Houses of Dismay – (FICTION)

THIS a slender lane up to a hummock – fussy and fresh, and deep down its throat is a crowd of pine trees, its horizontal stretch is conquered with vibrantly draped kiosks, the vendors hawking audibly in soulful decibels …

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THIS a slender lane up to a hummock – fussy and fresh, and deep down its throat is a crowd of pine trees, its horizontal stretch is conquered with vibrantly draped kiosks, the vendors hawking audibly in soulful decibels – garishly multi-coloured shawls with subtle patterns on them and boastful artifacts portraying the traditional sculpture and image of this rugged and cold region.

 

Yesterday, at dusk I had arrived at my uncle’s home. His home is a timeworn yet reminiscently salient single-storey bungalow with italic roof, oversize windows, its exterior off-white walls are adorned with creepers, its modest lawn shielded with wild grass and fenced with a corroded iron gate.

 

I had cautiously unbolted the gate and squealed, “Uncle, I am here!” An unexpected icy breeze sprinted towards me as I rambled down the concrete path in the direction of a large tatty wooden door. “Your old uncle died a week ago”, an unexpected harsh mocking reply of a middle aged man from across the gate froze me.

 

“Are you serious?” I cynically bounced back to answer but by then he had hurried far in the gloom. I turned to notice a rusty lock on the door. I exhaled hard in disbelieve, three days back I had spoken to my uncle on the landline.

 

In dismay, I dragged my luggage out of the gate into the white dusty road and started trekking towards the bus-stop. In the moonlight, I spotted a houseboat sparkling brightly at a wind of a lake. I oddly halted near the structure and gazed at its mystical beauty.  “This is my houseboat”, a cold pat on my back alerted me.   

 

I turned towards the meek voice; she was an old lady with the warmest smile. “Why don’t you rest in my house tonight? This place is unsafe for women”. I inescapably agreed and stepped in the houseboat, radiant with lanterns.  She guided me to lie down on a sofa under a huge chandelier.

 

The mornings rays disturbed my sleep, I stared at a chandelier bunged with cobwebs and was surrounded by damaged furniture capped with dense dust. I immediately hurdled out, to by disbelief, this houseboat was a dilapidated wooden structure. “This is a haunted house”, a harsh mocking reaction shocked me. I turned to spot the same middle aged man who had now hurried far in the woods.

 

“I shouldn’t have come here”, I criticized myself at the bus-stop on the slender lane up to a hummock, impatiently waiting to go home.

 End

Author: mirandavoice

My interest in writing expands to travel, history, social and general topics. My articles are based primarily on my observations and curiosity in life. You will find the links of my articles in my Twitter account: mirandapresence My blog mirandavoice.com displays my thoughts. My blog masalahealth.wordpress.com (Quick Indian recipes – Easy, healthy,delicious) has recipes of my innovation in Indian cuisine. Journey along with me into the world of curiosity, Thank you. Sylvia Miranda (mirandapresence@gmail.com)

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