The Christmas Ghosts — a ghost story in three parts (Part Three)
Lindsay, Calcutta, 1880
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, a silence broken only by the sounds of the wind against the window shutters. Half the candles had burned down — the room seemed darker. Lindsay found himself unable to say anything to lighten up the mood. The story seemed far-fetched, but it had left them all very quiet. Clive was looking at the floor, lost in his own thoughts. Helen was looking at her brother, worry on her face. John and Patricia were holding hands —now when did that happen, Lindsay wondered — both also looking at the floor.
Lindsay realized it was up to him to bring some common sense into the room. He cleared his throat. “I say,” he said, “shall I light some more candles?”
Clive looked up and smiled faintly. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you reminding me of my duties as a host. I’ll light the candles. I’ll also get myself another drink. Does anyone else — ”
He stopped mid-sentence, so suddenly that they all looked at him in surprise. Clive looked as alert as a dog. He was looking at the door.
“Do you hear it?” he whispered.
They did hear it. The unmistakable sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
Lindsay was irritated. Why should they assume a ghostly presence simply because there were footsteps? There were other people in the house. Why shouldn’t it be one of the regular inmates of the house? He was about to ask the question when he felt Helen stiffen. She was looking at the doorknob with a horrified fascination. Someone outside the door was struggling to turn the doorknob — of a door that wasn’t locked.
Lindsay, to his own surprise, felt himself go cold. His brain, ever the scientist, was interested to note this. I am terrified. My entire body feels cold and I cannot move. I want to walk towards that door, but I cannot.
The person outside was getting impatient. The door continued to shake and finally gave way.
The first thing Lindsay noticed was that light outside the room was impossibly bright. In the light stood a girl who would have seemed as real as them if it wasn’t for the strange mist around her. The fear that held them captive was a solid presence in the room. She looked frightened too. She looked at each one of them, one by one. Her glance was intense and questioning, but also terrified. She opened her mouth, as if to say something. The door swung shut on her.
Lindsay felt the fear fall away from him like a blanket. He ran to the door and opened it. There was no one there. They hadn’t heard any receding footsteps, but the girl had gone. The bright light had gone too. A few flickering candles in their brackets were all the light in the stairwell.
Jagriti, Kolkata, 2015
Jagriti’s mouth was dry and her heart was hammering. She had never felt this frightened before. Had she really seen those people? Should she try opening the door again? A few moments later, she forced herself to take a deep breath and turned the door handle again. This time it opened easily. The moonlight coming from the windows was bright enough for her to see that it was a completely different room. It was an office. There was a U-shaped table with about two dozen chairs spread around it. The usual government-issued bookcases lined the walls. Gone was the room with the candelabras and the piano. And the strange misty people were gone too.
She closed the door and started to walk back down. Her knees were shaking. She tried to tell herself that what she had experienced was imagination fuelled by her tiredness. In the clear light of the morning, she would be convinced of this logic. She would not dwell on the most overwhelming thing — that the man who seemed like he wanted to say something to her had looked exactly like the kind doctor who had operated on her appendicitis in London two years ago. He hadn’t been able to stop saying to her that it was utterly bizarre that that he felt like he had known her a long time ago, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where it had been.
