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The Woods of Sleepy Hollow – by Pinaki Ghosh

admin — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 01:22:48 +0000

A thriller / horror treatment / story by Pinaki Ghosh

A comfortable to read, PDF version of this story is available for free download – click here

Marcos returned an unfriendly stare at the housekeeping guy, “You waiting for something?”

The housekeeping guy raised his head, stole a glance at Marcos and replied, “No sir.”

“In that case, thank you my friend and good bye.” With a bang, Marcos closed the door on his face.

“Good day, sir!” Said the Indian housekeepng guy. Hardly twenty seven. By then the door had closed on his face. His words of thanks remained unheard by Marcos.

He was expecting some tips, was he? Bloody loser. Thought Marcos. Why the hell? Does the hotel pay him peanuts, that this bloody loser was waiting to be tipped to bring his luggage upstairs? Marcos was disgusted.

He pulled the curtains apart. It had started snowing outside. The first snow of this winter.

Marcos will have to halt in this Buffalo, New York hotel for a day before heading towards Mexico. His country. His home. It isn’t possible for him to take a flight to Mexico. That’s dangerous and suicidal. He has to travel by road and sea.

Marcos struggled in vain for over five minutes, trying to open his old fashioned steel trunk. He tried several of the tiny keys. But opening it seemed impossible. He was quite sure he had lost the key to the trunk.

Asking for help from the hotel would mean an additional expense of at least a hundred dollars. Why not call that Indian housekeeping guy and request him for a personal favor? That’ll be a lot cheaper.

Marcos called the room service guy.

The boy surely knew some magic. With a twisted hairpin he pried open the lock in two minutes. Magic is probably infectious, because Marcos’ mood also improved like magic.

“Wow, that’s magic, man! You know some mumbo jumbo, huh? Asian?”

“Yes sir. Indian”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Sam.”

His real name was Sambaran Bandyopadhyay though; a traditional Indian name, somewhat uncommon, uncomfortably long and difficult to pronounce, especially in this country; named by his grandfather twenty seven years ago. He had himself shortened his name to Sam after coming to United States for a career.

Marcos fished out two ten dollar bills from his wallet, thought for a couple of seconds, put back one into his wallet, and handed the other to Sam, thanking him.

Sam, the housekeeping guy stared at the large wooden statue of a horse with curiosity as it popped out from the trunk. Curiosity kills the cat, thought Marcos.

“Curios. It’s my business” he smiled at Sam. “I collect rare and ancient objects of art. Buying and selling curios is what I do for a living, son.”

For his business Marcos has to travel a lot. Century old objects of interest, ancient furnishings, paintings, and statues get sold at illogically high prices. The shady part is that among these there are some stolen items too. Some have been missing from some museum for the last few years. They get sold in Mexico through Marcos. This calls for secrecy. He cannot carry these items along normal routes. That is why he had to resort to either road or waterways that are comparatively safer. He could not possibly tell all that to this young Indian housekeeping guy. The guy left the room still looking astounded.

In the evening it started snowing heavily. The mercury was falling and that could be felt even in this temperature controlled hotel room. Through the window panes he could see the horizon getting foggy and darker. Rows of high-rise building blocks were getting covered under a film of white snowflakes. Down below, on the snaking road which was turning white from grey, rows of cars passed incessantly. The lights in the room were flickering. The voltage was fluctuating. This irritated Marcos. He picked up the phone and abruptly called room service.

At last he found some time to admire his wooden horse. In the afternoon he had fallen asleep without changing his clothes. He had been dead tired of travelling from one coast to another. He took a hot shower; before planning to go down to the restaurant below. But then the lights started flickering again.

This horse would be at least a hundred and fifty years old; the handiwork of some unknown Dutch sculptor. The horse belonged to that period, when Dutch nomads left Holland to settle down in America permanently. The old Dutch gentleman from whom he had bought this piece had said so. Black Stallion. An unusually beautiful work of art and craftsmanship. Every muscle on the horse’s body looked surprisingly real and came alive. Marcos hoped to make at least a few thousand dollars by selling it.

The door-bell rang. Room service.

“Good evening sir. May I help you?” The Indian guy was at the door.

“Come on in. Look at my lights. Something’s wrong with them. They’re flickering like hell. Now, when I pay for a hotel room, I do not expect…”

“That’ll be okay sir. It has been happening in all the rooms. Our electrical engineers are working on the line.”

“Won’t take long, I suppose, because it is getting on my nerves.”

“No sir, just a little longer. … The statue… is it very old sir?”

“Oh that? Yeah, about a hundred and fifty years.”

“No sir. It is older than that. Two hundred and seven years,” replied Sam.

“You mean… you know the exact age of this wooden horse?” Marcos’s hands paused while lighting his cigarette.

“Yes sir, I know more than that. When I saw it for the first time this afternoon, I recognized it. I had seen its picture on a website. This very same sculpture. I had read about it too.”

“Yeah? Which website? Have you seen its photograph?”

“No sir, just a hand drawn sketch. The site was probably called something like, ‘truehalloween.com’”

“True Halloween? You mean there is something mysterious and spooky about it? Marcos’s hand, the one with the cigarette trembled a little. The light in the room became very dim at that instant.

They stared at each other silently, without batting an eyelid. Then Sam started.

“There is a small village some forty miles from here. Beside the Hudson River. It’s called Sleepy Hollow.”

“Wait, I’ve heard this name”, said Marcos.

“There’s a movie by this name sir. That’s why you know the name. The village is surrounded by a forest. The forest is known as the woods of the Sleepy Hollow. The place is so quiet that you’d think the entire village is sleeping. In this quiet village, in 1799 some strange incidents started happening. Occasionally, headless bodies were found lying on the village road.”

“Headless bodies?”

Marcos, listening intently, startled as the cigarette burned down and scorched his middle finger. He had forgotten to smoke. Marcos took out another cigarette from the box and offered Sam.

“Thank you.”

“Coffee? Let me order some coffee?” Marcos picked up the phone and ordered for two coffees.

“Thank you sir. So, in the evenings people steered clear off the road leading to the woods. Not only so… soon they stopped coming out onto the village road after sunset. Those who had the courage to peep through their windows said that they saw an armored knight holding a sword in his hand, riding on a horseback, galloping along the village road during twilight. The fate of whoever crossed his path was doomed. The rider would chop off the head and take it away with him. They also noticed with awe, that the rider himself had no head! A headless mounted knight.

“Police officer Ichabod Crane came from the city to investigate. His investigations revealed that a Hessian soldier had been killed near Sleepy Hollow twenty years earlier, in 1779. The enemies had beheaded him and took his head as a booty. Since then he often visited the terrain in search of his lost head. His horse was always with him. The name of his horse was Daredevil.”

The doorbell rang with a jarring ugly sound that startled Marcos. Coffee had arrived. Snowflakes were gathering outside the window pane. A strong wind rattled the window.

“Interesting story” said Marcos Gabriel Lenovez, sipping his coffee.

“Officer Ichabod took the help of Katerina, a local tomboyish girl and together they found the huge tree from under which the headless soldier came out each evening. After galloping through the village on his horse with an open sword he would return to the tree and finally jump into its trunk.

“At last one day he found his head. It was with Katerina’s stepmother, known in the village as a witch. The soldier killed Katrna’s stepmother and got back his head. There ends the story of the headless phantom of Sleepy Hollow. Author Washington Irving, who had his roots in that village, later published a novel, ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ which was later made into a movie.”

“Spooky story, but what is the relation of my horse with this story?”

“The story in the novel ended here, but many incidents happened after that are not docemented in the novel and the film, about which most people do not know.” Sam said. The lights in the room went off, and pitch black darkness rushed in through the windows.

“Oh, f***!” Marcos grumbled.

“Our engineers are working on it, sir. It’ll be okay.”

“Awww. Hmmm. So… what happened after that?”

“Right. After that, that ominous-looking tree was cut down by the villagers. The felled tree was profusely bleeding blood. Within a month, Peter Van Garret, the woodcutter who had cut the tree, died mysteriously. You know how he died? Thunderstruck! His entire head smashed and vanished after a lightning struck his head. An atheist artist, Baltas Van Tassel, who lived in the village took the tree trunk home in a carriage and carved this horse out of the wood. He gifted the horse to the police officer Ichabod and his newly-married wife Katerina. On his way home from the police officer’s house, Baltas was attacked by a band of robbers who chopped off his head. It was in the year 1799.

Another horrific and terribly sad incident happened the same year during Christmas. There was a bank-robbery in Tarry Town near Sleepy Hollow. The thirty year old brave police officer Ichabod fought a gun battle with the bank robbers and died in the gun battle. His skull was shattered by a bullet, like a water melon.”

The wind was growing stronger outside, because the windows rattled rather noisily. The sky was dark. The dots of light were blotted through the thick fog outside. The chilling wind was probably entering through some leak in the window, because Marcos shuddered.

“After this incident, Katerina didn’t want to keep the wooden horse with her. The old and wise elderly folk of Sleepy Hollow advised her to get rid of the statue. They told her to throw it into the marshland inside the jungle. Katerina went into the forest with the statue. But since that fateful day, nobody had ever seen either Katerina or the statue.”

Both men sat quietly for some time.

“Strange story,” said Marcos after a long silence.

# # # #

Marcos woke up at midnight with a shudder. The TV was on. He fell off to sleep while watching TV. He checked his wristwatch. It was past midnight. The TV was on mute and the changing images changed the color of the room every second. He had been sleeping on the sofa.

What was that? Why was he seeing the shadow of a horse on the wall? His skin gave goosebumps. Was it because of the chilling weather? He turned around to see the statue of the horse standing on the table and realized his folly. The shadow was of the statue, caused by the light from the TV. He tried not to think about the horse. But strange thoughts haunted him again and again.

Is the statue still haunted? He thought. The snowstorm had stopped. You don’t see a snowstorm in New York every day.

What was that sound?

A nagging sound of water dripping from a faucet came from the washroom. Had he forgotten to close the tap properly? He went to the washroom and hesitated to enter. Is anyone there? He thought.

Stealthily he entered the toilet and switched on the light. Nobody was there. But somehow there was a feeling that someone was present in the hotel room. To shake off the uneasiness, there is nothing like a fag, he thought and took out a cigarette. He put it between his lips and went to light it. The next moment he threw the cigarette lighter away with a jerk. What was that?

“Jesus!” he muttered. The cigarette fell from his lips.

This cigarette lighter was one of his favorite curio collections that he had kept with himself for three years. It was a little mermaid made of metal and glass.

The mermaid’s head was broken.

Marcos’s heart was galloping. He was perspiring even in this chilling New York winter. Did the mermaid fall from the sofa? Or has anyone broken it?

Marcos walked up to the horse. It is made of wood from Sleepy Hollow. From the tree in which the headless horseman took shelter. Marcos, now definitely felt that he was not alone in the room. He didn’t know why, but he felt it for sure.

After this Marcos saw something that made the color of his face fly. His throat dried up, something fluttered inside his stomach and a cold wave rolled down his spine. On the side of the wooden horse there was distinctly a stain of fresh flowing blood.

Marcos lost consciousness. His six-foot figure collapsed on the rug, with a thud.

# # # #

It was 5PM, the next day. Darkness will set in any time now. Marcos was sitting inside his car, parked in a deep jungle. The headlight was on. A thick winter fog was rising from the ground making the forest look even more eerie. He was now forty miles away from Buffalo, deep inside the woods of Sleepy Hollow.

Where was Sam?

In the morning he had discussed the paranormal happenings of last night with Sam and both agreed that it would be wise to throw the statue back into the bog inside the heart of the jungle.

What was that sound? The cry of an owl. An owl flew past. The cry gave Marcos goose-bumps. It was much colder in the woods, than it was in New York, though the two places are no more than forty miles apart. Marcos raised the glass of the window.

Someone was approaching through the fog. Marcos sat up straight on his seat, in alert attention.

Sam.

“Hello, Mr. Marcos”

Marcos opened the door.

“I thought you weren’t coming. Get in”. He started the engine.

It had become darker and the fog denser. The car was moving slowly through the woods, breaking twigs and branches under its wheels. Both men were quiet.

“Wait. Turn left. The bog is on that side.” Sam said.

The car turned. But after driving a few meters, Marcos had to apply brakes. What was that, shining on the ground in front of the car? Unless it was moved the car couldn’t go. Sam got down and walked up to the object. He almost disappeared in the fog.

“What’s it?” Marcos shouted from inside the car. There was no reply. Marcos pressed on the horn again and again impatiently.

“Come out and see.”

Marcos trudged ahead. He could feel his legs weakening.

“A sword!” Sam pointed towards it. A shiny large sword was vertically stuck into the soft ground, as if it fell from the sky.

Marcos’s heart missed a beat. He pulled Sam’s hand sharply and dragged him towards the car.

“Let’s get out of here.” he shouted.

“No. The marshland is right in front. Open the boot of the car.”

They opened the boot and took out the large statue of the horse. Together they carried it to the dark waters ahead. After dumping the haunted figure nto the shallow waters of the marsh, they ran back towards the car. After getting in, Marcos drove it swiftly in reverse gear. The red rear lights of the car made the foggy trees of the woods look ghostly. The hanging branches of trees waving in the wind seemed to beckon them with their hands.

“Faster… move faster…” Sam said, looking behind him.

# # # #

Marcos was returning to Mexico on a Virgin flight. The statue wasn’t there anymore. So, there was no reason not to take a flight. He relaxed with eyes closed and listened to his favorite numbers on his iPhone. There’s nothing like music to soothe the nerves. The stress of the last two days was still throbbing inside him. It may never completely abandon him.

He needed a pillow. Where was the flight stewardess? He got up startled. He walked along the aisle. Strange! Such a massive aircraft, and there was not a single passenger! All the seats were empty. But when it left New York, it was packed. The cockpit door was open. He went in. But what is this? The plot didn’t have a head! He was beheaded! The beheaded plot turned towards him.

He woke up gasping for breath. A flight stewardess was offering him a pillow. He was in his seat, sleeping. What a dream! How gruesome.

At the same time a car stopped inside the cold and foggy woods of Sleepy Hollow. The door opened and Sam got off. Sam… Sambaran Bandyopadhyay. He removed the sticking plaster from his finger. The cut had almost healed.

He walked ahead and picked up the sword. It had to be returned to Harry. Harry lent out these things on hire to movie makers. Sam too, had taken it on rent. He went into the cold soggy mud and found the hundred and fifty year old wooden horse easily.

Though the story of the mysterious tree of Sleepy Hollow and the website ‘truehalloween.com’ were all made up instantly by him, Sam was sure that the antique horse would fetch at least five thousand dollars.

Actually… that Mexican was mean. Had he offered some reasonable tip to Sam, would he have bothered to play this game with him! Sam needed to get even and teach him a lesson.

To make him believe in his yarn, he had done just two things. The moment the light in the room went off, he broke the head of the cigarette lighter mermaid. And then he cut his own finger a little with the nail-cutter and smeared the blood on the back of the horse standing in the dark.

The rest just happened inside the mind of the Mexican, after hearing the instantly cooked up tale of Sleepy Hollow.

Sam whistled as he opened the boot of the car, and placed the horse and the sword carefully inside. His car moved through the snowy and foggy jungles of Sleepy Hollow. His destination, New York.

Marcos returned an unfriendly stare at the housekeeping guy, “You waiting for something?” The housekeeping guy raised his head, stole a glance at Marcos and replied, “No sir.” “In that case, thank you my friend and good bye.” With a bang, Marcos closed the door on his face. “Good day, sir!” Said the Indian housekeepng guy. Hardly twenty seven. By then the door had closed on his face. His words of thanks remained unheard by Marcos.He was expecting some tips, was he? Bloody loser. Thought Marcos. Why the hell? Does the hotel pay him peanuts, that this bloody loser was waiting to be tipped to bring his luggage upstairs? Marcos was disgusted. He pulled the curtains apart. It had started snowing outside. The first snow of this winter. Marcos will have to halt in this Buffalo, New York hotel for a day before heading towards Mexico. His country. His home. It isn’t possible for him to take a flight to Mexico. That’s dangerous and suicidal. He has to travel by road and sea. Marcos struggled in vain for over five minutes, trying to open his old fashioned steel trunk. He tried several of the tiny keys. But opening it seemed impossible. He was quite sure he had lost the key to the trunk. Asking for help from the hotel would mean an additional expense of at least a hundred dollars. Why not call that Indian housekeeping guy and request him for a personal favor? That’ll be a lot cheaper. Marcos called the room service guy. The boy surely knew some magic. With a twisted hairpin he pried open the lock in two minutes. Magic is probably infectious, because Marcos’ mood also improved like magic. “Wow, that’s magic, man! You know some mumbo jumbo, huh? Asian?”“Yes sir. Indian” “What’s your name, son?”“Sam.”His real name was Sambaran Bandyopadhyay though; a traditional Indian name, somewhat uncommon, uncomfortably long and difficult to pronounce, especially in this country; named by his grandfather twenty seven years ago. He had himself shortened his name to Sam after coming to United States for a career. Marcos fished out two ten dollar bills from his wallet, thought for a couple of seconds, put back one into his wallet, and handed the other to Sam, thanking him. Sam, the housekeeping guy stared at the large wooden statue of a horse with curiosity as it popped out from the trunk. Curiosity kills the cat, thought Marcos. “Curios. It’s my business” he smiled at Sam. “I collect rare and ancient objects of art. Buying and selling curios is what I do for a living, son.” For his business Marcos has to travel a lot. Century old objects of interest, ancient furnishings, paintings, and statues get sold at illogically high prices. The shady part is that among these there are some stolen items too. Some have been missing from some museum for the last few years. They get sold in Mexico through Marcos. This calls for secrecy. He cannot carry these items along normal routes. That is why he had to resort to either road or waterways that are comparatively safer. He could not possibly tell all that to this young Indian housekeeping guy. The guy left the room still looking astounded. In the evening it started snowing heavily. The mercury was falling and that could be felt even in this temperature controlled hotel room. Through the window panes he could see the horizon getting foggy and darker. Rows of high-rise building blocks were getting covered under a film of white snowflakes. Down below, on the snaking road which was turning white from grey, rows of cars passed incessantly. The lights in the room were flickering. The voltage was fluctuating. This irritated Marcos. He picked up the phone and abruptly called room service. At last he found some time to admire his wooden horse. In the afternoon he had fallen asleep without changing his clothes. He had been dead tired of travelling from one coast to another. He took a hot shower; before planning to go down to the restaurant below. But then the lights started flickering again. This horse would be at least a hundred and fifty years old; the handiwork of some unknown Dutch sculptor. The horse belonged to that period, when Dutch nomads left Holland to settle down in America permanently. The old Dutch gentleman from whom he had bought this piece had said so. Black Stallion. An unusually beautiful work of art and craftsmanship. Every muscle on the horse’s body looked surprisingly real and came alive. Marcos hoped to make at least a few thousand dollars by selling it. The door-bell rang. Room service. “Good evening sir. May I help you?” The Indian guy was at the door.“Come on in. Look at my lights. Something’s wrong with them. They’re flickering like hell. Now, when I pay for a hotel room, I do not expect…”“That’ll be okay sir. It has been happening in all the rooms. Our electrical engineers are working on the line.”“Won’t take long, I suppose, because it is getting on my nerves.” “No sir, just a little longer. … The statue… is it very old sir?” “Oh that? Yeah, about a hundred and fifty years.”“No sir. It is older than that. Two hundred and seven years,” replied Sam.“You mean… you know the exact age of this wooden horse?” Marcos’s hands paused while lighting his cigarette.“Yes sir, I know more than that. When I saw it for the first time this afternoon, I recognized it. I had seen its picture on a website. This very same sculpture. I had read about it too.” “Yeah? Which website? Have you seen its photograph?”“No sir, just a hand drawn sketch. The site was probably called something like, ‘truehalloween.com’”“True Halloween? You mean there is something mysterious and spooky about it? Marcos’s hand, the one with the cigarette trembled a little. The light in the room became very dim at that instant. They stared at each other silently, without batting an eyelid. Then Sam started. “There is a small village some forty miles from here. Beside the Hudson River. It’s called Sleepy Hollow.”“Wait, I’ve heard this name”, said Marcos.“There’s a movie by this name sir. That’s why you know the name. The village is surrounded by a forest. The forest is known as the woods of the Sleepy Hollow. The place is so quiet that you’d think the entire village is sleeping. In this quiet village, in 1799 some strange incidents started happening. Occasionally, headless bodies were found lying on the village road.”“Headless bodies?”Marcos, listening intently, startled as the cigarette burned down and scorched his middle finger. He had forgotten to smoke. Marcos took out another cigarette from the box and offered Sam. “Thank you.” “Coffee? Let me order some coffee?” Marcos picked up the phone and ordered for two coffees. “Thank you sir. So, in the evenings people steered clear off the road leading to the woods. Not only so… soon they stopped coming out onto the village road after sunset. Those who had the courage to peep through their windows said that they saw an armored knight holding a sword in his hand, riding on a horseback, galloping along the village road during twilight. The fate of whoever crossed his path was doomed. The rider would chop off the head and take it away with him. They also noticed with awe, that the rider himself had no head! A headless mounted knight. “Police officer Ichabod Crane came from the city to investigate. His investigations revealed that a Hessian soldier had been killed near Sleepy Hollow twenty years earlier, in 1779. The enemies had beheaded him and took his head as a booty. Since then he often visited the terrain in search of his lost head. His horse was always with him. The name of his horse was Daredevil.”The doorbell rang with a jarring ugly sound that startled Marcos. Coffee had arrived. Snowflakes were gathering outside the window pane. A strong wind rattled the window.“Interesting story” said Marcos Gabriel Lenovez, sipping his coffee. “Officer Ichabod took the help of Katerina, a local tomboyish girl and together they found the huge tree from under which the headless soldier came out each evening. After galloping through the village on his horse with an open sword he would return to the tree and finally jump into its trunk. “At last one day he found his head. It was with Katerina’s stepmother, known in the village as a witch. The soldier killed Katrna’s stepmother and got back his head. There ends the story of the headless phantom of Sleepy Hollow. Author Washington Irving, who had his roots in that village, later published a novel, ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ which was later made into a movie.”“Spooky story, but what is the relation of my horse with this story?” “The story in the novel ended here, but many incidents happened after that are not docemented in the novel and the film, about which most people do not know.” Sam said. The lights in the room went off, and pitch black darkness rushed in through the windows.“Oh, f***!” Marcos grumbled.“Our engineers are working on it, sir. It’ll be okay.”“Awww. Hmmm. So… what happened after that?”“Right. After that, that ominous-looking tree was cut down by the villagers. The felled tree was profusely bleeding blood. Within a month, Peter Van Garret, the woodcutter who had cut the tree, died mysteriously. You know how he died? Thunderstruck! His entire head smashed and vanished after a lightning struck his head. An atheist artist, Baltas Van Tassel, who lived in the village took the tree trunk home in a carriage and carved this horse out of the wood. He gifted the horse to the police officer Ichabod and his newly-married wife Katerina. On his way home from the police officer’s house, Baltas was attacked by a band of robbers who chopped off his head. It was in the year 1799. Another horrific and terribly sad incident happened the same year during Christmas. There was a bank-robbery in Tarry Town near Sleepy Hollow. The thirty year old brave police officer Ichabod fought a gun battle with the bank robbers and died in the gun battle. His skull was shattered by a bullet, like a water melon.”The wind was growing stronger outside, because the windows rattled rather noisily. The sky was dark. The dots of light were blotted through the thick fog outside. The chilling wind was probably entering through some leak in the window, because Marcos shuddered. “After this incident, Katerina didn’t want to keep the wooden horse with her. The old and wise elderly folk of Sleepy Hollow advised her to get rid of the statue. They told her to throw it into the marshland inside the jungle. Katerina went into the forest with the statue. But since that fateful day, nobody had ever seen either Katerina or the statue.”Both men sat quietly for some time.“Strange story,” said Marcos after a long silence. # # # #Marcos woke up at midnight with a shudder. The TV was on. He fell off to sleep while watching TV. He checked his wristwatch. It was past midnight. The TV was on mute and the changing images changed the color of the room every second. He had been sleeping on the sofa. What was that? Why was he seeing the shadow of a horse on the wall? His skin gave goosebumps. Was it because of the chilling weather? He turned around to see the statue of the horse standing on the table and realized his folly. The shadow was of the statue, caused by the light from the TV. He tried not to think about the horse. But strange thoughts haunted him again and again. Is the statue still haunted? He thought. The snowstorm had stopped. You don’t see a snowstorm in New York every day. What was that sound? A nagging sound of water dripping from a faucet came from the washroom. Had he forgotten to close the tap properly? He went to the washroom and hesitated to enter. Is anyone there? He thought. Stealthily he entered the toilet and switched on the light. Nobody was there. But somehow there was a feeling that someone was present in the hotel room. To shake off the uneasiness, there is nothing like a fag, he thought and took out a cigarette. He put it between his lips and went to light it. The next moment he threw the cigarette lighter away with a jerk. What was that? “Jesus!” he muttered. The cigarette fell from his lips. This cigarette lighter was one of his favorite curio collections that he had kept with himself for three years. It was a little mermaid made of metal and glass.The mermaid’s head was broken. Marcos’s heart was galloping. He was perspiring even in this chilling New York winter. Did the mermaid fall from the sofa? Or has anyone broken it? Marcos walked up to the horse. It is made of wood from Sleepy Hollow. From the tree in which the headless horseman took shelter. Marcos, now definitely felt that he was not alone in the room. He didn’t know why, but he felt it for sure. After this Marcos saw something that made the color of his face fly. His throat dried up, something fluttered inside his stomach and a cold wave rolled down his spine. On the side of the wooden horse there was distinctly a stain of fresh flowing blood.Marcos lost consciousness. His six-foot figure collapsed on the rug, with a thud. # # # #It was 5PM, the next day. Darkness will set in any time now. Marcos was sitting inside his car, parked in a deep jungle. The headlight was on. A thick winter fog was rising from the ground making the forest look even more eerie. He was now forty miles away from Buffalo, deep inside the woods of Sleepy Hollow.Where was Sam? In the morning he had discussed the paranormal happenings of last night with Sam and both agreed that it would be wise to throw the statue back into the bog inside the heart of the jungle. What was that sound? The cry of an owl. An owl flew past. The cry gave Marcos goose-bumps. It was much colder in the woods, than it was in New York, though the two places are no more than forty miles apart. Marcos raised the glass of the window.Someone was approaching through the fog. Marcos sat up straight on his seat, in alert attention.Sam.“Hello, Mr. Marcos” Marcos opened the door. “I thought you weren’t coming. Get in”. He started the engine. It had become darker and the fog denser. The car was moving slowly through the woods, breaking twigs and branches under its wheels. Both men were quiet. “Wait. Turn left. The bog is on that side.” Sam said.The car turned. But after driving a few meters, Marcos had to apply brakes. What was that, shining on the ground in front of the car? Unless it was moved the car couldn’t go. Sam got down and walked up to the object. He almost disappeared in the fog. “What’s it?” Marcos shouted from inside the car. There was no reply. Marcos pressed on the horn again and again impatiently. “Come out and see.”Marcos trudged ahead. He could feel his legs weakening.“A sword!” Sam pointed towards it. A shiny large sword was vertically stuck into the soft ground, as if it fell from the sky.Marcos’s heart missed a beat. He pulled Sam’s hand sharply and dragged him towards the car. “Let’s get out of here.” he shouted.“No. The marshland is right in front. Open the boot of the car.” They opened the boot and took out the large statue of the horse. Together they carried it to the dark waters ahead. After dumping the haunted figure nto the shallow waters of the marsh, they ran back towards the car. After getting in, Marcos drove it swiftly in reverse gear. The red rear lights of the car made the foggy trees of the woods look ghostly. The hanging branches of trees waving in the wind seemed to beckon them with their hands. “Faster… move faster…” Sam said, looking behind him. # # # #Marcos was returning to Mexico on a Virgin flight. The statue wasn’t there anymore. So, there was no reason not to take a flight. He relaxed with eyes closed and listened to his favorite numbers on his iPhone. There’s nothing like music to soothe the nerves. The stress of the last two days was still throbbing inside him. It may never completely abandon him. He needed a pillow. Where was the flight stewardess? He got up startled. He walked along the aisle. Strange! Such a massive aircraft, and there was not a single passenger! All the seats were empty. But when it left New York, it was packed. The cockpit door was open. He went in. But what is this? The plot didn’t have a head! He was beheaded! The beheaded plot turned towards him.He woke up gasping for breath. A flight stewardess was offering him a pillow. He was in his seat, sleeping. What a dream! How gruesome.
At the same time a car stopped inside the cold and foggy woods of Sleepy Hollow. The door opened and Sam got off. Sam… Sambaran Bandyopadhyay. He removed the sticking plaster from his finger. The cut had almost healed. He walked ahead and picked up the sword. It had to be returned to Harry. Harry lent out these things on hire to movie makers. Sam too, had taken it on rent. He went into the cold soggy mud and found the hundred and fifty year old wooden horse easily. Though the story of the mysterious tree of Sleepy Hollow and the website ‘truehalloween.com’ were all made up instantly by him, Sam was sure that the antique horse would fetch at least five thousand dollars. Actually… that Mexican was mean. Had he offered some reasonable tip to Sam, would he have bothered to play this game with him! Sam needed to get even and teach him a lesson. To make him believe in his yarn, he had done just two things. The moment the light in the room went off, he broke the head of the cigarette lighter mermaid. And then he cut his own finger a little with the nail-cutter and smeared the blood on the back of the horse standing in the dark. The rest just happened inside the mind of the Mexican, after hearing the instantly cooked up tale of Sleepy Hollow. Sam whistled as he opened the boot of the car, and placed the horse and the sword carefully inside. His car moved through the snowy and foggy jungles of Sleepy Hollow. His destination, New York.

25 Minutes – a thriller

admin — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:39:35 +0000

By Pinaki Ghosh

Illustration by: Amitava Chandra, courtesy, Unish Kuri.

An easy-to-read downloadable PDF version of this story can be downloaded by clicking this link.

Jimmy’s version (11.05 AM)

“The Metro station?” the girl looked questioningly. I looked at her.

“This way,” I answered, pointing my thumb towards the Metro rail station.

I have to repeat this reply at least two hundred times in a day. My little tea-coffee joint Jimmy’s Hotties is a two minutes’ walk from the Metro…the tube-rail station of sector five of Salt Lake, Kolkata. My joint is merely a five by five kiosk with three sides open but does fair share of business. Luckily the New Writers’ Building, the state government administrative house has come up right opposite my kiosk two years back in 2013.

During the great worldwide economic depression of 2009-2010 many large information technology companies closed their shutters and departed. The vast township of Salt Lake looked like a haunted city then.

My father established this stall many years ago and looked after its affairs till a few years back. The old aluminum kettle was still used on the gas stove to make tea those days. Now everyone uses slick machines for making tea and coffee. From 2011 onwards the market improved again. And the new Writers’ Building started coming up at that time. Now this is our state Chief Minister’s address.

“Thanks”…the girl left. Pretty girl…poor thing, there was a huge plaster in her arm.

“Tea,” a man of about twenty five stood in front of my counter. A printed white Che Guevara portrait frowned at me from his black tee shirt.

“How many, Sir?” My routine question.

“Can’t see anyone else around! So, one cup would be enough,” he looked around and replied.

“The Chief Minister hasn’t yet entered office I suppose.” he continued.

“Telling me, Sir?” I said.

“No.” He said. He was on his cell phone. His sunglasses are his cell phone. These days you can’t make out who’s talking to whom.

“Has the Chief Minister entered?”

“Are you talking to me now?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No. Her convoy comes at eleven. Will arrive any time now.”

Within a minute the Chief Minister’s convoy approached noisily.

“Thanks.” The boy spoke over his sunglass phone. “I’m entering now. The Chief Minister has arrived. Navin Goel has already entered, I can see his car.”

The guy left in a hurry leaving half his tea unfinished.

Ten minutes after this, the massive video billboard across the road suddenly blacked out. In a gust of wind something must have come and hit it… I stared in surprise. A train was passing overhead noisily. I noticed a crack across the huge video billboard screen.

Suddenly there were hooters screaming from everywhere. Or maybe, it was coming from the direction of the government building. Something must have happened inside the Writers’ Building. Security forces were running towards the Writers’ Building. Has anyone attacked the Chief Minister? I crossed the road and walked curiously towards the government building. What could have happened?

I saw the time – 11.30 AM.

Rahul’s version (11.05 AM)

Our car halted right behind Naveen Goel’s Mercedes. While getting off, I told Natasha to keep the audio recorder on.

“Sure,” said Natasha, “All the best.”

I asked a police constable posted at the gate of the government house when the Chief Minister was expected to arrive. He wasn’t sure. He looked away.

I had to spend time. I thought of having a cup of tea from Jimmy’s Hotties, a stall across the street. Crossing the road was a pain – traffic has increased immensely in the last 4-5 years. But pollution level has definitely come down.

At the tea-stall I briefly exchanged glances with a pretty girl with a plastered arm. She was probably looking at the picture of Che Guevera on my shirt. A lot of people look at it. She left as I stepped in front of the tea stall. I sipped my cup of lemon tea. Natasha called me, her voice was screaming from my sunglass-phone, “Why did you cross the road? “

“The Chief Minister hasn’t yet entered office I suppose,” I replied her.

Immediately I heard the convoy approaching. I paid the boy and left, leaving my tea half-finished. The security guy at the gate asked for my appointment letter. I missed a few heartbeats. Because even though the letter I was carrying was genuine, the time and date had been altered. The security supervisor frisked me and asked, “Carrying any electronic gadgets?”

“Nothing officer, except the sunglasses,” I smiled. I chose to remain silent about my electronic button. The electronic button on my shirt could record any sound within 500 meters.

“Can I enter, then?”

“No, the Chief Minister is in a meeting, the red light is on. Please wait here for some time.”

So, she’s in a meeting with Naveen Goel. And that’s exactly what I wish to hear. It could be the subject of my next article. I had to move closer, in order for my button microphone to receive the conversation inside.

“I’m sitting here next to the door,” I said.

Once I go near the door, I’d be able to enter somehow. As if like a warning the red light was glaring at me from the top of Chief Minister’s door at the end of the corridor. I knocked the door. The Chief Minister’s bodyguard peeked from Chief Minister’s room with an automatic rifle in his hand, “What do you want? Can’t you see the Chief Minister is busy?” He pointed towards the red light above the door.

“The Chief Minister has called me to attend this meeting.” I blurted out as I pushed the door and entered.

“What’s this? What do you think you are doing? I’ll get you arrested,” shouted the security personnel pushing me back.

I could see the Chief Minister Maya Bannerjee. Naveen Goel sat facing her.

“Ma’am, I’m Rahul Sen from ‘People’s Democracy’, the weekly. I raised my voice and said, “If you could tell me why you have called Naveen Goel today, ma’am.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No ma’am.”

“How strange! How can a reporter enter like this, breaking all protocol?” The Chief Minister was visibly annoyed.

“Get out!” A security officer caught me by my collar.

“Easy, brother,” I tried to smile.

Naveen Goel stood up excitedly and pointed at me, “This is the guy. He’s the one who wrote misleading reports about ‘InGeneers’ to malign us. He’s trying to spoil our reputation and hinder the project.”

I couldn’t stay any longer; not even for a minute. After coming out of the Chief Minister’s room, I was harassed once again by the security officer outside the room.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t I tell you to wait? Why did you enter?” Before I could answer, I heard the radio transmitter tucked in his belt raising alarm, “Calling Security supervisor!”

“Vijayprakash Singh here, go ahead,” he replied.

“Sir, please come inside. The Chief Minister has been shot just now.”

“My goodness!” he rushed towards the Chief Minister’s room.

I shuddered. I knew I should move out from here at once Not only did I enter under false identity; I forced myself into the Chief Minister’s room.

I walked towards the ground floor in quick steps. Suddenly hooters and alarms went off from all directions. I saw many more armed police officers and security guards coming in hordes. It took a minute to reach ground floor. I entered the toilet, opened my black tee shirt, and shoved it into the cistern.

I came out in a red sleeveless vest. Now I’ve got to look for Natasha.

My watch showed 11.30 AM.

Vijayprakash Singh’s version (11.05 AM)

My job—security supervisor to the Chief Minister is not at all romantic. It is grueling.

The man, who handed over the letter saying, ‘I have a meeting with the Chief Minister at eleven hundred hours,’ looked impressive. I could make out immediately that he was a VIP. Ten years into this job; I can recognize VIPs at one glance. I saw the name, Naveen Goel, CEO, InGeneers. It sounds like ‘engineers’, but is spelt differently; as if it has some hidden connotation.

“Please take a seat, Sir.” I paged the security of Chief Minister’s convoy over the radio transmitter. He replied that they were just one kilometer from the Government house.

“Sir, the Chief Minister is just one kilometer away,” I informed Naveen Goel, the visitor.

“Thanks.”

Within five minutes the Chief Minister arrived. Meeting started; the light over the door turned red. It suggests, no one should disturb at this time.

One more visitor appeared. A young man in his twenties, wearing a black tee shirt flashing a picture of Che Guevara. I checked his appointment paper and identity proof. He had an appointment. He told me he was working for an NGO – a non government benevolent organization. My junior frisked him and I told him to wait. I had to take a call after this. After talking over the phone for about four minutes I was shocked to see that the boy in black tee shirt was being shoved out from the room. I lost my cool. Son of a bitch!

“What’s the matter? Didn’t I tell you to wait? Why did you enter?” I shouted.

Before he could reply I heard Raghubir, one of the bodyguards of the Chief Minister paging over the radio transmitter, “Sir, please come inside. The Chief Minister has been shot just now.” There was normal excitement in his voice.

“My goodness!” I exclaimed and entered Chief Minister’s room. I entered and made a quick scan. The Chief Minister was lying on her belly on the floor beside her chair. The two bodyguards—Raghubir and Hardeep Singh made body-shields and covered her… a standard practice in such a situation.

“Is she hit?” I asked.

“No sir.”

Thank God, I thought. Is anyone hit then? Who fired the gun? Was there a firing at all? In a moment I got some of the answers. I spotted Naveen Goel lying prostate on the floor—a wound on his chest. Thick blood was flowing on to the ground.

So, there was indeed a firing, and it missed the Chief Minister. It struck Naveen Goel. There was no one else in the room, except the two bodyguards. Was it fired through the window? There was only one open window. I ran towards it. The room is on the third floor. Nobody was seen running away on the street below. And if fired from below, it would have hit the ceiling. There was no building right on the opposite side. Far away I could see the wetlands of fisheries. A hundred meters away was the tube railway line of the East-West Metro. I saw a train rumbling away.

Where is the second visitor? The man who barged in without permission? I rushed out. Where did he go? He’d be caught for sure. His identity papers were with us, scanned. Of course those might be false.

I used the radio transmitter – “A guy around twenty five is walking out in a black tee-shirt… with a white Che Guevara face on the tee. Catch him.”

I started running towards ground floor. Others triggered the hooter. We’ve got to catch him.

It was 11.30 AM.

Naveen Goel’s version (11:05 AM)

I saw the watch. Just reached the Chief Minister’s office; there was no sign of her.

I’m the head of ‘InGeneers’. The name of my organization is unique – it is a portmanteau of 3 words; ‘In’ for India, ‘gene’ and ‘engineer’. Yes, we are an Indian company working with genetic engineering. I’m a molecular biologist myself.

The Chief Minister just entered. She had called me. I made a quick call to my office from my specs-phone. “I’m entering Chief Minister’s cabin. Where is Papa?”

“Papa is in position” replied my office.

“Convey my regards to Papa”. I disconnected. Papa is a code word – Papa is the international code for ‘P’ and P stands for Priyanka. Priyanka has been assigned a special task.

It would have been foolish to call her myself. So there’s someone in between. Today is a crucial day for us. It can turn out to be the end of our project. The research work carried on by ‘InGeneers’ could come to a complete halt. In 2011 our research started under the patronage of the then Chief Minister Tathagata Bhattacharya. It started as just a research project. But now I can vouch for the fact that our company has taken this research to the level of art. We are working towards increasing the speed of man. And it could definitely be used in sports, defense and industry. But for all good work done—there is always a group of people trying to put a stick in your spokes. And unfortunately that has happened to us too. Some people from our own country had started raising objection to our project. And now many others from various countries have joined in the protest. That is why the Chief Minister of this state, Ms. Maya Bannerjee has called me today.

After entering her office and exchanging formal greetings, I was asked to sit facing her. I had a quick glance at the open window behind the Chief Minister.

“Mr. Goel, let me cut it short. I’m proud that a company like ‘InGeneers’ is working in my state. And I hope your organization and your project will draw the world’s attention towards my state, but not for the wrong reasons.”

“Wrong reasons are man-made,” I smiled. “The controversies are created by some media. Our company has never done anything illegal, and will never do so. Our aim is noble. First there was the airplane, and then came the supersonic plane. Similarly first there was man, and now we are trying to design a super-fast man.”

“I know all this, Mr. Goel. But the point is, you are violating human rights in trying to do so. You are experimenting with human beings, like guinea-pigs. You are endangering them,” replied the Chief Minister.

“That is not true. It was published in a weekly, the ‘People’s Democracy’… a perfect example of yellow journalism by an irresponsible, attention greedy reporter, Rahul Sen. After that a few popular social networks had carried the news and it started a worldwide commotion.” I clarified.

“Amnesty International has also got involved, Mr. Goel.”

“You go through this presentation madam; it will give you a clear idea about the way we work, and what we are trying to achieve.”

“Leave it Mr. Goel; there’s no need of a presentation. I got hold of some information about your company. Sorry to say, I had to resort to the intelligence bureau of police for that.”

I was taken aback for a while. This means, not only the media, but also the police detectives are after us.

“You have opened another company, ‘Bio Kynematics’ haven’t you, Mr. Goel? So that if one is closed down for irregularities, you can still carry on your activities in another name, isn’t that the reason you started the other organization, Mr. Goel?”

Our dialogue was going from bad to worse. I was of course prepared for such a situation. In case negotiations failed, my alternative plan was ready.

At this time the Chief Minister had to take a phone call. I took the opportunity to make a call from my specs-phone. “Plan A has failed. Execute plan B. Tell Papa, the mission is on,” I whispered to my office.

The Chief Minister looked at me and said, “You’d do me and yourself a favor if you could maintain a little more transparency in your functioning, Mr. Goel. I heard InGeneers is like a fortress. Nobody can enter it. Is that so?”

“Is that wrong? Every organization has the right to maintain its own privacy, is that wrong ma’am?” I asked.

“That is true. But since a controversy has cropped up, you better maintain transparency. You are not doing anything detrimental to the nation, so what’s your problem? Allow our inspectors to have a look at your laboratories.”

Suddenly there was a commotion at the door. I saw journalist Rahul Sen. He had forced himself in without permission. He was thrown out, but Chief Minister was a little shocked; she lost her words.

I looked at my watch—11.29 AM.

Then at the window.

A East-West Metro train was passing noisily. I quickly looked at the Chief Minister. Then suddenly, it was as if someone poured hot molten lead into my chest. Before I fell from my chair I saw blood oozing out from the left of my chest and a sharp pain shutting out my senses.

Then it went dark.

Priyanka’s version (11:05 AM)

I looked at my watch. 11.05 AM.

I was supposed to reach the metro station at sector five by 11. I’ve never been to this station before. I decided to wait at a tea stall Jimmy’s Hotties.

“The Metro station…?” I asked the guy at the kiosk.

“This way”, answered the guy at the counter. Another young man in a black tee shirt also pointed at the station. He was staring at my plastered arm. I saw a Che Guevara portrait printed on his tee. We exchanged glances once before I left for the station.

I bought a ticket up to Central station and walked up to the platform. Soon the train arrived. But I waited for the instruction and let the train go.

I have a pseudonym—P or Papa. I’m a molecular biologist. Once I was a pupil of Naveen Goel; now an employee of InGeneers. On the advice of my teacher and boss, Naveen Goel, I opted to become the test subject of the Super Fast Human Project. Today I’m the first super fast human in the world. I can do in one hundredth of the time what others can do at normal speed. So, my world is entirely different. I see everything around me move slowly –at one hundredth of my speed. I never feel I’m very fast; only others around me seem to move like a slow motion movie.

Nobody knows about me yet. The time has not arrived. I’m still at an experimental stage. And for this secrecy I rarely go out into the world. Today is an exception. I’ve come out on a mission. I’m told to be very careful and keep pace with the normal world.

I was hoping I’d finally get a call today that the mission is called off. But instead, the message came, that the mission is on. So, I have to complete my assignment.

I got into the steel-colored train. There were very few commuters. It was moving in slow motion, like slow motion movie footage.

I have to check the built-in long distance rifle inside the plaster of my arm. The rifle had a camera with it. In the lens of my sunglasses, I can see the image of the camera if I wish to. The train emerged from the station, traveling at a height of 30 feet from the ground. I could see the massive video billboard from the window. Some advertisement film was on. I aimed the rifle by raising my plastered arm casually towards the window. I could see the image in my glasses. At the press of the trigger in my pocket a bullet shot off cracking the billboard right across. It is not possible for ordinary humans to see the details I could see when it broke from end to end.

Perfect; I smiled to myself.

Now, my next target was the Chief Minister’s window.

The train, now moving at 60 kilometers per hour will pass the Chief Minister’s window soon. At this speed, no ordinary person can pass a bullet through a one-meter-wide window. The train is covering 1000 meters in a minute. So, to pass the window it will take only 0.06 second. But that is the common man’s calculation. Since I’m 100 times faster I will get full 6 seconds before the train passes the window… enough for me to make a perfect job.

The window was approaching. There, I can see her, Goel is sitting opposite the Chief Minister. I lifted my plastered arm. My mission today is to shoot the Chief Minister. Naveen thinks the Chief Minister’s sudden death will put an end to his crisis for the time being, and he would get some time to finish the project. By the time the new Chief Minister takes over and notices this issue, the controversy will lose its punch.

I pressed the trigger and the bullet flew off.

Who was hit, the Chief Minister? No, it was Naveen Goel.

Was it my mistake? No. I never miss my target.

Naveen’s death was supposed to be in my hand. And why not? I had volunteered for this secret project at his word. But why did he have to suppress the truth? It is violation of human rights… a crime!

Naveen had told me my speed will increase a hundred times. But he never told me that my life-span will also decrease a hundred times. According to normal parameters my death will come 100 times faster, within one year. Actually my body-clock has been reset with a hundred times faster speed. I discovered this fact myself from Naveen’s lab, from his computer. I suspected when I first saw faint signs of wrinkles on my arm, I was only twenty five. Why did he hide this—I asked myself many times. I wanted to live.

That was when I took the decision; Naveen Goel’s end will be in my hands.

My mission is accomplished. Time: 11:30 AM.