Voodoo- Horror story- Part 2

It was how I learnt all about black magic.
And I didn't look like the witch I was. My grandmother never liked my father. Is that how he died of heart attack? I saw her plunging the needle in his heart, again and again.
Mother was just living in a trance of her own as if she had been programmed to live a life in a certain way. I had stopped caring long back and it bothered me a little that I didn't really want to know about her life anymore.
I loved a guy who studied with me and we were kind of friends too. But he was flirty. When he smiled at others, my heart ached. I wanted that smile only for me. I had no friends so that made it difficult for him to stick with me for long. But there were no confessions of love either when he first kissed me. No beautiful beach view at Marine Drive or looking into each other's eyes. It just happened. Later on when I thought about it, I didn't really feel the flutter that I thought I would. But there was one feeling of happiness that had escaped me for long. My fingers fiddled with the lock of his hair that I used for the portion. I opened the door to my work room and used another lock in the large wok I had been using.
A bell rung and I turned the curtain to hide.
Then I saw him again. That dark shadow that moved, touched everything in my room. It had no shape yet I could hear the loud breathing, as if it was just near my ear. I could feel the breath, cold and chilling.
"I came to take you", the voice had no gender. I could just feel a mix of voices, "You promised".
"I...Of course", the sweat trickling down my forehead, "But it was just a kiss. I asked you to make him fall for me".
"Ok. I will come afterwards then".
I sat on the ground, my heart pummelling and I felt as if my head would break into two.
The devil was here to take my soul and if I didn't succumb, I was going to die.

Voodoo - A Horror Story- Part 1

I had a very special relationship with the dead. It aways made my flatmates a little scared. No, not little but a lot scared than I had ever thought they would be. And i enjoy it. Immensely. It gives my shattered soul a little comfort that I could scare people. Normal people who are scared to know that there are ghosts around who can talk, walk and ever sleep in the same bed with you. But I was never like this before. I was as scared as they were as a child. My mother was recently widowed and started dating as soon as they set fire to my father's bones. Men came and went in the house and I wondered how my dead father would feel about the situation. Then my grandmother came to live with us and the situation changed a little. From many men, my mother stuck to just one. The man was hideous, clingy and even drunk at times. I thought maybe he was around for money. But he was just around. Always. In front of the TV. Grandma was playing with her doll again. A voodoo doll, she said. She had pins all over the thing and I thought i heard her speaking to it once or twice. It was my sixteenth birthday and as usual the house was dull and a strong scent of kapoor was waving through the air. Since we were not very religious it was strange.
"Playing with the doll again?" I sat beside her. She smelled like kapoor. I guess that explained it all.
"It's not a doll. It's a soul of another person".
"What's that?" I knew that she was going mad, but this mad?
"It's your sixteenth birthday. And I want you to learn what my ancestors knew", she took out a book. A thick one and handed it over to me.
And it was really old. "You know I don't like books. But at least give me a new one".
"You were always a sharp one in our family and your mother was just too ordinary to understand this. Start reading and you will know".
And here is where I learnt about the another world. Where I live now more than I live in this one.

Diary of a Married Woman- A Horror/Thriller Story

Date: 6th May 1975

He waited for me to come home every night, to our son and our life that seemed to be going on and on for years now. It will never end. Marriage after all has no end, no contract. And I envied my single friend, Asmara. She had no worries, except maybe paying the bills and keeping her flat going with her 9 to 5 job. I had no job. Maybe that's why I had to do it secretly. I wore a saree at home but outside I was a different woman. A woman who wanted it all. Who could tell that a simple married woman was in fact a prostitute? My job gave me pleasure. I know I am supposed to crib but I don't. I like being manhandled and wanted. It makes me feel like a woman.

Date: 17th May 1975

Today there were riots and Indira Gandhi has declared emergency in the state. Everything was weird. But my clients were more than ever. Maybe it was the stress of what was happening. The man was handsome. He had a wife and an infant of two days at home. But he came to me. He says he is attracted to me but I find an instant dislike to such an insensitive man. After he pushed me against his car, I didnt't feel like being a part of the act. So I just pretended it was my husband. 

Date: 20th May 1975

Asmara was unhappy. She cried that her boyfriend had to undergo vasectomy. The rules were strict. And she wanted children. They were about to get married too. I felt nothing except perhaps, my husband should go to the camp. He should be sterilized. Already her son was showing signs of autism. I shouldn't tell him though. I killed our second baby when it was born. I took his tiny neck in my hands and cracked it into two. And I felt happy. My body was mine again. 

Date: 25th May 1975

They were going to kill me. I just knew that. Yet when he just felt my breasts, I realized like every other man, he wanted to do it. A woman found in the streets so late in the night despite the State emergency, was a serious offence. The police officer gave me a lewd stare and asked me to get with it. When I reached home, tired and scared, I never wanted to go out of the home now. But he hit me again. Did I tell you that he didn't know I was a woman of streets? He thinks I got and sell those horrible puppets he makes at home. And all that money I earn is his. But how can i let him know the truth? Hurt and male ego didn't go well together.

Date 30th May 1975

Killing a man for money was easier now. It wasn't necessary to do anything else. That handsome man met me again. It was easier to work late in the nights now in exchange of physical favors. I stood with blood in my hands and my mouth, his guts were out and he looked like a scary picture of 1950's. Black and white and no color in his cheeks. Dead people made an interesting subject to describe. No wonder the police spent hours on them. But they were not going to find the culprit. 

***

The tank bund on the roads of Necklace road was deep. Osman Lake was filled with uneven shores. There wasn't a soul walking around. She raised her hands high up in the air, closing her eyes, enjoying the fresh air and a faint order of fish mingled with blood. Then there was a splash. The old beggar on the road twitched his nose and collected the money she threw on his clothes. He removed his blind glasses and walked his way home. Finally he could afford the drugs and a bottle of rum for dinner. 



(C) Sonia Kundra Singh
Do Not Copy
(c) Copyright 1957

The Hand- A Thriller/Horror Story

Living in the city was never so much fun. I walked the lanes in a quite solitude waiting for the rain to calm down. It was getting darker and the rains didn't loose its ferocity. It only got dimmer and not so pleasant sunlight remained for us to go home.  But my home was what I called home. It was a one bed studio, previously owned by an artist. He still had his paintings in the flat when I started to move in. The landlord didn't touch them, asking me to do what I wish with them. Most of them were portraits of people, young and old and some very repetitive ones, as if he was trying to perfect his art. And some incomplete.  This particular woman did seem very difficult to put on canvas. And I was taking arts at school. It only made sense that I get to keep them.

The dreary stairs stood in front of me as I reached. Two flights to take and I skipped in my way. I was thin and fit so not having an elevator didn't suck as much as it did for others. And the rent was dead cheap. It was so affordable that I didn't need to share it with anyone. I finally had my own place at 18.

I flipped through the several keys I had when the door opposite to mine. The old woman was creepy, white hair, uncombed and those sleeping robe that must not been washed since ages. She she stunk! Like some rat feeding on dead worms and maybe of rat poop too. I backed a step. The smell was unbearable.

"Why are you living here?"
What a weird way of welcoming someone.
"He doesn't like anyone watching him work. Or touching his work. Never sold them even to me. I could have given him so much for those paintings".
"Uh, He?"
"The man who used to live here. Amish guy. beard and a hat with black suit. He used to hide them from his Rabbi family".
"What do you mean?"
"They killed him. He was being rebellious. A jew wasn't supposed to paint. He could only be a farmer or a teacher..."
"I see".
The woman laughed. Her rotting teeth telling a story of an unloved life, "And you will know soon too".
I just pushed myself into the flat, angry that I got an insane woman for a neighbor. No wonder I didn't have to give the down payment.

The light didn't work and it was too quite. The woman's word still ringing at the back of my mind. I was a catholic, church going woman with no one to tell me what to do with my life. The poor guy must have really suffered. Religion suppressing his creativity.
The lights flickered and a hollowness of someone talking began.
"Cut his hands off!"
"Both his hands!"
It was like an repetitive echo. The paintings began to lift and fly, smashing against the walls. I stood frozen, sweat trickled down my forehead and body just feeling cold, as if it was peak winters and I was standing naked in the middle of the night.
"I love that woman. Don't do this please".
"We are going to do what we please. Our religion does not allow two marriages. You are a cheat".
A shadow of a woman, so beautiful began crying. And another one, a little older but coldness exuded from her. She took the painter's knife and slashed the woman's head.

The lights came and there was no one in the room. The paintings were exactly where they were. And none were torn. I blinked and felt a fervor. The woman's painting had to be completed. I got to work, my hands picking up the color palate, fresh and the paint brushes looked new. It was like someone was waiting for her to do the job. I didn't feel tired, a strange fever catching up with me. Someone tapping my shoulders, putting his solid hands on them, wanting to tell me what to do. But I ignored it.

Morning came and I had a backache. It was the first in my life. The painting was finished. I went for my classes like everyday but the backache persisted despite those medicines. Weeks turned into months. The ghosts didn't come back. My neighbor was invisible but I was admitted in the hospital for an uneven spine. The backache had now become a serious problem. I was wrapped in some weird bandages, my hands were being bound and my mouth gagged as I tried to explain but no one heard me. My teacher had come to see me and he looked peeved and concerned.

"You said you had one painting that you wanted to show me".
"Yes...it's of a woman".
"Your flat is filled with blank canvas and there is only one painting with red paint on it. Of finger prints and hands..."
I was speechless.
"It looks like real blood".
"Maybe my flat was robbed. My neighbor might have seen something?"
"What neighbor? The old woman who owned it never gave it up. And she has been dead for years now. So I really don't know what you are talking about".
"I...Where am I?"
"It's a psychiatric ward. You have been making hand prints on your canvas for months now".
The old professor left shaking his head in dismay. I turned in my bed, curling into a ball, the backache gripping me in pain. The mirror in front of me had another man, hugging me from behind. I closed my eyes, tears and a mix of fear swirling me in the world of make believe world.

(c)Sonia Kundra Singh

Do Not Copy

(c)Copyright 1957