The Dialpidated House – 3/3

Shell-shocked with dilated pupils. Chris couldn’t help but imagine the worst. Something had fixed the window and worse yet, it was mocking him. He ran for the door. The window at the end of the corridor was gone. He now realized it was just light.

He sprinted harder but screeched to a halt at the start of the stairs. Everything in the hall was organized. The carpet was new. And the window, gone. Again. Before he could collect his thoughts, he heard a laugh. It was coming from behind.

He turned around and recognized the smirk. But he was too flabbergasted to move. A tumultuous whiff and he found himself flying. Almost in the middle of his flight, his body was parallel to the inclination of the stairs. His hands and legs were flapping around, looking for something to hold on to.

He felt desperate. It felt like he was falling into a gaping well. Darkness tried to engulf him, but the end of this myriad tunnel was guarded by a blinding light. A white light.

The flight felt endless. Time had stood still, and his prayers seemed to take forever to be answered. He felt uneasy and breathless as the fear of hitting hard ground had gripped him tight. His anticipation was way worse than the fall itself. He closed his eyes as if darkness would help relieve the pain. But what Chris didn’t know…was that he was waiting for a thud that never came.

He opened his eyes, as it had been too long since anything happened. He found himself lying in the front yard, light headed and nauseous. The medley of strange things didn’t register at first. He didn’t remember walking out of the door. But then, slowly, it all came back to him. The search for the ball, the chaos which magically turned to order, the disappearance of the light, the appearance of the smirk and the subsequent return of the light.

But he still couldn’t figure out as to how he had escaped the fall. He had only one explanation: It was just a nightmare. But before he could content himself with that, he looked up at the house. The entire window was tinted brown except for a transparent circular patch, the one in the shape of the ball. The ball which was now in his pocket.

It eventually dawned on him, that while he was being mocked by a demon in black, he was constantly being attended to by an angel in white. From the front yard, he could imagine the demon smirk and the angel smile. One wishing well and the other…….well…



The Dilapidated House – 2/3

A chilled breeze that carried the stench of what Chris supposed was like a century old house, whirled around the corners of the door. He cursed under his breath and took a step in. He left the door open and then waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit setting.

But until then, from every dark corner in the house, a ghastly apparition appeared to be staring directly at him. He felt like it smirked, as if it were delighted to see someone in flesh. An appetizing relish.  The apparition would vanish when he would turn to face it. A classic game of hide and seek that, for the ghost, was sorts of a warm up. Typical.

“Did this room suddenly turn cold?Nah, it’s just a breeze. The window in this room is open”, he concluded after squinting at the bright light coming off of a wall. Chris now found it to be a bit of a cliché. The apparitions were only inside his head.
“Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.” – Albert Einstein. But in times like these, it can screw you up bad. Seemingly real, and grisly visions engendered by our own mind, can cause a morbid effect. Chris was now a victim of it.

When his vision finally kicked in, he took a good look around the room. The carpet was worn off and torn. He couldn’t make out if its brown color was due to dust or if it had always been so. There was a lot of old furniture strewn around the room. But one thing seemed strange, it was like someone had done it on purpose, out of anger or rage. By some diabolical force,  perhaps.

He didn’t put much thought to it and headed straight for the stairs. The wooden steps creaked and squealed as he ascended. One of the steps cracked and his foot slipped into a gaping hole.

“The demon is sucking me into the house! Help!”. His heart skipped a beat. But to his surprise, nothing he feared happened. He was just stuck. With a little effort he was free.

“I have to get out of this goddamn place!”, he muttered mutedly. He finally climbed up and found himself staring down a long corridor that had another window at it’s end. There were several rooms but the door to only one was unlocked. Light from that window seemed to suggestively focus on the room.

“Of course! Why not?”, he said aloud sarcastically. But logic dictates that sunlight during this part of the day would naturally be focused that way. He contented himself with that. He went into the room and half expected the ball to be flying mid air. But it was not, it was just lying on the floor.

He picked it up and looked up to see the window that the ball had come from. The last time he checked, there was a hole that was perfectly in the shape of the ball. And now it was gone.

The Dilapidated House – 1/3

He couldn’t believe what he’d gotten himself into. 

“A dilapidated bungalow that looks a century old? Damn, I shouldn’t have taken up that bet. But no turning back now. Stella would think I’m a sissy.” 

Chris had heard dark rumors of a white ghost that claimed perennial residence in that murky bungalow. The place appeared to be devoid of life. More precisely, it was deprived of it. All of flora was defoliated, and there were no signs of fauna. A lone tree in the front yard, with its outstretched branches that looked like a witch’s fingers,  bode an ominous welcome to whoever dared to walk in. Admittedly, dark clouds and a lightning strike right now, would’ve sent Chris sprinting for a change of pants. 

Standing in the front yard, he could clearly see the hole in the top window that was in the shape of his cricket ball. And now he just had to get the ball. 

Stella: “That’s it Chris, simple”

Chris: “Yeah!”. Translation –> “I Wish!”

There were only three things that scared Chris: Singing in public, ghosts and his mom, in that order. He once dreamt running to a ghost for refuge while being chased by his mom who was mad at him for not singing in public. His worst nightmare. Part of it would come true tonight. “But Still better than that dream”, he thought. 

Wasting no more time, wanting to just get it done with, he inched closer towards the door. Twigs and leaves crunched under his feet. He bit his tongue and moved with caution, not to make a sound, like that would make him invisible. “Don’t wake the devil”, he told himself. 

When he approached the door, he paused for a moment, half expecting the door to screech open by itself. When it didn’t, he turned the knob and it clicked open. With his reputation, whatever was left of it, on the line, he walked in. “Plain pathetic”, he thought. But there was no turning back now. 

Hell-Bent 2/2

His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling sound of the jailer’s truncheon run across the cell bars.

‘Whom are you planning to kill now John? You lousy freakin’ bastard’

The prickly comment made him feel nothing.

His heart was stone now. And his world, cold.

It was funny to hear his own words being used to accuse him.

And they took him back to where he left off. The persistent pounding.

It went on for an hour, which, he swore, still wasn’t satisfying.

Eventually, the victim had succumbed to his injuries.

‘The Victim’, they’d called him.

But John would beg to differ.

He would never in a million years forget, the night that his daughter came home crying.

Neither would he forget the week after, when he saw her hanging from the ceiling.

He felt the world pause. And then start to crumble.

An ominous silence loomed over his life, which had now lost its meaning.

But not a tear was let out. He chose not to.

For all his anger would vent out only through the fight.

He lived to see his end. He was hell-bent.

Hell-Bent 1/2

He imagined strangling him.

“I’ll kill you, you lousy freakin’ bastard!”

His mind was re-iterating the horror. Every moment of it, bit by bit.

But that wasn’t all bad for him. For those memories were bitter-sweet.

Horrific as it may be, it wasn’t haunting him.

He liked the sound of the poor guy’s knuckles crack when he crushed his hand under his boot.

The barbarity of the act invigorated his spirit. Fueling raw anger.

One would think that he wasn’t in his senses when he was doing it. But John, very much, was.

He enjoyed every punch. Every smack on the face. Each one more vigorous than the one before.

The wretched guy suffered merciless blows. He had no escape.

He would’ve tried. But a part of him didn’t let him.

‘Let me Go!’, he screamed.

Mustering enough energy to plead for his life.

But John kept pounding him to death, bashing his skull as he lay crippled in a pool of blood.

‘Let me go, Please!’, he mumbled now.

But he kept on with it. He chose to.

He’d live to see his end. He was hell-bent.