The Ghost in Grandpa’s Chair : shortscarystories – Short Horror Story

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I tried once more to sleep, but I remembered the black skies. Lightning too, all around me. I remembered each flash as time began to blur.

Each flash had lit him up that evening, revealing to me the ravages of his face. Of his pale and decaying body. I had shuddered at the sight, tempted to shut my eyes and his as they had glared, and kept glaring, at and through me. Me alone.

Ma had not seen him, as always. She had floated past the chair that had once been his favourite spot to read, but to me he had never been more real.

He had been in the chair that day too, hunched over with limbs bent in awkward ways and skin clinging onto bones for dear life. A grotesque, formless lump. A shadow. Yet, he had been anything but quiet. The rumbling thunder had failed to drown out the sound of his chattering teeth ringing in my ears. Had I imagined his raspy voice trying to call out my name?

“Bordoisila is going home.” Ma had whispered, standing by the kitchen window while smiling at the storm outside.

I had known that name quite well. Bordoisila— the newly married wind spirit, rushing through towns and villages in her path, eagerly making her way back to her mother on her first trip home from her husband’s house. That was the tale, told and retold for centuries within every house in Assam by wizened old mouths with tobacco stained teeth, holding the attention of every child sitting around.

I had inched closer and closer to Ma, the fear of the ghost getting the better of me. Seldom had I seen such peace on her face as I had done at that moment. For the longest time, Ma had continued to look out into our backyard in silence. I had tugged at her stole, insisting upon his presence. Squealing to her how he had long been glaring at me.

As on occasions gone by, Ma had rolled her eyes.

“Not this again.” Her gaze had told me, “Can no one give me a minute alone?”

Barely turning, she had passed me the bowl soon after— half-filled with flattened rice, a mashed banana and milk— along with a glass of water.

“For grandpa.” She had said, before turning back to the window. My trembling hands had taken the bowl up to him.

I remembered those skies well, yes. I remembered them as a ten year old when he too had at last travelled homewards one night. Death had come to my grandfather in his sleep, almost a year after that stormy April evening.

I remember them best now, when most other things are hard to remember. All the faces, the names and numbers. When the greys and whites mingle in my matted hair as I lie in bed, every day dragging on longer than a year.

I can see my form shrinking. I can feel the winds outside growing stronger.

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