Whispers in the Dark
RUSKIN BOND
WHISPERS IN THE DARK
A BOOK OF SPOOKS
Illustrations by Bombay Design House
PUFFIN BOOKS
CONTENTS
Introduction
Out of the Dark
On Fairy Hill
A Dreadful Gurgle
A Face in the Dark
Whispering in the Dark
The Wind on Haunted Hill
Ghosts of a Peepul Tree
The Haunted Bicycle
Would Astley Return?
The Prize
The Ghost Who Got In
Susanna’s Seven Husbands
Eyes of the Cat
The Trouble with Jinns
Wilson’s Bridge
Ghosts of the Savoy
Something in the Water
The Family Ghost
The Bar That Time Forgot
The Black Cat
Whistling in the Dark
When the Clock Strikes Thirteen
The Lonely Ghost
A Job Well Done
Hanging at the Mango Tope
The Good Old Days
He Said It with Arsenic
Listen to the Wind
The Late-Night Show
When Darkness Falls
The Overcoat
A Traveller’s Tale
The Skull
A Bloodthirsty Vampire Cat
Some Hill-Station Ghosts
Footnotes
Ghosts of A Peepul Tree
A Bloodthirsty Vampire Cat
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PUFFIN BOOKS
WHISPERS IN THE DARK
Born in Kasauli in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, New Delhi and Simla. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, written when he was seventeen, received the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written over five hundred short stories, essays and novellas (some included in the collections Dust on the Mountain and Classic Ruskin Bond) and more than forty books for children.
He received the Sahitya Akademi Award for English writing in India in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Delhi government’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 2012. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi’s Bal Sahitya Puraskar for his ‘total contribution to children’s literature’ in 2013 and was honoured with the Padma Bhushan in 2014. He lives in Landour, Mussoorie, with his extended family.
Also in Puffin by Ruskin Bond
Puffin Classics: The Room on the Roof
Puffin Classics: Vagrants in the Valley
The Room of Many Colours: Ruskin Bond’s Treasury of Stories for Children
Panther’s Moon and Other Stories
The Hidden Pool
The Parrot Who Wouldn’t Talk and Other Stories
Mr Oliver’s Diary
Escape from Java and Other Tales of Danger
Crazy Times with Uncle Ken
Rusty the Boy from the Hills
Rusty Runs Away
Rusty and the Leopard
Rusty Goes to London
Rusty Comes Home
Rusty and the Magic Mountain
The Puffin Book of Classic School Stories
The Puffin Good Reading Guide for Children
The Kashmiri Storyteller
Hip-Hop Nature Boy and Other Poems
The Adventures of Rusty: Collected Stories
The Cherry Tree
Getting Granny’s Glasses
The Eyes of the Eagle
Thick as Thieves: Tales of Friendship
Uncles, Aunts and Elephants: Tales from Your Favourite Storyteller
Ranji’s Wonderful Bat and Other Stories
Dust on the Mountain
Earthquake
Cricket for the Crocodile
Introduction
Hello, Mr Bond! It’s jolly nice of you to invite me to write the introduction to this nutty collection of spooky stories that you’ve written over the years.
I’ve been trying to contact you for some time but it seems you aren’t really very psychic. I wave out to you but you don’t notice me. I walk right into you but you don’t see or feel me. But we were friends once, in our golden schooldays. And our friendship would have gone on, beyond school and college, if someone hadn’t come up from behind and pushed me into the swimming pool.
Had you been around, you would have jumped in to save me from drowning, knowing I couldn’t swim. But I was on my own that afternoon, actually looking for you. Until some devil came up from behind—and pushed!
Over the years I had my suspicions, and I knew that if ever I came face-to-face with the fellow, he’d see me and simply die of fright.
Well, it happened last year at the school reunion. I’m sorry you weren’t there; it would have been fun—especially when old Ranjit, now a minister, got up on the rostrum and made one of his long, uninspiring speeches. I was there in my spirit form, of course, but he saw me and recognized me the minute I materialized in front of him. He clutched at his heart, let out a strangled cry, stepped back and tumbled off the rostrum—dead of a heart attack. It’s a bit like drowning, I’m told.
Well, old boy, I won’t hang around any more. I’ve had my little bit of revenge. And now it’s time to move on and see what lies on the other side of the curtain.
Thanks again for letting me go through your stories. Some of them aren’t too bad.
Good luck, old soul, and may the book sell a million.
Your old pal,
Sammy M. Spiritland
OUT OF THE DARK
At a ruin upon a hill outside the town,
I found some shelter from a summer storm.
An alcove in a wall, moss-green and redolent of bats,
But refuge from the wind and rain; and entrance once
To what had been a home, a mansion large and spacious;
Now dream-wrecked, desolate.
And as I stood there, pondering
Upon the mutability of stone, I thought I heard
A haunting cry, insistent on the wind—
‘Oh son, please let me in,
Oh son, please let me in . . .’
Just the soughing of the wind
In the bending, keening pines;
Just the rain sibilant on old stones;
Or was it something more, a voice
Trapped in the woof of time, imploring still,
And lingering at some door which stood
Where now I sheltered on a barren hill.
At home, that night, I settled down
To read, the bed lamp on. The night was warm,
The storm had passed and all was still outside,
When something, someone, moved about, came tapping on the door.
‘Who’s there?’ I called.
The tapping stopped. And then,
Entreating, came that voice again,
‘Oh son, please let me in!’
‘Who’s there, who’s there?’ I cried,
And crossed the cold stone floor,
Paused for a moment, hand on catch,
Then opened wide the door.
Bright moonlight streamed across the sill
And crept along the stair;
I peered outside, to right and left:
Bright road returned my stare.
But long before the dawn, I heard
That tapping once again;
Not on the door this time, but nearer still—
Now rapping quickly on the windowpane.
I lay quite still and held my breath
And thought—surely it’s the old oak tree,
Leaves gently tapping on the glass,
Or a moth, or some great beetle winging past.
But through the d
arkness, pressing in,
As though in me it sought its will,
As though in me it yet would dwell—
‘Oh son, please let me in . . .
Oh son, please let me in!’
ON FAIRY HILL
Those little green lights that I used to see twinkling away on Pari Tibba—there had to be a scientific explanation for them. I was sure of that. After dark, we see or hear many things that seem mysterious and irrational. And then, by the clear light of day, we find that the magic and the mystery have an explanation, after all.
I saw those lights occasionally, late at night, when I walked home from the town to my little cottage at the edge of the forest. They moved too fast to be torches or lanterns carried by people. And as there were no roads on Pari Tibba, they could not have been cycle- or cart-lamps. Someone told me there was phosphorus in the rocks and that this probably accounted for the luminous glow emanating from the hillside late at night. Possibly, but I was not convinced.
My encounter with the little people happened by the light of day.
One morning early in April, purely on an impulse, I decided to climb to the top of Pari Tibba and look around for myself. It was springtime in the Himalayan foothills. The sap was rising—in the trees, in the grass, in the wild flowers, in my own veins. I took the path through the oak forest, down to the little stream at the foot of the hill, and then up the steep slope of Pari Tibba, Hill of Fairies.
It was quite a scramble to get to the top. The path ended at the stream at the bottom of the slope. I had to clutch at brambles and tufts of grass to make the ascent. Fallen pine needles, slippery underfoot, made it difficult to get a foothold. But finally I made it to the top—a grassy plateau fringed by pines and a few wild medlar trees now clothed in white blossom.
It was a pretty spot. And as I was hot and sweaty, I removed most of my clothing and lay down under a medlar to rest. The climb had been quite tiring. But a fresh breeze soon revived me. It made a soft humming sound in the pines. And the grass, sprinkled with yellow buttercups, buzzed with the sound of crickets and grasshoppers.
After some time, I stood up and surveyed the scene. To the north, Landour, with its rusty red-roofed cottages; to the south, the wide valley and a silver stream flowing towards the Ganga. To the west, were rolling hills, patches of forest and a small village tucked into a fold of the mountain.
Disturbed by my presence, a barking deer ran across the clearing and down the opposite slope. A band of long-tailed blue magpies rose from the oak trees, glided across the knoll and settled in another copse of oaks.
I was alone, alone with the wind and the sky. It had probably been months, possibly years, since any human had passed that way. The soft, lush grass looked most inviting. I lay down again on the sun-warmed sward. Pressed and bruised by my weight, the catmint and clover in the grass gave out a soft fragrance. A ladybird climbed up my leg and began to explore my body. A swarm of white butterflies fluttered around me.
I slept.
I have no idea how long I slept. When I awoke, it was to experience an unusual soothing sensation all over my limbs, as though they were being gently stroked with rose petals.
All lethargy gone, I opened my eyes to find a little girl—or was it a woman?—about two inches tall, sitting cross-legged on my chest and studying me intently. Her hair fell in long, black tresses. Her skin was the colour of honey. Her firm little breasts were like tiny acorns. She held a buttercup, which was larger than her hand, and she was stroking my skin with it.
I was tingling all over. A sensation of sensual joy surged through my limbs.
A tiny boy—man?—also naked, now joined the elfin girl, and they held hands and looked into my eyes, smiling. Their teeth were like little pearls, their lips, soft petals of apricot blossom. Were these the nature spirits, the flower fairies, I had often dreamt of?
I raised my head, and saw that there were scores of little people all over me. The delicate and gentle creatures were exploring my body with caressing gestures. Some of them were laving me with dew or pollen or some other soft essence. I closed my eyes again. Waves of pure physical pleasure swept over me. I had never known anything like it. It was endless, all-embracing. My limbs turned to water. The sky revolved around me, and I must have fainted.
When I came to, perhaps an hour later, the little people had gone. The fragrance of honeysuckle lingered in the air. A deep rumble overhead made me look up. Dark clouds had gathered, threatening to rain. Had the thunder frightened them away to their abode beneath the rocks and roots? Or had they simply tired of sporting with an unknown newcomer? Mischievous they were; for when I looked around for my clothes, I could not find them anywhere.
A wave of panic surged over me. I ran here and there, looking behind shrubs and tree trunks, but to no avail. My clothes had disappeared, along with the fairies—if indeed they were fairies!
It began to rain. Large drops cannoned off the dry rocks. Then it hailed, and soon the slope was covered with ice. There was no shelter. Naked, I clambered down as far as the stream. There was no one to see me—except for a wild mountain goat speeding away in the opposite direction. Gusts of wind slashed rain and hail across my face and body. Panting and shivering, I took shelter beneath an overhanging rock until the storm had passed. By then it was almost dusk, and I was able to ascend the path to my cottage without encountering anyone, apart from a band of startled langurs who chattered excitedly on seeing me.
I couldn’t stop shivering, so went straight to bed. I slept a deep, dreamless sleep through the afternoon, evening and night, and woke up the next morning with a high fever.
Mechanically I dressed, made myself some breakfast and tried to get through the morning’s chores. When I took my temperature, I found it was 104. So I swallowed a Brufen and went back to bed.
There I lay till late afternoon, when the postman’s knocking woke me. I left my letters unopened on my desk—breaking a sacrosanct ritual—and returned to my bed.
The fever lasted almost a week and left me weak and feeble. I couldn’t have climbed Pari Tibba again even if I’d wanted to. But I reclined on my window seat and looked at the clouds drifting over that bleak hill. Desolate it seemed, and yet strangely inhabited. When it grew dark, I waited for those little green fairy lights to appear; but these, it seemed, were now to be denied to me.
And so I returned to my desk, my typewriter, my newspaper articles and correspondence. It was a lonely period in my life. My marriage hadn’t worked out: my wife, fond of high society and averse to living with an unsuccessful writer in a remote cottage in the woods, was pursuing her own, more successful career in Mumbai. I had always been rather half-hearted in my approach to making money, whereas she had always wanted more and more of it. She left me—left me with my books and my dreams . . .
Had it all been a dream, that strange episode on Pari Tibba? Had a too-active imagination conjured up those aerial spirits, those siddhas of the upper air? Or were they underground people, living deep within the bowels of the hill? If I was going to preserve my sanity, I knew I had better get on with the more mundane aspects of living—going into town to buy groceries, mending the leaking roof, paying the electricity bill, plodding up to the post office, and remembering to deposit the odd cheque that came my way. All the routine things that made life so dull and dreary.
The truth is, what we commonly call life is not really living at all. The regular and settled ways which we accept as the course of life are really the curse of life. They tie us down to the trivial and monotonous, and we will do almost anything to get away, ideally for a more exalted and fulfilling existence, but if that is not possible, for a few hours of forgetfulness in alcohol, drugs, forbidden sex or even golf. So it would give me great joy to go underground with the fairies. Those little people who have sought refuge in Mother Earth from mankind’s killing ways are as vulnerable as butterflies and flowers. All things beautiful are easily destroyed.
I am sitting at my window in the gathering dark,
penning these stray thoughts, when I see them coming—hand-in-hand, walking on a swirl of mist, suffused with all the radiant colours of the rainbow. For a rainbow has formed a bridge for them from Pari Tibba to the edge of my window.
I am ready to go with them to their secret lairs or to the upper air—far from the stifling confines of the world in which we toil . . .
Come, fairies, carry me away, to experience again the perfection I did that summer’s day!
A DREADFUL GURGLE
Have you ever woken up in the night to find someone in your bed who wasn’t supposed to be there?
Well, it happened to me when I was at a boarding school in Simla, many years ago.
I was sleeping in the senior dormitory, along with some twenty other boys, and my bed was positioned in a corner of the long room, at some distance from the others. There was no shortage of pranksters in our dormitory, and one had to look out for the introduction of stinging nettle, or pebbles, or possibly even a small lizard under the bed sheets. But I wasn’t prepared for a body in my bed.
At first I thought a sleepwalker had mistakenly got into my bed, and I tried to push him out, muttering, ‘Devinder, get back into your own bed. There isn’t room for two of us.’ Devinder was a notorious sleepwalker, who had even ended up on the roof on one occasion.
But it wasn’t Devinder.
Devinder was a short boy, and this fellow was a tall, lanky person. His feet stuck out of the blankets at the foot of the bed.
It must be Ranjit, I thought. Ranjit had huge feet.
‘Ranjit!’ I hissed. ‘Stop playing the fool, and get back to your own bed.’
No response.
I tried pushing, but without success. The body was heavy and inert. It was also very cold.
I lay there wondering who it could be, and then it began to dawn on me that the person beside me wasn’t breathing. And I had the horrible realization that there was a corpse in my bed! How did it get there, and what was I to do about it?