'Conjuring Castle'

It was one of those rare Monday mornings that didn’t feel like a punishment. For a person who usually feels the full weight of 'Monday Blues', the sky blushing in streaks of orange and rose made me forgot that it was the beginning of a workweek. The air was crisp, not cold, and the golden hue of the rising sun spilled across the city like a warm promise. I walked into the office, coffee in hand, watching the world get busy in slow motion. The always busy building buzzed with the usual Monday energy. As the keycard beeped opening the door to the usually expected clattering of keyboards and morning grumbles, a strange stillness greeted me in. Surprised, I struggled to find some familiar faces for comfort. I absent-mindedly wondered if it was the right floor only to find my practical side reassuring me that the doors open only with the correct keycard. 

I hopelessly screened through all of my memory files to find any trace of a missed memo about additional leaves as I wandered through the first few empty cubicles. And then I saw it. A crowd had formed at the far end of the office, flocked around a table like birds drawn to breadcrumbs. Vishnu was at the center, of course, perched casually on the edge of a desk, a half-empty mug beside him, his hands already dancing in the air mid-sentence. His voice, low and magnetic, curled through the space like smoke. Faces that were usually buried in laptops were now lifted, eyes wide, expressions caught somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.

No one noticed me slip in, and I didn’t mind. I just stood there for a moment, soaking in the scene.

"And there I was, walking into an empty room, in the middle of the night, all alone..." he continued as everyone waited with bated breath for the events of the story to unfold, word by word. 

He had a knack for it. Conjuring stories out of thin air and making them sound as dramatic and realistic as humanly possible is a skill few can boast about and even fewer actually possess. For Vishnu, he could do it in his sleep, a true master at it. This was one such instance where his mastery was on show.  He always came up with stories which seemed believable but not beyond the scope of skepticism. As for the man himself, he had an air of mystery around him and hence, no one could tell if his stories were based on true instances or figments of his imagination. But, the beauty of his narration left his audience spellbound.

Short by Indian standards, Vishnu made up for his lack of height with an extraordinary dressing sense. With over eight piercings glinting across his body and a peculiar choice of outfits that looked like they time-traveled from three different decades and decided to vibe together, paired with his Air Jordans, scuffed yet sacred, carrying stories of underground gigs and rooftop raves, he was a sight to behold. His walking speed more than made up for his short legs and rat tail, an unapologetic throwback to his era of defiance. With a chest tattoo of the sacred 'Om' representing the Hindu trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, his presence felt like a thick crooked line drawn boldly across straight margins. 

This time, he was narrating an incident which he claimed to have taken place a couple of years ago. "The Midnight Saga" he named it, with both hands extended at a forty-five degree angle, mimicking a mega title, as soon as he realized the peak in interest amongst his audience. Though a journalist by profession, Vishnu's life wasn't an open book by any stretch of imagination. He would turn up to work in his nonchalant style only on a couple of days of the month. The rest of the days, he was as elusive as a shadow at midnight. When asked about it, he would normally shrug it off with a cheeky smile and an attractive story doubling up as a topic changer.

A very popular columnist, Vishnu had a strange way of flirting with danger, often inviting it in, offered it tea, and asking for its darkest secrets. He had a knack for stepping over lines others wouldn’t dare approach. Chasing stories into alleyways where even silence felt armed gave him thrill which others often passed up. While most people calculated risks, Vishnu dismantled the calculator and dove headfirst. And somehow, he always came back, not unscathed, but alive, armed with a story that made the gamble worth it. Perhaps that was the very quality that propelled him to success in his chosen field.

"And then I heard the creaking sound of the old door opening..." he continued. "I could feel my sweaty palms trying to grab an invisible weapon. My eyes trying to find the nearest exit. A surge of blood gushing towards my calf muscles made it abnormally active. By then, my brain had started second guessing by choices and my whole life started replaying itself..."

The in-depth understanding of power of attraction, loosely termed as 'social magnetism' has always eluded me. Unlike  infatuation, which is a strong and often temporary feeling of attraction towards another person or his/her ideas with an idealized or romanticized view, some people have the ability to draw others towards themselves with the help of personal appeal and charisma. Its, sometimes meaningful, but mostly a magnetic presence, irresistible and influential at times. At times, I found myself questioning whether journalism was truly Vishnu’s calling. He seemed far better suited to writing suspense thrillers or crafting intricate murder mysteries.. The build up of anticipation and curiosity with hints and clues is a technique used to maintain suspense in the story. In a few minutes, he had employed both 'Show, don't tell' and 'S.T.A.R moment' techniques effectively while still divulging as little information about the incident as possible.

"I repeatedly asked myself if an anonymous tip was worth the risk I was taking. A hundred thousand possible answers with reeking malice ran through my tired mind. Despite my courageous steps, all I could see around me was a house, forgotten, and half-swallowed by the wilderness that grew thicker each year. The chipped and crumbling moss covered old concrete railings of the portico, felt as if time had gnawed into them slowly inflicting the maximum pain with its nails of fashion and relevance. A partially visible grandfather's clock that ticked once every few hours and a mirror that never reflected the full image greeted from inside the door. The shards of broken glasses littered the room, along with a few broken porcelain plates and dolls..."

Though, for a second it felt like an attempt at the recreation of Horace Walpole's Castle of Otranto, the conviction in storytelling convinced the audience to eagerly wait for the next curve in the road.  

Vishnu leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to make the room fall into a tense silence. 

"I should have stopped at the rusty old gate. I have heard stories about its tormenting shadow following people everywhere. Ignorance, Ignorance..." he blurted out before slapping his forehead with his right hand. 

His eyes glinted under the dim light, the silver in his piercings catching the glow like tiny beacons of danger. 

"My body wanted to leave, but my eyes... my eyes were drawn to the mirror right across the main door. Old, dusty, the glass webbed with fractures like a frozen spider's nest.  It's only then that I felt the broken dolls staring right into my soul. The cracked mirror reflected a version of me I didn't recognize. Me, but not me... Those locked eyes followed me independently. My reflection was bleeding from all orifices with its eyes fixed on me the whole time. Blood pooled down its neck, slow, deliberate, like it was savoring the descent. Eyes - dark, empty and soulless, ready to devour me into its bottomless void, judging every cell in my body as if questioning their existence itself. I wanted to plead for help, scream my lungs out, cry,  beg for mercy or at least run for my life. But, it felt as if my strength was being sucked up by my own refection which was not me anymore." 

The tempo of his storytelling lowered as if re-living the experience all over again. Words took time, sentences lost structure and regret filled the air. He paused, and the room around him felt still, as if even the air didn’t dare move.

"It felt as if the house was trying to remember me from a time long past..."

The silence that followed this last line was suffocating. As if even the air around could sense the tension build-up. No one said a word. Eyes wide, clearly trying to digest the last sentence spoke in the room. The girl sitting next to me had almost gone pale. She was clutching her sleeve tightly with one hand while the cigarette in-between her right index and middle finger had burnt to ashes a long time ago. Her overenthusiastic leg, which had been bouncing with impatience when the story began, was now perfectly still. She snapped out of her hypnotic state only when someone let out a breath, a little too load for everyone's liking.

The chewing gum in our boss's mouth had turned into a tough ball of rubber. Known for his strict deadlines and unreadable expressions, he stood there with a nervous smile, his pen tapping on the notebook unevenly. Even, the gentle creak of the table fan in the far corner felt eerily different.

And then came the inevitable question, barely above a whisper, “Did it actually happen?”

Vishnu didn’t answer right away. He simply let the weight of the question hang there, twisting in the air like a noose of curiosity. His lips curled into that familiar half-smile, the kind that hinted at truth and trickery all at once.

“If I told you it did,” he said slowly, “you would never sleep the same again.”

A chill ran through the room, and this time, it had nothing to do with the weather.