A ghostwriter
A ghostwriter  funny; sarcastic; humour; horror; scary stories

rajatmchandak Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   15 days ago
I entered a so called ghostly mansion and then....

A ghostwriter

I was least interested for this trip, the reason being the destination choosen.

Neither because I am a reason for most of the horror films being flop nor as I don't get chill up my spine seeing scary things.

It was due to my supposedly disrespectful thoughts towards a ghostly world.

I was in a bus which appealed to me like a prison and I being there without a crime. We had a typical guide with evil looks who was busy with his horror stories.

At once, everybody was waiting for the climax of his 39th illogical and illustrious story when abruptly they heard me singing.

The song wasn't from a ghost movie but was something of a kind played at an 'after-death' ceremony. I ruined the climax - baked atmosphere.

The same audience which clapped lusturously applauding my singing abilities at once were now looking towards me as if I was at the peak of my imbecility.

The journey proceeded as my hatred towards a shady plot increased.

We were heading quite smoothly when suddenly our age old bus with marks of eras stopped with some uncertain jerks.

It was as if an old woman was coughing and then disturbingly dissolved into the 5 life forming elements.

Many assumed this to be a ghost deed and the others were sure of our bus-driver's drinking habits.

After some repair we moved on.

The last half-an-hour made me reach my height of happiness as the stock of ghost stories with our guide expired.

We finally reached the marked point.

You could have then sighted our whole 'gang of forty ' standing in front of a huge mansion.

Before I could even sum up the reasons for such a lovely mansion to be the so called home of ghosts, whole of my companions hastily ran in.

I too tried to move, but to my sudden surprise, my brain lost the contact with my feet .

With desperate devotion and the 1st sight love for the mansion, I literally dragged myself in and my feet fell on the floor like some heavy rocks on a cheesy road.

To my extreme astonishment I then discovered a mutatively inherited trait in my genome.

I had just broken the record to control my sleep for the past 4 hours, being the only one in whole of my family to do so.

I ran being a successor to Usain Bolt into my assigned room and saw a silky bed in addition to an inviting bedsheet with its hands spread full heartedly, in a way to tease me while my head jerked off temporarily shread down the drowsy influence lulled over my brain.

The very next moment, I forgivingly fell into the bedsheet's arms and dozed off to sleep.

After an hour or so, I was able to feel something lost with my senses. My eyes flunged opened widely when I broke into the fact that I was unable to sense things through my skin.

The discovery justified the reason why I wasn't in a position to feel the silky bed and the darling bedsheet whose arms had just engulfed me.

Suddenly my other working senses answered me that I was in air, hanging in an unworthy fashion.

I had a phobia of height which was further devastatively overruled by the ghostly appearance of an old man whose body parts were assembling in a puzzled way.

While gathering, he many-a-times confused his legs with upper limbs and butt with his gynacomaestically developed chest.

It took him another 17 minutes to form completely.

I was accurate with my calculation of time as the 'tik-tok-tik' of the clock was crystal clearly audible.

It was a dead spread silence all over my room when my uninvited old friend clapped and pulled out my attention from all the 33 crore hindu gods towards him.

I'm a pure atheist though I usually switch to prayers when circumstances changes.

We both were looking at each other in a horror embedded shocking way.

To end that dreadful eye contact, I asked him his name, the answer to which he denied.

He restlessly came to the point and asked my opinion on a trending social topic .

I wasn't in a position to deny as in an unconventionally grafted anger, he would have ended his magic and neither of my bedsheet's arms then would have protected my bones from shattering.

Hence, with a devout serenity and endless hope to end our brief encounter, I presented my worthy view points on the same.

He ruthlessly scrubbed my expectations and started with his own life history. He was a writer in the stone age. He used to write on stones and make carvings, paintings ....

( and much more irritable things he described).

But after spending an ample amount of time in this respected noble proffesion, due to some social flaws he had to give away his writer's ambitions and take on farming practices.

Since then, he had been tossing up some unavoidable social curses which includes dowry, caste hierarchy and the latest being the 'save boy child' movement.

He came to me as I had been an influenced writer and insisted me to write a social blog and some satirical columns which would reflect the bitter truth of our society hiding behind some polished and shining looks.

I agreed in a rather sarcastic manner not to contradict him, in either way.

Then, a grand salute with a departing goodbye came from the corner of my room while the old man fragmented. His wrinkled lips relaxed making a snouted 'U' as he completely vanished.

The next day, questions from all around the mansion unavoidably striked my ears about the ghostly noises that came from my room, the last night.

I denied their sneaky detective abilities to keep an eye on somebody's else room, with a persistent suspicious smile on my colour changing face.

How can I tell someone what actually happened????

Nobody would ever believe my lively meeting with a ghost.

Yes, I saw a ghost; indeed....

A ghostwriter.

Stories We Think You'll Love 💕

Get The App

App Store