It was a bungalow before it was converted into our office. Once inhabited by a family, they are said to have left the place in a hurry, the reasons hushed up by the ones who converted in into an office.
Built on a hill, it looks deceptively small from the front. But as you enter you realize that there are more rooms in the building than you actually thought. And one room, the one we call the Small Conference Room, is tucked away into a quiet corner of the building. Below this room, there is another room, which is a part of the foundation of the building. Without this room the building would be unable to stand and would collapse. A room that is shown in the building plans. But a room that the current owners have never found. A room with no doors and no windows. A room that exists. It has to. But a room that no one has managed to find despite all efforts.
There are several stories about this place, most of them told by a withered old gardener, who had been working here for a long time. Very few believed him. The gardener died some years ago and with him his stories.
Last night was a dark and cloudy night. We were coming back from Bombay when one of the Directors of the company I work in told me this story. It was raining heavily yesterday. A night perfect for saved up ghost stories. His intention was to scare me but as he proceeded his voice became quieter and eerier. ‘Don’t venture around that place too late’, he said, laughing, at the end of his tale. But his laugh was no longer a teasing laugh, but a slightly nervous one.
I asked him whether he believed in the story. He said that he didn’t, the pause before his answer two seconds too long for me to believe him. I looked at him expectantly, waiting for more. Then he said, he’s never seen anything. ‘But sometimes, if you’re working late in the night and go out for some fresh air, you see cats.’ ‘Cats?’ I asked, unimpressed. ‘Yes cats,’ he said, ‘cats which are bigger in size than your normal cats. White cats with yellow spots. And eyes that scare you, boring into you as if they were observing you. They sometimes sit on the wall, quietly. And then they disappear. I have never seen where they go.’ He was quiet after that. And I quickly changed the topic to a happier one.
But now, I will think twice about working alone late in the office. Now, I look at the forest at the top of the hill differently. The trees, newly green with the fresh rains, inviting in the day look menacing in the dark. Home to creatures, dead and living. Home to the unknown. Home to fear.
Built on a hill, it looks deceptively small from the front. But as you enter you realize that there are more rooms in the building than you actually thought. And one room, the one we call the Small Conference Room, is tucked away into a quiet corner of the building. Below this room, there is another room, which is a part of the foundation of the building. Without this room the building would be unable to stand and would collapse. A room that is shown in the building plans. But a room that the current owners have never found. A room with no doors and no windows. A room that exists. It has to. But a room that no one has managed to find despite all efforts.
There are several stories about this place, most of them told by a withered old gardener, who had been working here for a long time. Very few believed him. The gardener died some years ago and with him his stories.
Last night was a dark and cloudy night. We were coming back from Bombay when one of the Directors of the company I work in told me this story. It was raining heavily yesterday. A night perfect for saved up ghost stories. His intention was to scare me but as he proceeded his voice became quieter and eerier. ‘Don’t venture around that place too late’, he said, laughing, at the end of his tale. But his laugh was no longer a teasing laugh, but a slightly nervous one.
I asked him whether he believed in the story. He said that he didn’t, the pause before his answer two seconds too long for me to believe him. I looked at him expectantly, waiting for more. Then he said, he’s never seen anything. ‘But sometimes, if you’re working late in the night and go out for some fresh air, you see cats.’ ‘Cats?’ I asked, unimpressed. ‘Yes cats,’ he said, ‘cats which are bigger in size than your normal cats. White cats with yellow spots. And eyes that scare you, boring into you as if they were observing you. They sometimes sit on the wall, quietly. And then they disappear. I have never seen where they go.’ He was quiet after that. And I quickly changed the topic to a happier one.
But now, I will think twice about working alone late in the office. Now, I look at the forest at the top of the hill differently. The trees, newly green with the fresh rains, inviting in the day look menacing in the dark. Home to creatures, dead and living. Home to the unknown. Home to fear.
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