A short story: Second Hand

~A short story~

Second Hand

The emotion called fear is a driver, among others, of the instincts standing in the way of potential harm to sentient animals. In a universe bent on disassembling the fragile material structure that causes life to exist, fear is what makes unintentional suicides rare indeed, to say the least. It is not exactly pleasurable either—most do not relish dread, apprehension or jump-scares.

Well, I knew someone who felt otherwise.

One apartment, in the flats on one side of the Grand Trunk Road in suburban Serampore, belonged to Ranjan Dey— a mostly solitary fellow in his mid thirties, healthy and brown with a small-to-average height, and a wearer of thick-rimmed glasses. He was the typical specimen of a middle class Bengali, a lone bachelor going about giving private tuitions in Computer Science to school-going pupils ranging from the most inattentive, unwilling and reluctant to the most diligent, studious nerds. He used to teach in a school, but resigned when he decided that his tuitions profited him more than the school did, and he turned his full attention to his tuitions. What he earned kept him going and content with no more mouths to feed other than his, he was a free bird; he thought he couldn’t wish for more.

Above everything else, he was perhaps the greatest consumer of everything from the realm of the most unnerving horrors. His earnings fed him with the capital for getting the grossest, most nightmarish of movies, novels and what-not. He was popular as Ranjan Sir (given that it is weirdly common in India for teachers to be spontaneously knighted) not only for being a decent enough teacher tackling batches of dozens of students in each—his popularity (among his students, especially) was fuelled by the way that he took the role of an enthusiastic storytelling grandpa when, you know, students dangle in the in-between; when there is not much syllabus to cover at the end of an academic year. His stories were the petrifying kind—the ones which make one alert to the slightest stimuli, make one overly edgy from the deeply etched impressions that don’t tend to go before long spells.

Ranjan was never one who qualified as internet savvy. His recreation was circumscribed by part time web designing (an unarguable irony); his CRT television set, and of course, books. Well, these days, internet-savvy hardly means anything but a social media frequenter, or something of that sort. He liked to have the notion that the Mind was a virtual world enough, an offshoot of the human ability to predict the future, and taxing it by its involvement in a man-made one was burdensome. He had never ordered an article on an online shopping site; each ware that he possessed had been studied by him thoroughly before he bought them from shops or showrooms.

One evening, at one of his tuitions, he casually talked about how he was on the lookout for an almirah to replace his aeons old, wooden skeleton of a rack. One of the girls, Amrita, suggested, “Sir, we got a chest of drawers from an online shopping site recently. The site has a lame name— called Wooden Dreams, but the service is worth th—”    

“Can you come up with a better name?” a batch-mate poked at her comment. Amrita gave him the tired-eye look. Ranjan Dey chuckled artificially, and said “You see, I prefer looking at what I buy, up front. I need to check out a furniture showroom. There is one nearby, already...”

“Sir, my father has one”, a boy offered. Everyone looked at him, as if on reflex. “Hm?” the teacher showed interest. The boy added, “Well, a furniture showroom, that is—my father owns one. You could consider buying from him... Just saying.”

“Oh, is it? That’s nice. Where is the showroom, by the way?”

“It’s just on the other side of the bridge, Sir”, promptly replied Ashutos, which was the boy’s name.

“A’right, I’ll think.” The students looked up to his face, expecting the dismissal of the class for the night—and so were they granted.

That very night, Ranjan Dey was called by Ashutos’s father, Mr. Sain. “My son told me about it; it would be a pleasure, Sir,” he said. The teacher coolly asked about the kinds he had, and he eventually told him about his preferences. “A wooden one, moderately decorated—”

“No problem, Sir, there is a whole array. You could choose anyone you like.”

“Okay, I’ll see.” It was one of Dey’s traits—he never said anything with absolute certitude. He loved uncertainty, and was convinced about God’s knack for playing dice—except the way computer programs and maths work. “Sure, Sir. Besides, I could sell it to you at a nice and cheap price, heh heh... Those things aside, Sir, what do you think about the boy’s performance? I mean, at his studies?”

*****

Dey made sure he visited Mr. Sain’s showroom. After all, the man had taken the trouble of categorically requesting him—nay, inviting him, almost— to begin with. SAIN FURNITURE flashed in fluorescent red in the display board above the entrance, but the shop itself was not as big as Dey had pictured when he was told about a ‘whole array’ to choose from. He stepped in, and the man at the desk greeted him warmly. “Why, I was expecting you!”

Dey smiled good-naturedly.  “Would you like some tea? Or a—”

“No, thank you Dada. Could I address you as Dada?” Of course, it is the most common way of addressing an elderly male—acknowledging him as someone would an elder brother. “Well, haven’t you before?” the man chuckled. “So, let me show you around.”

He was shown a chest of drawers first. Then he saw a closet, and a metal almirah followed. Then he was shown one wardrobe and he immediately liked it.

It was a wardrobe, bookcase and chest of drawers rolled into one. Its wooden panes were immense—a grown up could fit into it with little trouble. Its dimensions were perfect, so that it could be easily brought in through his doorway. The only thing that bothered him was that it looked a wee bit old. The gleam was, to his eyes, worn out. However, it was the closest to what he had imagined when he had thought about buying what he would. “Why, it looks a little— used... no?”

“You see, it was sold to me just the other day. But if you like it, I could get it to look as good as new.”

“Yes, I like it,” he became thoughtful. “Why would someone sell something as good as this? I mean, it’s definitely very—”

“A nervous, old woman had approached me, and she herself had got it transported from her house. But it doesn’t matter, don’t you think? Would you buy it?”

“Uh... what shall it cost me, again?”

“Fifty-eight hundred rupees. It’s fairly cheap, no?”

“Come on, Dada, how much profit are you making on this? A little less, maybe?”

“Alright, Fifty-two hundred. That’s the best that I can do, Ranjan... oh, pardon me.”

“It’s okay; you can call me that... uh, five thousand?” Dey bargained. “I’m sorry, but I said it”, Mr. Sain held his ground with a polite smile.

Ranjan Dey complied. He wanted to have it transported to his house, and he expected it to cost him extra, which it did. But that did not matter much. He was assured that the wardrobe would reach his house by the next evening.

When the wardrobe arrived, though, it was quite late. He did not have tuition in the schedule of the day. He was watching the news, and had the second mug of coffee on the knee-high table beside his chair. The doorbell rang, a rough man stood in the stairwell. He made sure it was the customer, and paced down the stairs quickly to get the furniture.

It took three men to heave it up to the first floor. They set the wardrobe on one corner of the living room, gave him a pair of keys on a key-ring, took the rest of the payment and left. So that was done. Dey put his hands on his hip and ran his eyes over the hunk of solid wood.

He examined the wardrobe-cum-cupboard. It had the smell of fresh varnish and paint—Mr. Sain had kept his promise. He turned the bigger key in the proportionally big keyhole; a click let him gently turn the pane out. That freed more of the sweet, slightly pungent chemical odour. Good enough, he thought to himself. There was a column of racks on the bottom left, and a drawer on its adjacent right. Who puts drawers inside a wardrobe? Dey thought. Oh, the drawer too had a keyhole! The part above it was completely void, with hooks to hang clothes—or a new blazer, Dey thought. Then he saw the palm-print.

It was likely made by a child’s hand, with outstretched fingers, when the paint was still wet. How could it be? Mr. Sain has children working for him? It was a blemish. No problem, it could be overlooked nonetheless.

He watched some TV, ate the dinner cooked by himself, watched some more TV and yawned noisily. He looked at the clock, and decided it was his right to go to bed right then. His head touched the pillow when a gentle breeze was coming through the open North-side window. Ranjan Dey fell fast asleep.

He regained consciousness abruptly. The dream was strange, but the sound he awoke to was stranger. Is that someone knocking at the door? Dey thought. Knock-knock... Knock-knock-knock... Silence... Knock... tap-tap...

Dey had watched and read enough horrors to have grown iron nerves. The knocking was not periodic, and why the heck would anybody knock when there was a calling-bell? “Ughh”, Dey groaned irritably and rose. He literally swayed with the unfulfilled sleep, managed to walk into the living room and looked at the door. The room was dark, but streetlights diffused through the curtains dropped over the open window. He staggered toward the door, rubbing his eyes, and the knocking dimmed. He listened hard, and realised that it came from the direction of the wardrobe.

Confused, he stared at the wardrobe. A while passed; there was quiet— then a knock again. It continued.

He put on the light— and it instantly stopped. “Hmm”, Dey agreed. Behold the wardrobe monster, now in India. He gritted his teeth. He came to the wardrobe, turned the key already in the keyhole and opened it. There was nothing, of course. Hah! But... Not even a... mouse... or... something?

With half closed eyes, Dey smacked his lips and scratched his head, with one hand on his waist, staring at the hunk of wood. Finally, he decided to shake it all off as a natural occurrence (Probably a rat which coincidentally stopped knocking when the light was on—but why would it knock anyway?) and put the light off after looking at the wardrobe one last time. Immediately, he did a double take when the glimpse registered in his head—standing upon the floor under the wardrobe, a single, pale bluish foot.

I am hallucinating.

Dey was fully awake; suddenly perspiring. He quickly turned the light back on. He gaped at the slice of floor shadowed under the wardrobe, and saw no sign of the eldritch object. Hesitantly, he edged toward the wardrobe, and stooped down. The shadowy, yellow-washed wall on the other side revealed itself. Slowly rising back up, the back of his hand automatically went up to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

A recently made memory forcibly tried to incarnate before his mind’s eye. His brain beat it back, and it finally manifested. The palm-print glowed in his psyche.

A sharp chill zipped down the trough in the middle of his back. After all the times he enjoyed the horror genre, this time, he really did not like it. When he proceeded to put off the light, he decided it was better left on.

He climbed onto his bed, and lay down. He could not sleep, because—you guessed it—street dogs wailed in heart-wrenching notes. Eventually, however, the cool breeze returned and flowed around the room driven by the practically soundless ceiling fan. Annabelle... the Grudge... all made up... all... He was asleep again.

Yet again, he woke with a start. He was feeling hot all over, sweating vigorously—the bed-sheet, the pillow—they were moist with his perspiration. And the darkness was blinding, smothering him, but for the open window. Damned power-cut! He wondered what the time was. And then he heard it— spasmodic, short breaths; rapid, urgent tapping sounds accompanying—it came from the living room.

Ranjan Dey gulped hard, and blinked at the half moon through the window. He was glad he had the habit of taking the pocket flashlight to bed with him. He groped for it below the pillow, while the sound continued.

Dey was deafened by the silence. No dog howled, no cricket chirped. Dey stepped on the mosaic tiled floor, and it felt cool under his sole. The breathing sounds, as faint as they firstly were, were now hardly audible; yet the knocking persisted—through the pin-drop quiet. His heart would have won in a sprint if set free on a marathon track. After all those years of unfaltering faithfulness, his brain was deceiving him! Why, was he feeling panicky!

Dey flicked the flashlight on— the batteries are out of juice! “Cursed corpse!” he said under his breath. Slapping the electric torch against his left palm, he thought—God, all the horror clichés upon me in one freaking night! He thought the tapping grew louder, now sharp knocks. The knocks became thumps, like someone lightly slapping on a solid surface.

With his soul wriggling inside his ribcage, writhing to be set free, he entered the living room. The load-shedding had put off the street lights too. The ice gold grip of terror was squeezing his cardiac muscles; he couldn’t stand the sound—it was too loud for him to be hallucinating, he thought. Yet, with the dimming light of the torch leading him, he came and stood before the wardrobe. He forgot to notice that the key was already in the unlocked position of the lock, or he would have asked himself why the impulse of the knocks had not already opened the wardrobe. His fingers wrapped around the sleek wooden handle; he could feel the force of the knock from the inside...

He swung the door open.

*****

Dawn broke without cheer, and gave way to morning. The sun played hide-and-seek from behind the clouds, and finally hid for real when the sky grew overcast, and from breezy, the air turned windy. Henry Mondal, who had newly joined an undergraduate course under the guidance of Ranjan Dey, was lamenting his fate for not bringing an umbrella along, despite the concerned advices from his mother.

Ranjan Sir had called him that day to his apartment; it was the second time that he would meet him. Meanwhile, the sky became greyer.

Henry skipped a step at a time and swiftly climbed the stairs with his lean legs, and soon, stood before the door with the nameplate declaring the occupant’s identity: RANJAN DEY. He pressed the button to the doorbell and waited.

He waited.

What was taking so long?

He waited still.

He grew restive by the minute. He realised the amount of time that had passed.

Henry pressed the switch again. There was no reply. He wondered if the teacher was fast asleep. Far away, there was a faint boom of thunder. Why is Ma always right?

Henry knocked at the door. Nothing came as an answer. He felt the uncanny air. He knocked again, louder, so that his knuckles hurt. He called out, “SIR! RANJAN-SIR!” Touching his ear to the door, he slammed on it with his open palm.

He heard a doorknob turning—a door opened—and the neighbour in the opposite apartment emerged. The middle aged lady asked what the matter was, and learned that the completely fine, sane and hearty Ranjan Dey she had seen the other day was mysteriously not answering the door. She called her husband out into the common stairwell, and he suggested Dey could be in the loo. The suggestion was not buyable, because no one as healthy as the man in question could be as deaf or dumb as was being assumed, to begin with—and the toilet wasn’t that far into his room either. The man banged on the door, crying his name all the time—to no effect whatsoever. “I think something is wrong” said the lady, disturbed indeed. The man went to fetch the security guard.

The guard did not know where the extra keys were. Therefore, the police were called. It all happened very quickly. Meanwhile, Henry had rung up his mother, communicated to her the situation so far, and told her to wait for further updates on the matter. The police concluded from the witness’ account that Ranjan had never given a duplicate key to anyone. There was just one foolproof way though...

The heftier officer threw himself at the door, and it flew open with a loud crack. The cop stood there, crouched to absorb the impact, and slowly straightened up. His gaze was fixed on the ground. Henry hesitantly entered, along with the husband of the neighbour.

The Norwester storm blew a gale with the full force of its presence, trees swayed in the strong wind—they call it Kaal-Baishakhi in Bengali; one can feel the grim, menacing ring to it...

Henry saw his teacher lying flat upon the floor, the bulging eyes fixed in an awful, deathly, horrified stare; dry foam at the mouth. The neighbour saw the cold, paralysed body of the man, looking straight at a new piece of furniture; a wardrobe with its open doors swinging in the wind.