The Christmas Ghosts — a ghost story in three parts (Part Two)
Dr Lindsay, Calcutta, 25 December 1880
Dr Lindsay was glad to sit down and take the weight off his feet. He had never danced so much in one evening. He sipped his spiced wine and felt soothed by the sounds around him. Guests were taking turns at the grand piano, turning out happy ditties. A few untiring couples continued to dance, but most people were sitting now and there were murmurs of conversation and laughter in every direction.
Lindsay was enjoying his Christmas in Calcutta. His hosts were kind, and and the daughter of the house — Helen Hennessey — had been most attentive. She had laughed at his feeble jokes, encouraged him to talk about his work, and had danced with him three times. Lindsay had never been popular with the ladies in England. They seemed to find his passion for mosquitoes mildly disgusting. Helen was different. Easy on the eye too, he thought, as he saw her walking back towards him, having seen off some guests. She was tall and graceful, with dark hair and dark eyes that shone with mischief. Lindsay’s preference was for small, fair women, but he was finding himself very attracted to this one. Or perhaps it was general bonhomie around him that was making his heart quicken. He smiled as she sat next to him.
“I’m very pleased you’re back,” he said.
“Are you?” She responded with a smile. “I’m pleased that you’re pleased.”
She looked at his glass. “Do you want some more wine? I know I do.” She turned her face towards the bar, and the Indian servant, who seemed to have eyes everywhere walked briskly towards them and refilled their glasses. Lindsay marvelled again at the quiet authority these young ladies had.
“So, why were you pleased to see me?” she asked archly.
“Because I was informed that there is a ghost story about this house and I’m hoping you will tell me the story.”
She made a face. “I don’t like those stories. You should ask my brother. He adores those ghosts. Clive, Dr Lindsay wants to heat about our ghosts!”
“I want to hear about your ghosts too,” said Patricia Mullen, another guest at the party and Helen’s recently arrived friend from England. “I was promised Mrs. Hennessey’s famous spiced wine and Clive’s famous ghost stories. I’ve had the first, and I demand the second.” She walked over and sat next to Helen. Following her cue, John Foster cut short his conversation with a fellow horse expert and joined the group. They all looked expectantly at Clive Hennessey, and Lindsay began to wish he hadn’t brought the ghosts up. Evidently the opportunity for an intimate conversation with Helen was gone.
Clive, aware of the eyes on him, grinned and looked at his watch. “It’s quarter to one. I’m surprised they haven’t made an appearance by now. They’re getting later and later. Two years ago, they showed up at midnight, I was told. Last Christmas, it was at half past midnight.”
“’They?’ So there is more than one ghost in this story! How exciting!” Patricia exclaimed.
“Oh yes. Anything from two to five is their usual custom. Any combination of sexes. But let me tell you the story right from the beginning, shall I?” boomed Clive as he came up to them and pulled a chair.
There were delighted sounds of assent, but also a few murmurs of discomfort. About half a dozen guests suddenly seemed to realise to their dismay at how late it was. One by one people started to walk to their hostess to take their leave.
Helen joined Governor and Mrs Hennessey as they saw the guests off. In less than twenty minutes, the room had emptied. Helen turned to her parents, “Mother, you and father should go to bed too. It’s only Dr Lindsay, Patricia and John now. Clive and I can take care of them.”
“Yes, perhaps that would be all right. Don’t stay up too late. Patricia, your mother said you will be staying with us tonight? That’s lovely, I will see you at breakfast then. Dr Lindsay, you will permit us to leave you young people with your ghost stories? Thank you. I’m sure I will see you again very soon.” She looked up at her husband, who was stifling a yawn, “John?”
“Yes m’dear, I’m ready to turn in m’self. Goodnight all, happy Christmas, great party, great party.” They left the room together.
Helen turned to the two Indian servants. “You can go now. We will look after ourselves. Please put the covers on the piano, and leave some new candles on the mantlepiece. Thank you.”
“Ji memsaab,” they said together, clearly relieved.
Clive rubbed his hands and pulled his chair close to Patricia’s. “Alright children, gather around. Time for the ghost story. Shall I turn out some of the candles for the atmosphere?”
“Don’t be an ass, Clive,” Helen said, and Patricia declared she would not hear of the candles being turned out.
He laughed. “I believe you girls are scared too! Glad you sent the servants away, Helen. I know they don’t like the story any more than mother does. Come to think of it, mother’s as superstitious as the Indians, I’ve noticed.”
“Get on with it, will you,” said John.
“Yes, absolutely, without any further ado. The ghost story starts with one Sir William Campbell who came to Calcutta with the East India company and spent the last decade of his short life here. He was one of the revenue collectors here. We’re told he was a brave man, saved a young prince’s life in some skirmish in England, got a knighthood, and came to India as a young civil servant because he wanted adventure. He was twenty-five years old when he arrived at these shores, and in less than a year, had acquired the reputation of being the most brutal Englishman in the entire province. He filled up the jails, levied huge fines, that kind of thing. But that wasn’t all. He had a unique personal brand of cruelty against his Indian servants. He wouldn’t break the law, mind you, but he would go as far as he could. His servants died a lot. There’s a story of how he made his groomsman run after his horse for some thirty miles until the man literally dropped dead of exhaustion. Then there’s a story of a girl servant who displeased him in some way or another. He beat her, threw her down the stairs and killed her. All this was before the Great Mutiny and the justice system here was rather lax, especially when the perpetrator was a British citizen and the victim was Indian. The court dismissed all the deaths as accidents.”
Helen shuddered and pulled her wrap closer.
“Sorry, darling. Would you rather I stopped?” Clive asked and looked at the four sombre faces around him. Gone was the hilarity and gay enthusiasm that he had started the tale with. They begged him to continue.
“There are many such stories about Campbell, one worse than the other. But I tell you just those two because they’re relevant to what comes next. This is over fifty years ago, so it’s hard to separate fact from myth. What we do know is that even now, Indian faces curl up in hatred at Campbell’s name. And they don’t like talking about him. I’ve had a hard time digging up the story.”
“His reign of brutality continued for nearly ten years. Sometime in that tenth year — he would have been thirty-five years old — he started to look very ill. He lived alone in this house, he hadn’t married. He told friends that he was having trouble sleeping. His servants said he used to scream in terror at night. They heard him sobbing and saying ‘sorry Lata’ and ‘sorry Ramdeen’ as he cried. Those were the names of the that servant girl and the groomsman who had died, you know. There were other Indian names too. Someone heard him shrieking, ‘go away, for goodness’ sake’ — that kind of thing. They believe the ghosts of the people he had killed were coming back to haunt him. But he never admitted it. Just kept getting sicker and sicker. He had always been thin, but he lost pounds of weight in weeks. Some say he looked like a ghost himself.” Clive paused and took a sip of wine.
“And then what happened?” Patricia asked.
“A few months after this had started, he was found dead in his study. He had used one of his college ties. Poor bugger,” said Clive
“So he’s the one who haunts this house. And why this house?”
“Oh, I thought I mentioned. This was his house. The stairs that lead to this ballroom? Those were the stairs down which he pushed that servant girl Lata. I’ve lived in this house for nearly two years now and I can never go down the stairs without thinking of that. They do look haunted, don’t they? And no, he’s not the ghost who haunts the house. That’s the strangest part of the story. It’s the Indians.”
“What? The Indians? Whatever could you mean?” Patricia squeaked.
“Yes. It happens every Christmas night, He died on a Christmas night, I’m sure you figured that out. At some point in the night, you can hear someone climbing up the stairs. They try and open this door. Don’t ask me why this door, and not the door of the study where he died. I don’t know. They struggle to open the door even though it’s never locked. When the door does open — you see Indian people standing outside. The story is that they’re the ghosts of the people he murdered, and they’re looking for him. They don’t know that he’s dead. I saw them last year. One man and one woman. It chilled my bones, I assure you. I had heard the stories and I had every intention of speaking to whoever would be outside the door. But when I saw them, I found myself paralysed by fear. It was only the two of us that night. Just me and John. And neither of us could move, remember, John?” John nodded.
“What did they look like?” Lindsay asked.
“Well, they looked like Indians, don’t you know. But they didn’t look like real people. Didn’t seem solid somehow, seemed full of shadows. I know how mad that sounds, but it’s the truth. They were dressed strangely too. They seemed as terrified of us as we were of them. It was only a couple of seconds and then the wind blew the door shut. When I opened the door again, they were gone. There was no one there.”
Jagriti, Kolkata, 25 December 2015
The house was larger and grander than Jagriti had imagined. She had always loved these old colonial bungalows and Kolkata seemed full of them. Her parents would be love the house. Her mother would probably never want to leave the garden. The driveway from the gate to the house was lined with plants. Jagriti rolled the window and took a deep breath. Yes, it was Jasmine, her favourite flower.
The two guards who opened the gate had looked surprised. They had saluted smartly, and Jagriti had nodded at them. She would speak with them tomorrow, she had decided.
She got out of the car. Mr Sharma hopped out and ran to pull her bags out of the car. He climbed the two steps to the door and opened it. Jagriti followed him. He put the bags on the foyer and turned to her.
“Madam would you like me to wake the cook up? To make you some tea madam? Some snacks, madam?”
“No Mr Sharma, thank you. I will be heading straight to bed.”
“Alright madam. There are three bedrooms on the ground floor and two on the top floor. We have made them all ready. Would you like me to show you the house now?”
Hell no, she said in her head. Aloud she said, “No that’s alright, we can do all that tomorrow.”
“Alright madam. This bedroom is the largest and also opens into the garden,” he said pointing at the door on their right. “Vikash sir used this as the master bedroom. Right next to the bed is a bell that you can use to call the cook, madam. Her name is Radheshwari. Her quarter is connected to the kitchen. She did not know you will be coming tonight or she would have been here waiting for you. You can call her anytime madam.”
“That’s great. Mr Sharma. I will call her when I want breakfast in the morning. Thank you for all your help. You can go home now.”
“Thank you very much madam. Can I keep your bags in the bedroom? I can also show you where the light switches are.”
“No no, I can manage, please don’t worry.” She was trying not to show her exasperation. Would he never leave?
“Yes madam. Okay goodnight madam.” Jagriti breathed a sigh as the door closed behind him. A very kind man, but a little too much.
She turned to the bedroom on the right. If it was good for the fussy Vikash, it was good enough for her. She picked the smaller of her two bags and walked into the room.
She switched on the light and gasped in delight. There was a four-poster bed that looked straight out of a colonial era film. And a roll-top study table. She smiled. She was going to have a great time discovering the treasures in the house.
She heard the music as she was brushing her teeth. It sounded like someone was playing a happy song on a piano. Could it be something that guards were listening to? Or was it neighbours? All the other houses had seemed too far away for any sounds to come through. As she came back into the bedroom, the music seemed to grow louder. She heard laughter too.
The music was louder outside the bedroom. It was coming from one of the upstairs rooms. She looked up. There was a light underneath one of the doors.
She was amused and surprised to find that all her sleepiness had gone. Could there be something in the ghost stories after all? She started to climb the stairs. When she was about halfway up, the music stopped. Startled at the silence, she stopped climbing and stood listening. Was she imagining things? Was there a dim murmur of conversation coming from behind that door now? She stood still for a few moments, uncertain, now starting to feel a little afraid. She shook herself, told herself not to be silly, and continued her climb upstairs.
Click here for the final part of the story.
