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The Temple In The Fog
(© Biswapriya Purkayastha)

Page 1

Cigar smoke eddied in the air as we sat back, replete with supper, and sipped at our brandy. The fire burned brightly in the grate, filling the room with a cheerful flickering glow. Outside the curtained windows, pea-soup fog rolled through the London night.

"What shall we talk about?" I asked. "The world situation?"

Graeme-Phipps grimaced. "Not that old chestnut again. Iím tired of talk of the situation in China and the Turkish question. Youíd think the papers had nothing else to print."

"Well, it is the nineteenth century," Robinson pointed out. "The papers do have to compete with each other for sales. So they print only what they think will sell Ė all of Ďem."

"Iím still sick of it," Graeme-Phipps said, puffing morosely at his cigar. "Youíd think somewhere in Queen Victoriaís Empire there would be something else to talk about."

A brief silence fell. A coal broke in the grate with a shower of sparks.

"Someone ought to tell a story," Hobbledehoy-Hicks said. "Perfect weather for it, donít you know."

"Weíve all heard each otherís stories, a hundred times," I replied.

"Well, thereís Richards," Robinson said, nodding towards our guest, who had hardly opened his mouth all evening. "Heís just returned from our Indian possessions, didnít you, Richards? Youíd know a story or two."

The man called Richards stirred. "I know a couple, I suppose," he said. "But theyíre really very boring. Itís not nearly as interesting a place as you would think from all the penny dreadfuls, you know. There arenít really any fakirs who can sleep on spikes, Iíve never seen a Thuggee highwayman in all my years there, and the Indian rope trick doesnít really exist."

"Well, you must have seen something," Hobbledehoy-Hicks urged. "Come on, old man, weíre all relying on you."

"Well," Richards said, "now that you mention it, there was something very curious that happened, just a little bit before I came back...I donít know if itís worth talking about though."

"Come on," Graeme-Phipps urged, as eager as a puppy. "Tell us, do."

"Itís just that you probably wonít believe it." Richards coughed discreetly. "I could scarcely believe it myself."

"Is it a ghost story?" Robinson asked. "I hear Indiaís full of ghosts."

"Of course itís not a ghost story," Richards said. "There are no such things as ghosts. You need to remember that. There are no such things as ghosts."

We exchanged looks. "Well..." Hobbledehoy-Hicks said, "you might as well tell your story, and then we can talk about that."

Late last year, (Richards said) I was posted by the Viceroyís office in Calcutta as tax collector to Korangustan. Itís only a tiny place now, but had once been a considerable city, the capital of a kingdom. There were half buried temples and ruined forts in the surrounding hills, and in the winter you could sun yourself on the crumbled walls of the old town, which still poked here and there from the jungle.

I arrived on my horse, on a morning in early winter, when the fog lay so thick on the ground that it was hard to see where we were going and the sun was only a faint glow overhead. As I neared the town, I stopped to ask at a potterís kiln by the roadside if I were on the right path to the dak bungalow where I was to put up.

Once the potter, a middle aged native, had got over his surprise at my fluent Hindustani, he pointed along a path that wound away through the forest. "Go along this, sahib, and youíll pass the old clock tower. Turn left at it and youíll reach the dak before noon."

I saw that there seemed to be a narrow path that went in a much straighter line through the jungle, and turned my horse towards it. At this, though, the potter reacted with alarm.

"No, sahib," he yelped. "Please do not go that way."

"Why not?" I asked.

[ Continue to page 2 ]

Genre:General Horror
Type:Medium length story
Rating:7 / 10
Rated By:5 users
Comments: 0 users
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