House of Dark Shadows

Every child growing up is fed eerie tales of the supernatural and the shadows of the dark. So it was with me. I remember a few elderly relatives and a gaggle of cousins, during those vacation sojourns in Ambalapuzha, regaling me with blood-curdling tales of yakshis, witches, and spirits.

Walking the narrow, deserted pathways at night was utterly horrifying, even with adults for company. The pale glow of incandescent bulbs atop streetlight poles seemed to cast more shadow than light. Passing by the sacred groves at night, a chilling sense of foreboding gripped every muscle. Often, we would sprint, muttering holy names. Dark, lonely rooms in the house were another domain where one might encounter the ghost of an old grand-uncle or a hunchbacked great-aunt. Chairs and beds by the windows were carefully avoided after dark. In those village days, toilets were either outside the house, or one had to relieve oneself in the open under a moonlit sky—or, often, a starless, pitch-black one. The choice was between nudging awake elder cousins familiar with the place to escort me to the mango tree—a thankless task, as they merely curled deeper under their sheets—or holding a full, almost bursting bladder, counting the minutes of the night, glancing about for moving shadows, and lying terrified until streaks of daylight filtered through the mullioned windows. My elder cousins, relishing the vicarious pleasure of my utter consternation, scared me, a city-born lad, with their eerie tales. The occasional hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, or the fanciful dance of shadows would set my heart pounding so loudly that even a lurking ghost might hear it. Urine would lose direction and force, wetting my undergarments, and in my haste to return to the comparative safety of indoors, drops would trickle down my inner thighs. The yakshi was surely prowling outside! Was it the ghost of the departed grand-uncle, watching with amber-like eyes from the sacred grove? Or perhaps the spirit of the woman from the neighbourhood who died of a snakebite? The occasional shrieks and gibberish yells from the lunatic Namboothiri in the nearby illam, where he lived with his octogenarian mother, wafted through the still night, offering no comfort.

Growing up, I recall a late evening walking home after watching the film House of Dark Shadows. Every few steps, I turned to glance behind me. Later, reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula one Sunday afternoon, I sat frozen in my chair, devouring sentence after sentence, page after page, often forgetting to breathe. I hadn’t noticed it had grown dark. This was in our apartment in Kochi, where my housemates were away for the weekend, leaving me alone with Count Dracula for company. I was too scared to move from the chair to switch on the light, preferring to strain my eyes in the fading light rather than stir a limb. Soon, it was pitch dark, save for streaks of light from the streetlamp at the gate. Then, at seven o’clock, the streetlight went out—load-shedding for thirty minutes. In that moment, my resolve to be an atheist offered little solace!

The fear of the dead was profound. Old stories claimed that the dead lingered as ghosts, often seeking vengeance. They carried their animosities into the afterlife, taking neither disobedience nor past rudeness lightly. This dire narrative was instilled in me from early childhood. I wished and hoped no one would die at home or among friends and relatives, for the dead, even without reason, could become our nemesis. Even recently, the tragic death of a friend’s son disturbed me deeply. He was close to me and fond of me. In the nights following his passing, I wondered if he lingered near my bed. Dark rooms at night remained places where the dead might pounce, the grim warnings of my cousins echoing in my ears.

When Amma died, and I spent nearly a year alone in the house after her passing, that fear strangely dissipated. At times, I wished she would appear, so I could address things left undone and unspoken. The confidence that she, even as a ghost, could not and would not harm me was oddly comforting. I could yell at, argue with, or even shout at a mother’s spirit—why not? Mothers would understand, unlike grand-uncles or hunchbacked great-aunts. This confidence was both amusing and reassuring.

I still hope that some of those dear to us might visit on a dark, lonely night for a chat, perhaps to resolve things left undone and unspoken. It’s an amusing thought, and I can only laugh at myself.