Para-Not-So-Normal Activity

I have a backpack full of safety supplies for the trip. First and foremost a responsible and brave company who has done this before. Check. My favourite set of pyjamas to run into action when necessary. Wearing them. A bottle of water, enough to last for 15 minutes. Washroom trips are a luxury. A pair of glasses. May require on and (mostly) off. Cushions! Lots! Check. Blankey big enough to hide me, right from the head. Check. And lastly, cell phone. Because...call a friend in time of a stroke. Loud and clear: Check.

This trip is one of its kind. Not far, just six square feet away...into the living room.

My heart is already racing by the time I see ‘Based on a true story.’ But yes, I do want to go ahead and watch. The adrenaline rush has done its part...got me here and probably will help me stay a bit longer.

Before I begin describing what comes onto the screen, I must share this disclaimer. If you are faint hearted and easily get scared by supernatural and disturbing descriptions of instances, this article is for you.

I know I know how much we love the serene wooden homes by the day. They squeak and make absurd noises as the actors walk and even when no one appears to be walking on the staircase. Then there are those real fattu but stupid characters walking towards the dark eerie rooms and corners of the estranged house. I scream and hurl abuses once in while to stop them but silly as a puppy... they move on only to open more creaking doors which burst open instantly.

Cushion!!! Where’s my cushion?

I don’t stop here. I have a thing for foreign gothic movies too. Especially the far- east Asian ghosts are total paisa wasool. Their posters of woman spectre mounted on a guy’s shoulder who constantly complains of a back pain are my kinds of movies. I strain my eyes for the subtitles only to lose sleep for a decade and yet I am up with the empty water bottle for a sword and the big cushion for a shield.

By this time I have realised going to washroom is no longer an option, it’s a necessity that cannot wait another second. I am a wonderful singer and shit scared my own tune of ‘tum toh thehre pardesi...’ loud enough for neighbours to hear. NO more water drinking.

Documentaries and research for hopeless reasons on the ancient haunting and haunting in your city does me good. I devise a killer plan to wash alternate sides of my face to spare me from visualising the distorted, red eyed, crooked haired children appearing in the windows of abandoned houses somewhere in remote Nevada or Connecticut. Damn you internet documentaries!

Oh last but not the least, never ever bend down to see what rests below your bed, like I did.

Sleep tight tonight!