Chapter 11: Tanveer
THIS PLACE IS DARKER than I ever imagined. Not dark as in black'though it's plenty black, too'but dark as in morbid. Sad. Eerie beyond belief.
It's not just about the mess, either. It's about everything. It's about the pieces of those who stayed here'the pieces left behind.
Like the rotted deck of cards.
And the dress with the burned sleeves.
The torn bed sheets.
And the shredded lace curtains hanging over the barred-up windows.
The corroded walls with peeling paint.
And the signs on every door we pass through:
BEWARE, PATIENTS WILL ESCAPE!
EXERCISE EXTREME PRECAUTION UPON ENTERING!
WARNING: MAKE SURE THE DOOR IS SHUT
AND LOCKED BEHIND YOU!
With each one, I get this weird little knot in my gut. Like, even though the place is vacant, I feel as though something's behind these doors'some pent-up, angry energy just busting to get out.
Asad leads us up and down several flights of stairs, exploring the various wings until some of them begin to blur together. This place is like one giant mouse maze.
We end up in some back area, where all the really disturbed patients lived. I know because there's nothing more than a bare mattress on the floor'and all the windows have bars.
No curtains.
No pillows.
No bathrooms.
You can still smell the stench of human waste.
I pick up a bunch of patient file folders along the way, as well as some other relics I come across: a journal, a clown mask, an old magazine, a bar of soap with teeth marks embedded into the side.
And a watercolor picture'one I just had to have.
We follow Asad into a room, where a bunch of kids obviously had some fun. The walls are all painted over with bloodred splotches. And someone's written the words: "Nikhat Khan died here. Her body is buried out in the garden."
"Nikhat Khan," I whisper, looking down at the watercolor clutched in my hand. I flip it over to view the initials N. K., knowing somehow that it's the same person. The eeriness of it'of the coincidence, maybe' sends a chill right through the center of my skull. If it's possible to even feel a chill there.
Zoya turns away and waits by the door, like the possibility of the graffiti being true upsets her. Meanwhile, my focus shifts to the ground. The floor is littered with broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty old underwear.
"I need a break," I tell Asad, suddenly feeling weighted down by all my loot.
"You?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, like the idea of me needing a break surprises him.
"Ditto," Imran chimes in. "I need to take a leak."
"Break time!" Humaira declares.
"Fine," Asad says, still working his camera. "Let's go."
Using the map, we move through several more wards and wings up and down a couple more flights of stairs, through a couple rec rooms. We somehow make it to the reception room of the administration building, where we finally dump our bags.
"Wait." Humaira throws her hand up as though to stop traffic. "Don't you want a high-concept, no-filler film? I mean, you don't want to bore people to death only ten minutes in, do you?"
Asad swivels the dolly to aim the camera at her.
"She's got that right," Ayaan says, using the megaphone, his voice echoing even more. "People will be asking for their money back before they even make a dent in their popcorn."
"Right," Humaira says, striking a pose for the camera' hands on hips, back arched, stomach sucked in. "Which is why I was thinking we could have me act like I'm trapped in a room or something. I could be struggling to get out."
"Or maybe we could just have you trapped in a room," I suggest, faking a smile. "No acting required."
Humaira lets out a huff, still overacting. "If I'm going to be involved in this project, I need it to have purpose . . . to have edge . . . to have spice."
"Spice?" Imran perks up.
Ayaan hands a script to each of us, but Asad totally ignores it, instead filming Humaira's every bossy move.
I thought we were supposed to be taking a break," I say, unzipping my coat to unload the tonnage of file folders I've squirreled inside, as well as the wax paper' covered notebook and the watercolor picture. I pile them on the floor, out of the way, and then pull a bunch of candles from my bag and set them up in a circle to establish a cozy area'if the word cozy could even apply here.
"Sance time?" Imran asks, rubbing his hands together.
"Yeah, I thought we could summon an evil spirit to take over your body and make you perform sadistic rituals."
"Sounds cool," he says.
I roll my eyes, noticing how Zoya is sitting off by herself, eyeing my pile of stuff, probably wondering what my deal is. And so I listen to Imran ramble on about some candlelit picnic he attempted with a girl'how he accidentally burned his butt in the process'for exactly the length of time that it takes me to light all the candles. Then I join Zoya, scooting in between her and my stack of file folders.
"Still feeling like this place doesn't want us here?" I ask.
"Make fun if you want."
"I'm not making fun. I'm just curious. What did you mean by all that?"
She shrugs instead of answering.
"You don't want to be here, do you?"
"Do you?" she asks. "Can you honestly say that this is fun for you?"
I shrug, wondering what she was thinking by coming here in the first place'or if she was even thinking at all. "This place is definitely intense," I say, in an effort to play nice. "Part of it pulls you in. Another part wants to spit you out."
Zoya's eyes lock on mine for just a second, and I almost catch sight of a trembling lip, like maybe she gets what I'm saying.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
But instead of answering, she looks at the watercolor I found.
"This place is screwing with you, isn't it?" I continue, pushing the picture toward her. "It's screwing with me, too. Just look at this painting. One minute I'm drawn to it; something tells me to pull it down, that I have to know more, and so I do, only to find the artist's initials on the back. Then, two minutes later, I see a name on the wall' a name that shares those same initials. I mean, it's quite a coincidence, don't you think?"
"I'm not sure I believe in coincidences."
"So you think it was intentional?" I ask, focusing on the place in the picture where there should be a heart. "Do you think that something greater'some external force, maybe'wanted me to make the connection?"
"External force?"
"Yeah. Like, maybe Nikhat Khan, maybe her spirit was reaching out to me. Maybe she's trying to haunt me." I flip the picture over to look at her initials again. Then I grab the journal from the stack of file folders. "I found this in the same room as the painting. It was wedged inside one of the mattresses. Do you want to read some of it with me?"
Zoya stares at it, her mouth dropping open like she's seriously tempted. "Maybe not," she says finally, though unable to take her eyes off it. A moment later she gets up'just like that'as if the temptation is too strong and she has to get away.
Meanwhile, Asad's got the camera zoomed right at me. "We're heading downstairs to the tunnels," he says. "I want to shoot some of my storyboard stuff."
"Well, I want to take a break," I remind him.
"Break's over." He smiles. "Back to work."
"Not for me. I just sat down."
"Yeah for you," he insists. "Come on; we need to stick together.
"Why?" I balk. "I have a map. I have candles, a cell phone, a walkie-talkie, my flashlight'"
"I can stay with her," Imran offers.
"Oh. Yeah. I feel safe," I say.
"Zoya, I'd like you to come, too," Asad says, practically drooling as she pulls the elastic from her ponytail. Her hair spills down in silky waves, totally making me want to hurl.
And I'm not alone. Humaira rolls her eyes, pausing a moment from running a hairbrush through her long dark hair. She uses the brush to thwack her beloved Ayaan on the side of his head. The boy has got his eyes seriously lodged right on Zoya's chest.
"I was thinking we could get a cool shot of you holding a candle," Asad continues.
"I don't know," Zoya says, chewing nervously at her bottom lip. "I may just want to sit for a little while to get my bearings'to get used to this place, you know?" She readjusts her hair into a grandma like bun, but she still looks nauseatingly perfect.
"Maybe you should stay behind," Humaira says, turning to Zoya. "I mean, it's probably going to be super scary down there."
"Really?" Zoya's eyes widen.
"Totally," Humaira continues, feeding Zoya's fear. "I mean, there's probably going to be all kinds of creepy stuff happening down there'blinking lights, faulty equipment, spirits passing through us. And we're probably going to be a while. We have a lot to shoot, so you might want to stay up here with the crew."
"That wouldn't mean more screen time for you," I ask, "Would it?"
Humaira shrugs, but my comment doesn't seem to bother her. "I guess now that you mention it, I could do that candle scene."
"Or me," Ayaan pipes up.
"Don't worry," Asad says, drawing his sweatshirt over Zoya's shoulders once again'obviously a regular maneuver in his repertoire of playerisms. "Nothing weird is gonna happen down there. Zoya can stay close to me."
Zoya reluctantly joins him and the other two Bollywood wannabes. Ayaan is helping Humaira get ready for her close-up at this very moment. He's got some powder out, dabbing it across her rounded cheeks and pointed chin. "So you won't shine for the camera," he says.
Meanwhile, I pretend to ignore them by thumbing through a bunch of file folders.
"Seriously, Tanveer," Asad says, copping an attitude. "I'd rather you guys just came with us." He looks back and forth between Imran and me.
"Go!" I tell him, flipping open one of the folders. "I'll be fine."
"Let's go," Humaira demands. She runs a fingerful of Vaseline over her teeth, muttering something about how it keeps her lips from rolling up into her gums when she smiles. Like lip rolling is some regular occurrence.
"We'll be right downstairs," Asad says. "We're gonna go by way of the cafeteria. Use the walkie-talkie if you need anything."
"Sure," I say to appease him.
But Asad doesn't look so sure. Still, he leaves me alone.
Finally.
I hope you liked it!!!!!! Please comment and like!!! 😊
Kabhi Neem Neem Kabhi Shahad Shahad
Debate Mansion
124