Phantasm? What’s that? You’ll find out once you read an original short story about Mr Dexter – a harmless old man who lives by himself. After an accident, he is forced to seek shelter at a house that seems very like his. And there, they experience something very different. Find out what actually happened, in the short story below.
Phantasm:
“Good night, Mr. Dexter!”
“Good night, Mr. Rhodes.”, he replied.
Mr. Dexter exited the large hall, where he had come to attend a seminar on psychology. Although he was curious about the human brain and its methods, psychology wasn’t something that really appealed to him. He had once been curious and asked a few questions to an old friend who practiced it, who immediately bought him a subscription to a well-known association of psychological studies and research. The only reason Mr. Dexter even bothered to attend these seminars and conventions was to keep his friend happy, and do justice to the amount paid by his friend for the membership. He belonged to a family who had, during his birth, been quite prosperous but had come down in the world as the years went by. Mr. Dexter knew, therefore, how much money cost.
The hall was on the third floor of a five-storeyed building built solely for the purpose of hosting events. He looked first at the elevator, but the idea of being squeezed between twenty people in a moving steel box did not appeal much to him. Bracing himself, he started walking down the stairs, wading through a fast-moving river of humanity, his walking stick tightly and nervously clutched in his hand. He had no need to be worried about losing his balance. For, in that veritable ocean of humans, one could try his best and yet fail to lose balance and fall down.
Mr. Dexter finally arrived on the ground floor and leaned against the reception counter to catch his breath. Psychology was indeed a sensation, he thought, and so was Heifetz. Their combination – he was smiling to himself, now – was dangerous. Having caught his breath, he stepped out of the building and onto a cobblestoned pathway that, to the right led right to Buckingham Palace.
The change after coming out of the building was definitely noticeable. It was as if one walked out of Turkish hot springs and onto the Alps. The temperature might have been well below zero, but the strong, chilling wind prevented any precipitation. Mr. Dexter pulled his mackintosh tighter around him, and turned left, towards where his Brougham was parked.
He lived in his ancestral mansion on the outskirts of a small village an hour outside London. He absolutely despised cities in general but did enjoy an occasional trip to London to refresh himself. But even then, he would not stay for more than two nights here, and certainly not at a hotel. An old friend’s hospitality suited him much better than the almost machine-like efficiency and pretence of class of the modern London hotels.
Mr. Dexter had to walk for about half a mile to reach his waiting brougham. Pietersen, his old driver, greeted him with a smile and a wave of his hat. “Back home, sir?”, he asked. “Yes, and do try to get there fast.”, replied his master. Most people would have used trains. They were much cheaper, and faster than horse-drawn coaches. Though Mr. Dexter was a poor man as compared to his ancestors, this was one luxury that he allowed himself, to remind him of the glorious past and affluence of his family, which had once been one of the most respected in England. Anyways, the carriage set off, as Mr. Dexter made himself comfortable, putting on his gloves and an extra muffler.
Alexander Dexter was now and old man. Just two months ago, he had completed his seventy-eighth year of existence. In his youth, he had been a good-looking man, but now his head had lost all the hair. His moustache was fully white. He could now no longer go on long walks on his farm; and even if he could, there weren’t a lot of farmlands of his own left. His eyesight was steadily declining and his once six-foot tall, healthy body had now gained a lot of weight. His back was bent, both due to age and because of his worries.
He still stayed in his ancestral family home which he had worked very hard to retain. It was a huge, stone structure that looked just like a castle, but was considerably smaller than one. Even then, it could easily have housed an Elizabethan nobleman’s large family. Dexter’s wife had died twelve years ago, and his only son had moved to America. The horse-drawn carriage and his house were the only things that mattered to him. But now it looked like he might even have to give up his one, last luxury in order to cling on to his home. It was maybe fortunate, therefore, that he had not many years to live.
Mr. Dexter had gone to sleep. He was an insomniac, but the steady rumble of the carriage wheels on the road worked better than any sleeping pill. They were now well outside London, and the woods had already started appearing on the sides of the road. The wind had stopped now, and the clear, night sky still clearly bore the images of the past. Occasionally, a wolf would howl somewhere in the distance, and an owl hooted. The jungles on the sides had grown denser. But neither the driver nor the horses were affected by it. They had been through this place and heard these things hundreds of times. So had their master.
Mr. Alexander Dexter was having a not very pleasant dream, at that moment. He dreamt that he was selling his coach and laying off good, old Pietersen; not wanting to do it at all, but forced to, for retaining his home. All of this continued for about an hour. Suddenly, he found himself rudely jerked out of oblivion, and thrown towards the front of the coach. A neighing of horses followed and before he knew what was going on, he became unconscious.
He woke up about five minutes later. He somehow got to his feet and tumbled out of the door. One wheel of his coach had disappeared, while the another lay horizontal, under the coach. The horses were nowhere to be seen; the reins had probably given way under the sudden pressure. Poor Pietersen was lying half-buried under the coach; it would not have taken a doctor to assess his condition.
Mr. Dexter had hoped to be sad at his loss but surprisingly, he felt nothing. His mind just went blank. He looked at his old driver, muttered a small prayer, and started walking ahead, devoid of any feelings. His intention had been to reach his house, and he was trying to do just that. It was very dark, as the sky had once again been covered by clouds. It was very difficult for him to see. And, to make matters worse, a dense, thick fog began to come down upon the area. It was like the curtains closing before the final act began.
Mr. Dexter was now moving forward with just the help of his stick; for he was now almost blind. He decided to stay on the left of the road. As he moved to the left, half of his left foot sunk into the ground and the other half remained straight. This was, therefore, the very edge of the road. He took just one step to his right, just to fully stay on the road, and occasionally stuck his left foot out to check whether he was going the right way. Now as he was walking thus, he experienced something very strange.
It was generally very cold, but suddenly he could feel someone breathing down his neck. He instinctively swung his hand over his neck, and continued to walk on. The spontaneous howling of the wolves and the hooting of the owls still continued. He could then hear a sudden squawking of macaws. He thought about the possibility of this happening for a moment, and then its mind dismissed it. Before another half hour had passed, Mr. Dexter had heard sounds of more animals than he had ever seen. But he did not seem to notice these, much less worry about them. At that point, only his eyes, and legs functioned. The rest of his body had come to a standstill.
After another fifteen minutes of walking, his eyes saw something. Through the dense, seemingly impenetrable fog, he could see two, distinct lights. They were to his left. Guessing their distance through the fog was impossible. As Mr. Dexter walked ahead, the lights came nearer, and after a point, he was sure that they came from the windows of the ground floor of a house. He left the road and started walking straight towards these lights. There was no proper road here; it was just a big, mud path. Nevertheless, Mr. Dexter moved unerringly right in the middle of it.
He soon came within fifty yards of those lights. Here, the fog parted just a little, to reveal a large, wooden door, probably dating to the Elizabethan era. As he moved nearer, the fog parted yet more, and the large, imposing façade of a stone castle came into view. It couldn’t be said with full conviction that it was a castle – as only a small part of it was seen and anything above fifteen feet was covered with fog – but it certainly wasn’t an ordinary house. The lights came from a large window, some ten feet to the left of the door.
Mr. Dexter walked up the small flight of steps, stepped in front of the door, and knocked loudly. There was no answer from within. He knocked again, this time shouting, “Is anybody there?”. Two minutes later, the door was heaved open by a middle-aged man. Looking at Mr. Dexter, he could figure out that this was a respectable old man, who had no doubt met with some accident. Still, he asked, “Yes? What do you want?”
“My carriage has had an accident. My driver is dead, and my horses have run away. Could I please just get some food and warm myself by the fire? After which, I will go my way.”, he said.
“Certainly!”, said the middle-aged man, who was actually a very kind person, “You may stay for the night too. Tomorrow morning, I shall get some men from the village and we help you out.”
“Thank you very much for the offer.”, Mr. Dexter replied, “but I am afraid I will have to leave after dinner. I cannot stay here for long.” And with this, he followed the direction of the man’s extended arm and turned left into the house.
As he looked around him, Mr. Dexter could feel energy and happiness surging within him. He did not show it on his face, but he was happy. They first entered the living room. It was huge, almost as big as a ballroom. On one side was a fireplace. Around these, were placed three sofas, and a large, rocking chair. There was a large French window on one side that let out onto a terrace. On the other side was a door that led into the living room. Except for these, the rest of the room was covered either with dust or with empty boxes. It was the boxes that Mr. Dexter was now looking at when the other man interrupted. “Please don’t mind those. You see, we just moved in today morning. We haven’t yet finished unpacking.”, he said. They then moved into the adjoining dining room.
In the dining room, there was a large, mahogany table, which could seat at least twenty people. The chairs were also made of pure wood, with intricate carvings. On the table, sat four people, a middle-aged woman, two young boys, and a girl. Introductions between the man and Mr Dexter had already been done. Mr. Wood introduced his wife and their children. The family did not look like they could afford to live in such a place. Anyways, they welcomed Mr. Dexter and served him a very simple, but delicious meal.
After dinner, they went into the living room and warmed themselves by the fire. Almost three hours had passed since Mr. Dexter’s arrival at the house, when he rose to leave. Mr. and Mrs. Wood tried to make him stay back, for they could see that the old man was not very well and had turned exceedingly pale, possibly due to the cold, and the shock. They were afraid he might collapse on the road. Despite all their protestations, Mr. Dexter politely refused to stay back and moved towards the door. He was accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Wood till the door. They opened it for him. The fog outside was still as dense and impenetrable, and the weather was still as cold. But instead of going out, he turned towards them and spoke, “May I ask a question, if you don’t mind?”
“Absolutely, not. Please ask us anything you like.”, said Mr. Wood.
“Can you really afford this place? And, please don’t take any offence. I was just curious.”, said Mr. Dexter.
“None was taken,”, said Mrs. Wood, a small smile appearing on her face, “We actually got this house really cheap; almost for free. I guess nowadays no one wants to stay in such a big house, which is anyways a mile away from the nearest village. We are going to occupy only the rooms on the ground floor, which is more than enough for us.”
“I see…”, said Mr. Dexter.
“You know…”, continued Mrs. Wood, “We are actually poor farmers. Couldn’t afford even the rent of the small cottage we lived in earlier. We were in Kent, then. We had almost given up when we heard of this house that was offered for almost no rent. You see, this house has been like a boon to us. We cannot afford to restore this house to its former glory, but I hoped you liked it.”
This time, for the first time in years, a genuine smile appeared on Mr. Dexter’s face, as he said, “Yes, I can understand that maintaining such a big house is not easy. And as for the house itself, I enjoyed seeing it a lot. You see, I had been living here for seventy-eight years. That is, until exactly seven years ago.”
Outro:
So that is it for today, guys. I hope you liked the story. If you did, please subscribe to my blog here if you haven’t already. Stay tuned for more such posts. Au revoir!