THE LAST THING ….. Charles wanted to witness vividly was that doppelgänger loitering aimlessly on top of that grimy square piece of ancient marble in their basement.
Was he fantasizing ?
Was he in a reverie ?
No ! Absolutely not , he thought, besides Charles had seen that apparition many times , during the late hours of the night when the sky was dark and murky and the stars seemed to have been sucked into the dark gloom of the sky when he used to sneak out of his large bedroom aspiring that the liquorice rolls were good and whole and most importantly were where they were supposed to be : in the fridge.
Charles Dean, a chubby boy of a twelve year old with a round face and curious eyes with a shock of auburn hair studied at the Bishop's Jury Church School where children were given a dose of infamous caning should they dare to put their stubby little toes over the school's grey , dull and strict rules and schedules . Charles had always found himself out of place . The school was no exception to that rule. Almost all the children were distantly or closely related to someone famous in the church , in the government , anywhere. The rest were either sons of lower-middle class families who had been admitted only because the school was missionary in its "aspects" and was free of fees and taxations or any payment with any monetary involvement. Charles however was neither .
His father Mr.Edgar Dean was a clerk in the government, and was neither an important figure that stood out nor a poor personality. He was a man rather shaped like a pear and a bit bandy-legged , with a bright auburn shock of hair ( something he and Charles had in common ) with glasses which he polished every one hour. He was a rather unimaginative sort of man who did not believe there could be anything existing in the group we know as "Fantasy" or to be more elaborate, things like spectres, ghouls , unicorns and any other thing that his " over-imaginative" son had managed to lure out of his brain from the many fictional books that he read.He admired non-fiction writers, especially Hemingway. He thought the sun shone out of Hemingway's every orifice. He was now finishing typing out some bills on his newly acquired second-hand typewriter while Charles was fighting losing battles with his own brain in their grimy basement regarding the existence of one such phantom.
Charles, now on the other hand, had turned the tide of the battle and now seemed to whole-heartedly believe that the spectre standing in front of him was real. He didn't know what to do . What he was thinking was that he could popularise the idea that he was the proud discoverer of a ghost . The news would lap the news right up. At Least some money would come rolling in. By fluke, perhaps enough to earn him a place in the group of his school's so-called "upperclass students". In a state of frenzy he shot up the stairs , calling out supposedly to the spectre " You just wait there, I am coming back with Dad , he's just going to have a look at you". He surprisingly did not react to a phantom likewise to what any child of his age would have done ranging from wetting their knickers to having nightmares for weeks.
He slammed open Mr.Dean's study and shouted " Dad , call the news ! Alert the media ! Bring in the paparazzi ! I FOUND A GHOST IN THE BASEMENT ! And with that he did a sort of jig of joy.
Mr.Dean , startled by the sudden and unexpected appearance of his son, jumped right out of his shoes and spilled his coffee all over himself. His ears were turning red , a warning sign that he was going to rage. He said , his voice steely with rage " What is happening ...Explain .".
Charles burst out " Dad, there's a ghost in the basement , call the news , call the radio, they'll pay good money to see this ". "G-g-ghost " ? stammered Mr.Dean " In the basement ?" then regained some of his composure and bellowed " PREPOSTEROUS !!! Ghost in the basement , eh ? I'll give you a ghost in the basement ! Have you no work to attend to ? Sit at your books, boy !
In all this hullabaloo , Mrs.Amelia Dean , a thin woman , with jet black hair down till her waist , came bustling into the scene. Her eyes were sunken, a sign of unsuccessful sleep. She said wearily " Now, what's the matter ?" " Your child's becoming of a dissolute nature " said Mr.Dean. "Maundering about some ghost in the basement, as if there were some thing such as ghosts. I'd say , stop him from reading those tall stories....what does he call 'em ?...fiction stories, yes, stop him from reading those. He goes on babbling about hags and banshees and ghosts and unicorns and fairies and what not .
Mrs.Dean was utterly perplexed by all this talking at once but managed to get the gist and took Charles away, leading him by the scruff of his dusty collar to his bedroom. However, Charles was not to stay put. As the clock struck 3 , Mr.Dean had retired to the comfy quarters of his bed and was now snoring rather noisily giving him the appearance of a nose-blocked walrus, his pot-belly heaving up and down with every snore. Mrs.Dean had got rid of her tiring suspicions of Charles sneaking out again and had managed to go to sleep too . Now discerning all this, Charles tip-toed out of his room and ran to the basement . Yes, the wretched phantom was still there only now it was holding out one of his hands and pointing towards a rotting slab of marble . The ghost seemed to want to say something but his ( Charles assumed it was a "he" because he wasn't lifting his hood )efforts were in vain as he was devoid of the power of speech. Charles , luckily was very gifted with guess work , he could manage to plough through Pop-Quizzes by sheer luck and guesswork as unfortunately Charles did not quite consistently live up to the flair he had with guesswork in his academics. So, after a few minutes, Charles managed to deduce that there might be something beneath the slab because unless he was as blind as a bat there was nothing above it that he could perceive.
So now Charles beckoned to the ghost with his arm fervently hoping that the translucent apparition had the understanding of sign-language well within the limited boundaries of his comprehension. The apparition , it turned out , did not make any blunders in understanding this. With a jerk of his head , he moved aside from the rotting slab. Charles put the tip of his shoe gingerly in the miniscule space between the slab and the ground and with all his cautious will-power, pushed upwards. No luck. It was surprising that such a breaking piece of junk could
hold still.
Charles surmised the situation and thought he would be needing a lever. Charles hurried to the shed outside. He found a wrench , a few planks, a few screws , hammers, mallets , a lot of things but not a single lever. Well, he found just a long piece of rusted iron, it might as well break itself in the process of removing the slab. Well, something is always better than nothing, so he might as well make do with it.
So, tip toeing back to his basement , he saw that the ghost was not there. Hastening to look at a clock, he saw that it was nearing dawn. Alarmed that his mother might be up and about now any minute, rushed back to the basement to execute the process. He placed one end in the tiny space under the slab and poised his foot above the end which was protruding upwards. Then after a silent count of 3, brought his foot down hard on that end , and the slab went whizzing side-ways landing with such a crash that it was evident that Mrs.Dean had been awakened.
Now, Charles either could hide in the basement, and risk getting caught and facing the wrath of his parents or he could slip back unnoticed to his bedroom and let the matter blow over.
NOW WAIT FOR THE 2ND EPISODE , TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT !
~ many thanks, Siddartha Dey