I heard it again; the sound, akin to the rustling of dry leaves as if somebody was sweeping the ground. It was the dead of midnight and by now I was familiar with that spooky sound emanating from the neighbouring house. It was absurd that anyone would want to sweep at such a silent, shadowy, cold hour. But the absurd goings-on are steeped in a poignant past that assert its presence even today.
We reside in a hamlet in north Goa, five minutes from the shore, two minutes from the market and luckily off the main road. We are three houses on the inner lane and our neighbourhood believes that the second house is haunted. There, I blurt it out -- haunted. If I share it with my friends, the credulous and religious ones tremble with fear for they believe in such possibilities. The ones with a scientific and pragmatic outlook laugh on my face and retort that I digest every myth and legend that comes my way. And the idea that the neighbouring house is spooky had been an anathema to Mum too, until a year ago. The enigmatic `guest house' (as we always referred to it), the `haunted' one, reposes besides ours. It is abandoned now and its original owners -- Sylvie and José Gomes -- have passed away. During her lifetime, Sylvie essayed to sell the property and the dilapidated house dirt cheap yet no one ventured to lay their hands on it. Then, she renovated the structure, adding an outhouse and a winsome park. The house as it stands now is rectangular in shape adorned by a rounded balcony on the first floor. At the side of it is the outhouse and, in front of it, the park. Sylvie had cracked a contract with a leading petroleum company to offer the house as a guest house to the company's employees whenever they wanted a vacation. The price rate was fixed at Rs 15 per night. She employed caretakers to look after the house for she never resided there, but always lived in Poona. The caretakers were a family of four -- parents and two children. The parents were Vincente and Lara Paul; their children, Carol and Rahul. I shared a pleasant camaraderie with Carol, we were of the same age. But Grandma strictly forbid my sisters and me from entering the guest house or the outhouse where the caretakers lived. For that matter, no other person in the neighbourhood ever entered that arena unless if it was for the saibin (community rosary before the statue of Our Lady) organised by Lara Paul. The first time I heard the saga behind the guest house being a haunted one, was when Mum and Dad audaciously suggested buying it out after Sylvie had approached them. This was before she could renovate the house. Dad had returned from the ship for a transient vacation and Mum somehow persuaded him to purchase the neighbouring house. Dad was sceptical, but on Mum's insistence he initiated the suggestion to Grandma. Dad was fidgety the whole time and I had never seen him with such diminished confidence. "Mai, the price is good and if we get hold of that chunk, we will be able to expand our area," Dad opined in a matter-of-fact way, avoiding Grandma's gaze. "Raimund, you really mean what you say or are you in a mood for jesting? You all know very well that your grandfather had enough means to purchase that property years ago, but your grandmother put her foot down saying that none of us would buy that pensãoche ghor (accursed house) even for half the price. Not even Pedro's family bought that property even though they live besides it. All of us have preferred to let go of the access that we can get, rather than purchase it at the price of misfortune," Grandma snapped. Dad glanced at Mum with an `I told you so' expression. "Mai," Mum now entered the field of discussion, "who believes in this pensão (curse) and all that? They are all old wives' tales." Much to Dad's embarrassment, Grandma took the term literally and personally. "Leilia! You think I have crafted such stories about Sylvie's house. It's not for nothing that the house is regarded as a pensãoche ghor. Among all her siblings, Sylvie inherited the property and the house. And see, Sylvie and José were never blessed with children. Moreover, a few years post their marriage, José was diagnosed with a terminal illness and the poor man passed away after much suffering. Even when they would come down from Poona, they would never take shelter in that house, but would reside elsewhere. They would occasionally spend the day there, but that was it. Hence we rarely saw much of Sylvie even when she was in Goa for a short vacation. In those days, my mother-in-law herself had experienced weird sounds and I too remember hearing them when I was newly married. You will never believe it unless you have heard it with your own ears." Suddenly they realised that I had been fastidiously listening to the whole narrative and Grandma reproached me. "Cherry, don't you know that little children shouldn't be part of adult conversations? Go back to your room and complete your homework." I innocently nodded my head and disappeared into the room. I was ten then, and that was all my ears managed to grasp. But I somehow premised that Grandma hadn't narrated the entire saga. It was after this incident that Sylvie renovated the house and the caretakers entered the picture, adding further detail to the paranormal drama. We would always espy Carol and Rahul playing in the park and they would beckon us to join them. I remember requesting our Grandma to let us play in the park and our otherwise loving and gentle grandmother gave us a sharp look, and dilating her eyes, chided us. "I have told you once and I have told you twice and I am not going to repeat it again. You, none of you, are to enter the premises. It's fine to interact with those kids across the compound. but nothing more than that." Grandma would don her most formidable look when it came to preventing us from entering that house. We were forced to acquiesce and then we would resume our seats in the balcony donning sad looks on our faces and Carol would understand that it was a `no'. Two days after that incident, at midnight, we heard a chilling scream emanating from the neighbours' outhouse. My eyes were nearly drooping into a slumber when it came. Grandma and I would share the room and both of us woke up in alarm. Grandma recognised the voice as being that of Lara's. We cocked our ears at the veranda for any further sounds, but didn't dare open any door. All was silent for a while and the light that was switched on in the outhouse went off. We gradually faded off to sleep knowing that there was nothing to be done. The next day, Grandma found Lara in the compound, and, across the main gate, she enquired after the previous night's scream. Lara explained that she had woken up the previous night to confirm if she had securely bolted the guesthouse. From the front door, she caught sight of a lady in white stationed near the balcony of the guest house. Grandma's eyes widened. This was the first time that she had learnt about any ghost-like figure. Lara was enjoying the excitement welling on our faces and, within no time, the rumours of this mysterious lady proliferated across the neighbourhood. The neighbours digested the information with a blend of zeal and fear. This was the first encounter of the Paul family with such a strange experience; they were oblivious to the enigmatic backdrop of the house. And yet they displayed no inclination of leaving the premises. That year, when the saibin season commenced, Vincente and Lara expressed a desire to bring the Our Lady to the main house. They regarded themselves as the custodians of Sylvie's entire property and felt that they should also participate in the community house-to-house rosary. Hence, our family ended up entering Sylvie's premises for the first time to attend the Our Lady. Thus, as long as the Paul family resided there, the annual saibin would be brought to the guest house. The next day, the Our Lady would arrive at our place from Sylvie's. One morning we were all at the breakfast table when Mum shared that she had heard sounds of a child crying at around midnight. "It originated from the direction of the guest house. I was in the sitting room completing my office presentation. I am sure some guests may have arrived with a baby. It cried for around five minutes, and then all was still," Mum elaborated. "Leilia, I am pretty sure that the sound you heard of a child crying didn't belong to any baby in the guest house or the neighbourhood," Grandma posited in a matter-of-fact manner. We all stared at Grandma, wondering what her ambiguous premise meant. Reading our gazes, she added: "The crying child is just another paranormal sound from the guest house." Over the years, Carol or Lara would narrate the sinister experiences they would encounter. It mostly encompassed weird sounds like those of sweeping or children crying. The guests from the petroleum company also would carp about hearing these sounds and would immediately leave the next day. Eventually, the guest house business began to deteriorate until the company refused to renew the contract. Thus, the guest house business operated for around six years in this fashion. But the closure turned out to be a severe setback to the Paul family. They were asked to vacate in a month's time. Much to the chagrin of Sylvie, Vincente and Lara refused to vacate the premises and were demanding compensatory settlement of the outhouse with a bit of surrounding area. Their pretext was that they had lived on the property for several years and should be allotted a part of it. Sylvie didn't cater to their demands. She never managed to evict them, but she ceased paying them their salary. Everyone in the neighbourhood expected the Paul family to vacate sooner than later since the money had stopped coming in. But in order to make ends meet, Vincente and Lara began selling South Indian breakfast. Lara was an adept cook. Vincente took charge of the delivery and would deliver breakfast house-to-house in the neighbourhood. Many of us would place orders with them since their South Indian cooking offered a scrumptious respite from the otherwise traditional breakfast. This continued for another four years until, one fine day, Vincente succumbed to a sudden heart attack. Naturally this got the whole neighbourhood thinking whether Vincente's untimely demise was also a repercussion of the pensão. And this was the time when Lara decided to leave the premises with her two children. When Sylvie heard of the demise, she came down and asked Lara to surrender the outhouse keys. Lara grudgingly did so and the Paul family left the village for good. I almost presumed that now that the guest house was vacant, the paranormal experiences might begin to ebb away. I was wrong. One cold winter night, I heard the dreaded sweeping sound. It was just as was delineated by the surrounding neighbours who had heard it at some time or the other -- the sweeping of dry leaves. Secretly, I always yearned to hear it. I would be a better judge if I experienced something myself rather than relying on descriptions. However accustomed one is to listening to haunting stories, when the haunting experience reaches your doorstep, you can't help but remain transfixed. Even if you have derided these stories as trivial superstitions, you are bound to believe it during the moment you experience it. Uncle Ken did. And I had always believed, but had never heard it, until now. Uncle Ken! I can never forget Uncle Ken's reaction at the sound. It is embedded in memory and albeit I laugh at the incident if I think of it today, at that moment it was an appalling event. Mum's youngest brother, our Uncle Ken had arrived from New York for a month's vacation. He was to reside with us for a week and later live with his two other siblings for a week each. The day he arrived, I happened to share the sinister saga of the neighbour's house now that I had heard it myself. Naturally, I didn't admit this fact to him or to Mum since Mum would either accuse my imagination or Grandma's fairy tale. Uncle Ken was wont to staying awake till midnight, and all ominous sounds would emanate at around midnight itself. My noble intention was to caution him, but knowing him to be the male replica of Mum, I wasn't perplexed by his incredulity. "Eh, Lily," he began in a mocking tone, "when did your daughter start believing in these ghostly superstitions? Trying to scare me out Cherry, are you?" Mum hit back with equal sarcasm, "She is Dona Gabriella's granddaughter after all, what can you expect?" Thankfully, Grandma was at the market. The next night, I happened to wake up at around 12:15 a.m. for a glass of water and realised my bottle was empty. I was heading into the kitchen when suddenly I saw Uncle Ken sprinting into his bedroom. His room was besides mine. He leapt into bed and tucked himself from head to toe under the sheet. He paid no attention to my presence. I was befuddled, but entered his room and gently nudged him. He woke up with a start; his countenance was white with fear. "Oh Cheryl, it's you! Did you also hear it then?" "Heard what, Uncle Ken?", I asked back, surprised at hearing him announce my whole name. "The sound, Cheryl! The sound! That sweeping of dry leaves you were telling me about yesterday. I heard it. Loud and lucid. The outhouse is visible from the kitchen window." "You heard it Uncle Ken?" my eyes dilated in excitement. "Why are you trembling, Uncle?" "Cherry, when I heard the sound, I mustered the courage to open the kitchen door and discover the root cause of it, whether someone is simply scaring the neighbourhood or not. Cherry, I trod silently and flashed a torch towards the guest house. Not a soul was about. It was pitch dark. Not even a shadow was visible. And yet as I neared the compound, the sound kept getting louder with no one around. I immediately returned to the kitchen. And yet not a soul was about!" Such imbecility of leaping right into the lion's mouth could spring only from Uncle Ken. All this to defy our superstitions! "Not a soul was about?" How ironical it sounded. The next morning, Uncle Ken cooked up a pretext about a friend's invitation in order to cut short his stay here. Since Uncle Ken's first-hand experience, he avoids staying the night at our place and only visits us during the day. Just a year ago, an elderly couple arrived in our neighbourhood and surprisingly entered Sylvie's house. Pedro, Grandma, Mum and I arrived at our compounds to learn their identities. The couple introduced themselves as Jovito and Zelia Fernandes from Panjim. And to our horror apprised us that they were to be our new neighbours; they had purchased Sylvie's house. They had arrived with domestic helpers to clean and dust the premises. They pleasantly made our acquaintance and through them we learnt that Sylvie had passed away, and a few months earlier had sold them the house at a `suitable' price. Mum was piqued seeing them since she always had her eyes on that property. Grandma and I exchanged glances. We were debating whether to intimate the couple about the haunting, but we weren't sure if they were already acquainted with its history and still purchased it. But our pompous spokesperson of the village, Pedro, saved us the trouble and embarrassment. He blunted out to Jovito: "Welcome to our village, Jovito and Zelia. I can't believe that Sylvie even succeeded in selling the property. Nobody has ever lived happily in that house. It is a pensãoche ghor. Those caretakers managed to put up with the strange happenings for want of shelter, but disappeared when they were confronted with the first death in their family." The colour faded out of Jovito's cheeks. It was obvious he knew nothing sinister about the house. Pedro returned to his home, not bothering to elaborate and Jovito and Zelia turned towards us in the hope of enlightenment. Grandma, out of no choice, reiterated the saga of the pensão. Jovito and Zelia were clearly distressed, but manifested no desire of leaving at that time. A week later, they settled comfortably into the house. They would genially greet us whenever we met and they seemed to be satisfied with their place of stay. Two months later, Jovito and Zelia were packing their bags to leave the village for good. "Those sounds, terrible, terrible!" Jovito confessed to Grandma. "No wonder she sold it for peanuts! You can't live in this inferno. That Sylvie! Thank God we are still safe, can't wait till we die under an appalling curse that we have nothing to do with. This house has now become a millstone around my neck!" Jovito was enraged and went on hurling abuses. Reality hit Mum. She least expected Jovito and Zelia to depart in such a cursory manner. It now dawned upon her that José's illness, Vincente's death and the couple's desperate exit would have been too much of a coincidence; there was definitely something sinister in that house that impeded anyone from living peacefully. Mum humbly acknowledged to Grandma that Sylvie's house is best left alone. Grandma merely rendered an omniscient glare at Mum. This time my curiosity was aroused sharply. We were old enough to question Grandma about the guest house. I wanted her to reveal the other bit of the story. I asked her: "Grandma, what is the real reason behind all these haunting sounds? Why wasn't anybody happy there?" Wearing a distressed expression, Grandma finally opened up about the story narrated to her by her mother-in-law: "When I was married here, Cherry, my in-laws cautioned me against any weird sounds and voices springing from the guest house. When your dad was little, my father-in-law manifested a keen interest in purchasing their property since word got through that Sylvie's ancestors wanted to sell it. Rather, get rid of it. My mother-in-law simply wouldn't hear of it and made my father-in-law swear that he wouldn't buy it at any cost. A few days later, Pedro's father also dissuaded my father-in-law from purchasing the property since it was considered cursed. It seems that almost two centuries ago, children were buried in that property. The men of the family would have illicit contacts with the domestic helpers and the children born out of the union would be buried in the property ground. The men couldn't afford to expose their liaisons by letting the children live. It is the souls of those innocent children who have been haunting that area ever since. Whoever inherits the property or resides there encounters misfortune. This is all that anyone knows about the ominous house." I learnt the plausible saga of the guest house being haunted, but I have always contemplated as to why a pensão should impact any person or family that resides in the accursed arena when they have nothing to do with what transpired in the past. And on one occasion, Grandma's priest friend, Fr. Diego, impressively answered my question with a suitable illustration. "Father", I asked, "why does misfortune fall on people if they purchase or reside on a property that is accursed? The current residents shouldn't be punished for the mistakes of the past residents." Fr. Diego smiled and put forth a situation, "See, if a coconut plucker ascends a coconut tree that has a beehive on it, whom will the bees attack -- the plucker or the owner of the tree?" "The plucker, off course", I blurted. "And why should they attack the plucker? The coconut tree belongs to the owner right?" "Well, that's because whoever disturbs the beehive by ascending the tree at that moment faces the wrath of the bees and in this case it is the plucker." "Exactly," Father concluded. "Whoever disturbs the beehive at that moment bears the brunt of the bees. So too whoever resides on an accursed territory is also disturbing a metaphorical beehive and they get enmeshed in the effect of the curse." The sounds keep coming even today. They emanate occasionally and on lonely, still nights, not during the cacophonous barbecue parties that go on till post midnight. Till this day, Jovito and Zelia haven't succeeded in getting rid of the accursed house. No one, not even a builder, has ever dared to purchase the area. Grandma speaks of spiritual recourse to appease the souls of those children that have been believed to be haunting the house. But who would want to reside in an area that has such an obnoxious backdrop to it? The house still exists, hushed during the day, conspicuously abandoned and engulfed by its Gothic aura. Author's Note: The above story is based on true events. The house exists in a village of North Goa. All haunting occurrences have been experienced and reported by neighbours and the then caretakers. The identities of the former owners, caretakers, current owners and neighbours have been disguised for the sake of confidentiality. Poetic license is also employed with regards to narration. -- Giann Maria Fernandes resides in Candolim, Bardez, Goa. She holds a Bachelor's Degree in English and History from St. Xavier's College, Mapusa-Goa as well as a Master's Degree in English Literature from the Goa University. Reading and writing are her ardent hobbies. Her dream in life is to enter the teaching arena. She has various accolades to her credit by way of her academic attainments. This is an excerpt from All Those Tales (Nellie Velho Pereira & FN, Eds). Goa,1556 ISBN 978-93-95795-65-4. 2024. Pp242. Rs500 (in Goa). See cover here: https://groups.google.com/g/goa-book-club/c/wkYAQ4D2VA0 or http://t.ly/kan08 If you'd like to join the Tell Your Story group that offers mentoring in writing, click on the WhatsApp link below https://chat.whatsapp.com/C5ge87N4WeJAW54oUXqnBO *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Join a discussion on Goa-related issues by posting your comments on this or other issues via email to goa...@goanet.org See archives at http://lists.goanet.org/pipermail/goanet-goanet.org/ *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-