Home

Here we have the first part of an event which happened to one of our researchers Chris Blaisdell who is currently on assignment in India. "Home" is a short story based on the haunting that Chris experienced while in New Delhi. The author Tim Paxton fictionalized the tale based on notes he received from Chris. "Home" originally appeared as part of the 2019 horror anthology "City of Screams" edited by noted Indian writer Neil D'Silva. The book is available in both Kindle and paperback formats from Amazon.com. Enjoy.

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Home

“Here,” I said in English to one of the priests at the Anjanadri Hill Hanuman temple in Hampi, India, and handed him a small wooden box. The man, who was roughly my age, had been smiling when we first met. However, over the course of our brief conversation within the temple, as translated by my guide Ahir, his visage changed slightly. The priest felt the box, passing it from one hand to the other, all the while mumbling a mantra I did not recognize.

I had travelled from Bengaluru to Hampi by Über, a six-hour car trip that was as fantastic as any taken by train; more so, in that we passed through many small villages and by dozens of roadside temples and shrines en route. I had been in India for almost a month, and Hampi was the next-to-last spot I needed to visit before I would be heading back to the States. From my hilltop vantage point at Anjanadri Hill I could survey the countryside. The area was awash in ruins of stone temples, shrines, and other buildings. Some of the temples, like the massive Virupaksha complex, a temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, dates from the 7th Century CE and is still active, while many others, like a small shuttered Jian shrine I found up on a hill, are in need of restoration.

I had stopped for a day to explore the ruins, but my main objective was to deliver the box into the hands of a priest at one of the most holy sites dedicated to Lord Hanuman the monkey god: Anjanadri Hill.

“I am hoping you can help,” I added, handing Ahir a wad of 100-rupee notes, which he then stuffed into a prayer box next to the holy man. The priest’s attitude changed slightly as he considered my donation, and he then placed the box into a pocket or purse somewhere within his robe. But not before wrapping it in a piece of silk, which he produced seemingly from out of nowhere. He then said a few words to Ahir.

“Let us go get some chai,” suggested my guide as he beckoned me out into the open air of the mountaintop temple. The fresh, warm evening air was invigorating. After a brief appreciation of the stunning orange orb that was the sun setting in the west, we proceeded to make our way down from the temple to the small line of shops at the bottom of the rock-hewn staircase. It wasn’t something I was too terribly keen on, having just climbed up all 575 of the well-made but winding steps barefoot to deliver my package.

It took me a while, but I eventually made it all the way, winded but nevertheless happy from the experience. At a resting-spot near to the bottom, I stopped and retrieved my shoes, overpaid the attendant, and then caught up with Ahir and the priest, whose name I then found out was Vanara. He shrugged and laughed when he told Ahir his name, and they both chuckled. Vanara literally translates as “monkey”, and was the tribe that Lord Hanuman belonged to in the epic Ramayana and its various versions.

“It was his fate to be a priest in Hanuman’s name,” Ahir translated.

By the time we had reached the ground floor of the stairs, it was getting dark, and there was no longer a festive crowd that had kept the numerous vendors busy earlier in the day selling chai, sweets, trinkets, and other goodies. To my dismay, all of the shops had closed, and when we stopped in front of a darkened tavern, it looked as though our chances of getting something to drink were nonexistent.

Ahir called-out, and a woman appeared from the back of the shop. She was barely visible by the blue light of her cell phone, which she carried and used like a torch. Upon seeing the priest, she motioned us inside to sit at one of the empty tables. When we were seated, she brought out a small electric lamp, and soon thereafter I could smell the chai. Nothing was said until our drinks were brought to us.

We sipped our tea in silence, broken only by a few words exchanged between Ahir and the shop owner, whose name was Jeel. Meanwhile, other travelers passed by the shop and, noticing the priest, asked to join us. Vanara waved them on with a few words in Kannada which I didn’t understand.

When the tea was finished, the priest leaned forward and drew my box out of his robe. That which I had given him was still wrapped in the silk, and by the dim light of the lamp I noticed the cloth was covered with what might possibly be tantric symbols. Vanara’s cheerful face turned sour, then thoughtful, as he placed the object on the table between us. He spoke to Ahir, who then translated the priest’s wish for me to tell him how I had come to be in possession of this artifact.

Where to begin?

I asked Ahir to find out if we could stay at the shop a little bit longer, as my tale would take some time to tell. He spoke with Jeel, who looked slightly annoyed, but she brought us another round of chai nonetheless, smiling at the priest as she placed the cups down in front of us.

My name is Christopher Blaisdell, and I originally hail from a small college town in a midwestern state of the United States. Being white and from an upper-middle class family, most folks whom I have met overseas typically assume I am your average American male on vacation in their country. Quite the contrary, I had an odd, “hippie-style” upbringing which included family picnics at the local cemetery and attending a wide range of religious services, ranging from Buddhist, Taoist, and Hari Krishna gatherings to what is commonly called Wicca today, and also good ol’ Episcopalian services. You could say I got a broad education when it came to the supernatural. Nowadays, I travel the globe chronicling all sorts of paranormal events for my own amusement, edification and education. These flights of fancy are often financed through the sale of articles and short stories for assorted magazines and blogs. I have visited shrines, temples, and happenings in Japan, Hong Kong, The British Isles, Norway, Spain, Thailand, and all over Africa. This was my first-ever trip to India, however.

My flight from the USA took over 25 hours, and I didn’t get a lot of sleep during the time in the air. Local time was shortly after at 11PM when I stepped off my flight onto the tarmac of Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi. I felt…odd and a bit out-of-place wearing a heavy black leather motorcycle jacket and being weighed-down by a huge backpack strapped to my back, a military-style canvas duffle-bag, with a bulky computer bag slung over one shoulder.

After I was processed through immigration, had my biometrics taken and asked a few simple questions by an unsmiling and bored-looking immigration officer, I got some cash exchanged at one of the bank kiosks in the airport, then went to look for a “prepaid Taxi” stand.

Ignoring the many “offers” to have my bags carried, I spotted the taxi-stand. I told the clerk my destination, paid my 300 rupees, and he called over a driver. The poor man knew very little English, and when I handed him the address he seemed embarrassed until his manager came over and yelled something at him in Hindi.

It was inevitable that on my first night in India—within the first hour after I landed, in fact—that something would go wrong. Not terribly wrong, but it wasn’t exactly a great start to my visit.

Within ten minutes of leaving the airport, my driver stopped the taxi and turned to me. I had little knowledge as to what he was talking about, but I did catch a few words in Hindi that I understood. Apparently, he was lost and he was asking for directions. I showed him the ticket his dispatch manager gave me, and he just looked at it, stepped out of the cab and walked around for a few moments, then got back in and handed the paper back to me. His English was nonexistent and my knowledge of Hindi was so limited that we found ourselves in a predicament of sorts. Neither of us knew how to get to the hotel I had booked a few days previously.

Had I a working smart phone at the time—I’d yet to pick up a SIM card for India—I could have used some “map-it” feature. But I didn’t, and he pointed to another hotel just up the road a short distance. This building, like all of those on this forsaken and ramshackle street, looked decrepit. However, as we drove up to “The Impress U Inn,” I could see that, despite the shabby exterior, the lobby looked as if it had been recently remodeled. The driver pulled up and shut off his cab, and I got out my bags and took them with me… I made the social faux pas of not asking the driver to stay—or motion him to—before I checked to see if someone at the inn could help me with directions. As I entered the door to the establishment, I the saw the cabbie driving off.

With my driver gone, and having been given only meager instructions as to the whereabouts of the Hotel Metro Tower from the night clerk, I turned around and walked out. “…only 500 meters that way,” I heard the clerk say as I exited the place, and set off down the road in the direction indicated. It was by now close to 1AM, and I was bone-tired.

I walked for what must have been about a half-mile, checking-out two seedy hotels to see if they might be possible places to crash for the night. They were just too seedy to be trusted, however, so I turned around and opted to stay at the Impress U Inn instead. I was going to lose a night’s prepaid reservation at my original hotel, and then spend for a room in cash out-of-pocket, but I figured it was better than getting totally lost. Besides, I was ready to drop from exhaustion by this point, and needed sleep badly.

The night clerk didn’t look at all surprised when he saw me reenter the Inn, wherein I asked for a room.

“3000 rupees,” he grinned, which was a rip-off and the night clerk knew it, but I wasn’t going to complain. After registering, I was given a key, then a bellhop picked-up my bags and showed me to the door of my room.

“It’s a good room,” the man said before holding out his hand expectantly. I tipped him, and he walked away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. As it turned out, the hotel had given me a very nice room, and the bellhop returned a few minutes later and even brought me bottled water and something to eat soon after I had made myself at home. Afterwards, he waited for another tip. This was something I was going to have to get used to during my stay in India. Greasing palms is how things get done here!

I made some tea and, after snacking on my plate of nankhatai, I took a shower and prepared to crash. The bed was firm and inviting, so I threw back the sheets to check for spiders. Finding none, I turned off the main overhead light and got into bed. I left the bathroom light on, but closed the door so that just enough light would shine out from underneath it. This way I had a night-light of sorts, and wouldn’t stub my toe in the dark just in case I got up to pee later.

Then I heard a soft click…

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End of Part One