Castle's Guest
CASTLE’S GUEST
It was a dark and stormy night. Having read many adventure novels, this premise gave Madhu and Ans some heart; for though they could not go outside, they surely could get lost in the vast chambers of their ancestral home.
Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—for them, their grandfather called them at the very moment their nascent plans were to be put into action.
“Sit down,” he said, “and I will tell you something.”
The twins acquiesced. They were, quite understandably, curious.
“What I am about to tell you is quite unlike the stories I have made up for you until now; the difference being, that those were fictional. This account was told to me, on a day much like today, when I was your age.
“This castle of ours is quite old. Our family has called it their home for generations. We have had intrigues, lies, drama, all that—within these very walls. One of those incidents was the death of the king Parambhattaraka Rajadhiraja Dhourakchoundhim Singh.
“During the time of the Turkic invasions, the kingdom of this king came under heavy attack; and one stormy night, he was forced to flee his court after a lost siege. He rode as fast as his horse would allow, to our homestead. He had only two companions; all his royal garments were discarded in favour of a thick travelling cloak, and only a huge gold medallion told the servants that these travellers were not to be refused.
“That night, the three went up to the rooms reserved for guests, and tried to woo sleep. Soon, only the king was left awake when he heard the sound of his door being opened. He feigned sleep, as he saw the glint of a dagger. His companions had their throats viciously cut. The king discreetly got up, and thinking it was a plot to assassinate him, ran out of the door. It seems that the mysterious murderer had been right on his heels, because as the king slammed the door behind him, he heard the muffled thump of a collision, along with some perfectly unprintable language.”
“Why would anyone want to kill a king?” Ans interjected.
“One never knows. Probably because of his name. People with such long names ought to be put down,” opined Madhu.
Ignoring the interruption, the patient old man went on.
“The door was soon opened by the assassin. The king ran. Soon, the two came to the first stair, leading to the dining hall. In the dark, the king failed to see the steps and tumbled down their entirety. The killer, obviously aware of the lay of the land, stopped just in time.
“Hearing the din, the whole household was soon awake. The king had broken his neck, and many other things besides, during his ungainly descent. The assassin turned out to be the servant who had opened the door to the guests. Looking at him whom he had unintentionally killed, at the broken body at the foot of the stairs, he broke down and confessed to everything. He had a feud with the king’s companions, whom he had instantly recognised. He didn’t know the third traveller was the king. He’d never seen a portrait of the king, you see. He had been under the impression that the third member of the party, that is, the erstwhile king, had been chasing after him and had ‘hit him in the face with a massive object’. The household forgave him. After all, it was an accident.”
Ans shuddered. “How perfectly barbarous,” Madhu concluded.
“But that wasn’t all. It is said that the ghost of the king haunted the servant who had caused the death of the castle’s guest. The servant died exactly a year later, of a horrible fever, at the very foot of the stairs where the king had died. And what’s more, on dark, stormy nights like this one, the spirit of Parambhattaraka Rajadhiraja Dhourakchoundhim Singh walks abroad, throwing down cupboards and snuffing out lights, in the castle where he died as a guest.”
There was a slamming sound of something large falling as the power suddenly went out.
