘You’re late.’
Her voice was surprisingly crisp, cutting, youthful. Reed gawked at her.
‘Mr. Reed Larkin, I presume? Are you all right? You don’t look too good.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m--I’m Larkin.’ Reed straightened his face and moved to the counter. ‘The private taxi I’d engaged showed up late. But I’m here. And I must say that although the name Harrington Inn sounded English, I never expected the place to be so – so authentically English, complete with an Englishwoman.’
‘Australian. Can’t you tell from the accent?’
Reed, who couldn’t tell a Texan accent from a Boston one, shook his head ruefully.
‘My husband and I met the owners of this inn when they were holidaying in Brisbane. To cut a long story short, they invited us to run this place and we accepted. I’m Ursula Tattersall, by the way.’
‘Well, Ms. Tattersall ―’
‘Mrs. Tattersall, if you would, please.’ She looked beyond him. ‘Your driver’s just come in with your bags. When you’ve filled this registration form, I’ll show you to your room.’
They walked down a dimly lit corridor with a dark, polished hardwood floor, a bright red carpet running like a strip along its centre, then up a narrow stairwell. Mrs. Tattersall led the way, her dress swishing around her ankles. Reed wanted to ask her why she dressed like Queen Victoria, and then thought the better of it. The taxi driver followed them to the room, carrying Reed’s bulky bags.
‘I’ve given you one of the best rooms in the house,’ Mrs. Tattersall said, as she unlocked the door and gestured for Reed to enter. He instantly saw that she had not been joking. The view from the window was spectacular, overlooking a valley with mountain ranges rising beyond. A mist was beginning to wrap its vaporous fingers around the peaks.
‘The mountains are actually green, covered with tea and coffee plantations or forest,’ Mrs. Tattersall said, following Reed’s gaze. ‘But when the mist rolls over, they turn blue-green. That’s what gives them their name. The Nilgiris, the blue mountains.
‘I think you’ll find it very comfortable here. It’s really peaceful. This room has an attached bathroom, with running hot water. We serve dinner from seven. If you know you’ll be late on any day, let us know in advance, and we’ll set a plate aside for you in the kitchen. But it’s best to eat a meal while it’s piping hot, that’s what I always say.’
‘Nice,’ Reed said, as he took in the four-poster bed, the candlewick bedspread, the carved writing desk, the crystal vase with white roses, the solid brass candlesticks with slim white candles. ‘I‘d heard great things about Harrington Inn, but I never expected this.’
‘This place is an exact replica of an old Tudor country inn nestled in the Cotswold Hills in England. An exact replica, in every way but one. They have a ghost. We don’t.’
Reed looked at her with amusement. ‘You know, you sounded as though you were actually sorry that this place isn’t haunted.’
‘Well, I am,�
�� she said, with a prim smile. ‘Oh, I’m not thinking of anything macabre, that wouldn’t be good. But if a placid ghost - a woman in white, with a flimsy veil, floating down the corridor, something like that - appeared once, just once, enough to give this place a reputation. Why, that would do handsomely. It would really draw people here. Not that we are short of guests, this place attracts people for other reasons. Well, I’ll let you unpack and settle down.’
When Mrs. Tattersall left, Reed tipped the driver and asked him to be back in a week. Seven restful days, when he could pace himself and recover from the tizzy that he had been thrown into since his arrival in India. Seven days when he could relax, sift through his notes, and plan out how best he could utilize the time he had left in this country to wrap up his research. He sat at the desk, chin in his cupped hands, and gazed out of the window again. The mist had shrouded the mountains and was creeping onwards towards the inn.
He walked down at six o’clock and found that the bar had opened, and a few people were sipping pre-dinner cocktails. Mrs. Tattersall emerged from a doorway, and fleetingly flashed him her now-familiar straitlaced smile.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh yes, the room exceeded all my expectations. But I did notice a line of ants along the wall.’
‘Oh. Were they little black ants, little red ants, or big black ants?’
Reed stared at her, taken aback. ‘Well--little black ants, I think. I didn’t go close enough to check their colour but they looked black to me.’
‘I thought they might be. They’re absolutely harmless. It’s the red ants and the big black ants that bite. These ants won’t bother you. You can ignore them. Live and let live, as the wise ones say.’
Reed, who had expected an apology and an assurance that the ants would be taken care of, was amazed. He had enough of insects in the past few weeks. Could he not get at least a few insect-free days in a place like this, especially for the prices they charged?
‘I’d rather not have ants in the room.’
‘All right, then. I’ll send a maid up to spray some Flit while you’re at dinner. If you’d like to unwind with a drink, you’ll find our bar well stocked.’
The bar was unevenly lit by orange-shaded lamps that dangled from the ceiling on long cords. The walls were studded with swords, shields and spears, interspersed with mounted trophies--heads of cheetah, deer and wild buffalo with spectacular horns--and sepia-tone prints of scenes from colonial India. Sometimes a lamp swung a little on its cord, and the shadows in the room swayed. Reed instinctively felt he was being observed. He glanced up and met the glassy eyes of the cheetah. He held his gaze steady as though expecting the cheetah to blink first, and grew more uncomfortable with every moment. He plucked his gaze away, and then looked at the other animals. Then, feeling eyes boring into him from behind, he slowly turned around.
A dark, broad-shouldered man with a shock of closely cropped salt and pepper hair was sitting at one of the tables, his eyes twinkling. He possessed the best handlebar moustache Reed had seen, coal black, large and luxurious, its ends curved upwards like the tips of the scimitars that hung on the wall above his head.
‘You must be the American student,’ the man called out in a hearty authoritative voice. As Reed smiled and nodded his head, the man waved to the seat beside him, saying, ‘Care to join me? Mrs. Tattersall just told me about you. May I offer you a drink? Please.’
Reed accepted a mug of beer, and delicately sucked some of the froth off before taking a deep gulp. The man introduced himself as Colonel Paramasivan. The name sounded suspiciously close to Parmesan, and Reed decided to just call his newfound friend by his title. No point in cheesing off a new acquaintance, he thought, and grinned inwardly at his wit.
‘This is an expensive place,’ Colonel Paramasivan said, curiously. ‘Wealthy people come here to relax; they treat it as a resort. Obviously American universities pay their students well, yes?’
‘It isn’t quite like that.’ Reed reddened three shades deeper and spoke rapidly. ‘My field is urban studies--my thesis focuses on economic and social conditions in cities of the developing world--so in the cities, I really plunged into what I came to study, and I took lodgings that would allow me to be in the thick of it, to observe things firsthand--and that usually meant not the best part of the city. My room in Calcutta was little better than a garret and the one in Bombay just a cut above it. So I have some funds left – ‘
‘And you came here for a holiday.’
‘Well, not exactly. I have tons of notes to sort out and I wanted a quiet place to do it. Then I heard about Harrington Inn, and decided I deserved a little treat. You said you’re a colonel. Are you in the army?’
‘Was. I just retired, and now I’m the manager of one of the tea plantations here. I live in Wellington - the army has its regional headquarters there, and I was stationed here once - loved the place, and when I left the army, looked around here for something to keep myself occupied. They wanted military efficiency on the plantation. They’ve got it now. I come here in the evenings for a drink--this place has a good atmosphere. I could always go to the army club in Wellington, but it’s filled with my old cronies. A break from the barracks is good medicine.’
He clapped his hands loudly and shouted, ‘Dinkou!’ to hail a waiter while Reed lowered his head to hide a smile. The waiters looked comical in their livery, spiffy white jackets with shiny oversized brass buttons, a crimson sash wrapped around their torso, and a crimson turban with a crest arranged like a spread-out Chinese hand-fan. One of them scurried to their table, lips parted in a wide grin. The colonel rang his empty glass with a spoon and asked for another chhota peg of whiskey.
‘Well, if you want to see how our cities went down the drain, you must study Coonoor where the disease is in its early stage. It used to be a quaint little hill town, now buildings are appearing without control, and cars, bicycles, taxis, rickshaws, all zipping around pell-mell on roads that have no space for them. Thank God Wellington is a military town; we still have our quiet, shady lanes, well-kept lawns and trimmed hedges.’
‘I really came here to just organise my notes and figure out what further research I need to do before returning home. But Coonoor is practically round the corner, I guess it’s worth going there one of these days. Does the inn arrange transport?’
‘No, it doesn’t. And the inn is neither in Coonoor nor Wellington but in between, so tourists don’t stay here unless they have their own vehicles. And older people just come here to relax, not to sightsee. How did you get here, anyway?’
‘I rented a private taxicab from Coimbatore. The driver will come back for me at the end of my stay.’
‘Well, we can ask Mrs. Tattersall to introduce you to others who are going to Coonoor, and to some of the places around here you might want to see--St. Catherine’s Falls, Law’s Falls, Lady Charlotte Canning’s Seat, Droog, Sim’s Gardens, Dolphin’s Nose--there’s plenty to do if you want a little break from your notes. I could ask my deputy to handle the plantation one morning and run you up to Coonoor myself.’
‘That’s kind of you, Colonel, but I – ‘
‘Consider it done, then. Of course, you may not want to waste your time on something like Dolphin’s Nose--it’s just an outcropping of rock on a cliff supposedly in the shape of a dolphin’s head. You know, it’s all a matter of imagination. Yes sir, that’s all there is to it, flights of fancy all in the mind. Some people look up at the full moon and see a man there, others claim it’s a rabbit, and some only see a dark patch.’
‘Mrs. Tattersall told me she wished there was a ghost here, so that the inn would get a reputation and draw curiosity seekers.’
‘Did she? Ah yes, the good old English haunted manor.’ Colonel Paramasivan gave a hearty laugh. ‘But dear Mrs. Tattersall wouldn’t spot a ghost if it danced in front of her. She’s much too hardboiled - you’ll see how she bosses the staff around - when her tongue gets going, she can make them see stars at noon.’
Reed chortled, and looked at the colonel who was smiling, but Reed could see it wasn’t a full smile. Then he was almost deafened as the colonel suddenly bellowed ‘Dinkou!’ for another refill, before quieting down again.
‘You know, I’m not one to be tied to my desk all day.’ The colonel became pensive. ‘I spend a lot of time on the slopes, mixing with the workers, talking to them. A good commander always has rapport with his troops in the trenches. Some of the workers belong to the hill tribes - the Todas, the Kotas, the Kurumbas. And they have different concepts of spirits. You don’t need a house for a haunting, and spirits cannot be confined merely by walls. The whole world can be haunted, the woods, the mountains, the rivers--and not just by human spirits, but animal spirits as well.’
‘And you educated them, Colonel, right?’ Reed smiled, but the colonel did not smile back this time, not even with a pretend smile.
‘Well, I don’t know that they’re entirely wrong.’ The colonel twirled the tips of his moustache between thumb and index finger, as though compelled to sharpen them. He threw a quick glance at Reed. ‘You may be surprised to hear this coming from a battle-hardened veteran – I was a raw recruit to the army when we fought China tooth and nail in ’62. After that, three major wars with Pakistan. And my men and I encountered some pretty strange things, things out of the ordinary, up there in the glaciers of the Himalayas, on the battlefront, in the barracks, even in one of the makeshift hospitals. Oh, I know what you’re thinking - isn’t this the man who just a moment ago spoke about ‘flights of fancy’? Well, were all of those things just that? Maybe. But there’s just that wee bit of doubt that at least some of them were not. Well, I must get going now. I’ll tell you those stories over drinks on another day.’