Submitted for Challenge 2: Dog Barks At... Nothing? by ParanormalCommunity (Prompt details here: https://my.w.tt/UiNb/CbhPXnhESG - 1195 words)
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On some level, I wanted to be haunted during my stay at Chatham Estate. I was hoping for it, long before the groundskeepers, Yashwant and Shirya, first opened its wrought iron gates to my rented Tata Zest.
I recall the heady anticipation as I drove by the gnarled banyan tree in the front lawn. Its invasive roots had strangled the host tree decades ago. My mind's eye stared at the make-believe shades that peered out from the gaps in its trunk.
* * *
It's tempting to say I came here to find immortality. In a sense, it was true; for every writer, a finished story may be regarded as a kind of afterlife. But the actual situation was far more prosaic: I had been in a rut writing the follow-up to my occult detective novel, Kill 'Em All.
The first book had been written for its own sake; a disposable tale about a Bombay rocker who moves to Southern California in the early Nineties, chasing heavy metal dreams, only to end up solving paranormal cases for rent money. An unlikely hit on Wattpad, it caught the attention of Gambrel Books. Now my inboxes were quickly filling up with unanswered messages from my publisher. At that point, I was convinced that even a minor brush with the otherworldly would nudge me out of this wordless purgatory.
The first couple of days were genuinely uneventful. I made slow but substantial progress on the book that would be cheekily titled Ride the Lightning. Plot bunnies were fleshed out into chapter drafts. Scribbled notes and clever turns of phrase cohered into full paragraphs. Darlings were killed at the altar of a tighter manuscript. Yet nary a creature stirred anywhere but the laptop screen. So when Kutiya—the caretakers' mutt—began howling in the wee hours of my third night at Chatham, part of me was actually relieved.
It wasn't just playful barking either. It was the kind of bared-teeth hell-hound growl that dogs only make when facing a real threat.
As the barking grew more intense, my neurons started to fire; imagination racing with the kind of fell creatures that might be lurking on the perimeter. Could it be a wandering bhoot, lurching towards the dog on distended limbs and backwards-facing feet? Perhaps it was a vetala, menacing Kutiya with its cadaverous scent and unholy presence. Or maybe a hideous pishacha stalked these grounds with a taste for flesh.
I briefly considered the possibility that Kutiya was snarling at a human intruder. An isolated manor with only infrequent guests would make a reasonable target for prowlers in the area. But then I recalled the history that first attracted me to Chatham Estate.
* * *
I was quite familiar with the reputation of this sprawling compound off National Highway 22, just outside Shimla city limits in Himachal Pradesh. The original cottage was built in the Gothic Revival style, as a summer home for mid-level functionaries of the British East India Company. It had the grim distinction of being one of the few buildings in the hill station that was partially razed during the native uprising of 1857.
Under the British Raj, architects built a neo-Classical wing to the main building, along with stables and a detached guesthouse. It was in the visitors' quarters where one Ida Kaylock hung herself under mysterious circumstances, while her spouse, naturalist Sir George Dosett, was recovering from cholera.
Then in 1970, also-ran Mancunian rock band The Wyrd Ones took up residence at Chatham, following their better-known peers in search of transcendental meditation and premium Oriental kush. While writing their ill-fated sophomore record, Requiem for the Cunning Folk, bassist and song-writer Stuart Gedge wandered into the hillside and seemingly disappeared into thin air. Baffled local authorities never recovered a body.
As luck would have it, Chatham Estate had recently been sold to the CFO of a tech startup in Gachibowli, as part of a merger deal. The new owners listed it on a peer-to-peer house-sharing app, hoping that would meet the cost of upkeep.
I used the last remaining funds from my publisher's advance to book a month-long stay at Chatham.
* * *
I was still typing away at frenzied pace when the barking stopped just before daybreak. Whatever had been vexing Kutiya had gone away.
I almost expected to find Kutiya's gutted corpse in the driveway. Instead, the dog was curled up restfully in the shade of the banyan tree.
After several hours of fitful napping, I drove to The Mall at The Ridge to pick up a mid-range CCTV system. It was easy enough to figure out the monitor software. Then I set up the cameras with the help of the caretaker Yashwant, who seemed quite apprehensive about the whole idea. He was convinced that Kutiya's behaviour was perfectly regular, and besides, "that bitch" had always been a little paranoid. His wife Shirya suggested there are things we are perhaps better off not knowing, like some Lovecraftian stock character.
That night, I waited for Kutiya's howling to begin anew. Sure enough, her guttural barking started just after midnight. I checked the monitor for the camera nearest her position. I was alarmed to see Kutiya facing the camera, snarling towards the lens. Whatever she was barking at, it was already inside the house.
This time around, I tried writing in spite of the barking, not because of it. It was hopeless. As I tried to scare my hypothetical readers, I would also creep myself out.
I killed time with mindless distractions —Minesweeper, cat videos, SuicideGirls— in a vain effort to tune out that infernal howling. Every brief deathly silence offered sweet relief. I sat at my laptop, paralyzed with fear, until fatigue overcame me.
* * *
The next thing I recall, I woke up in the cold grass, the banyan tree looming above me. I thought I felt Kutiya lick my cheek shortly before waking but when I looked around she was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, even the manor itself had seemingly disappeared.
The dawn sky above was a primordial red. I heard faint woodwind sounds in the distance—some kind of discordant piping.
That's when I saw the procession approach. In other, more 'civilized' epochs, they would be called "scheduled tribes" or dalits. The cruel would label them "untouchables". Here they were undisturbed by imperial designs or the ravages of industry. Their gaunt naked forms writhed around the banyan tree. Their lips issued chants to nameless deities from before the age of man.
All sense of time collapsed. My perception skewed, as history blurred into a miasma of simultaneous moments.
In silence, I witnessed the casual depravity of the British East India Company officers that spawned the fiery reprisals of 1857.
I looked Ida Kaylock in the eyes, as she succumbed to the madness wrought by her husband's cruel neglect.
I walked with Stuart Gedge on his fateful stroll into the void.
Chatham Estate's ownership changed hands in the span of a wink.
Finally I saw myself arrive in that rented Tata Zest. Several moons later, Kutiya noticed my presence.
Now I send my thoughts across the ether, an electromagnetic obituary manifesting on the laptop screen. This is my last testament, a memorial in prose for my editor to find.
