The Sensor

It takes not more than a quarter of an hour to walk down to hotel Ultima from that crowded station. As I gathered pace, the surroundings darkened. Soon the pitter-pattering commenced and sooner yet, it gave way to what we call ‘cats-and-dogs’. I got drenched to the skin, and my trolley bag bathed in the rain. The autorickshaws were loaded with people and it was no use hitch-hiking in that weather. So, I preferred walking.

As I signed the ‘check-in’ book, my wet palm dampened a portion of the page. Collecting the keys, I followed the attendant who ushered me into room number 113. I dried up myself, had a cup of cappuccino, and moved on to slide the curtains and open the windows. It was drizzling now. But now and then, a streak of lightning cut its way through the cumulonimbus clouds, illuminating the sky and alleviating the roaring thunder.

I began reading ‘It’, Stephen King’s bestseller. My phone vibrated. A spam message. It vibrated again. Another spam. Right above the Home button where it shows ‘Swipe to unlock’, it is now showing ‘No match’. What a fool this smartphone is! I never even put my finger on the sensor!

The telephone rang.

“You shall be coming down for dinner sir? Or shall we…”

“No, I’m coming,” I interrupted. I am not an old man with gouts that I can’t climb down the stairs.

As I dipped the spoon in the soup, my phone vibrated again. ‘Make sure your finger covers the entire sensor’ read the message above the Home button. Did this phone catch a cold after the rain? But I had put it in my trolley just as the rain had gathered momentum. Must be getting old…

The night was cold. I had to use both the blankets they had kept ready. Switching off my phone to prevent it from ‘sensing’ through my sleep, I covered my head under the pillow, only to get suffocated and lie down properly again.

I woke up at a low yet dreadful sound. Anklet bells. Someone on the top floor must be dancing in the… wait, this is the top floor itself! So, someone’s dancing on the terrace? Some Manjulika, betrayed by her love? Why would she choose this luxurious hotel anyway? I felt a little lump in my throat. Yet, I went out, and up the stairs, gradually gathering both courage and momentum. She… or he, whoever it is up there must be told that I hate sleep disturbances.

There is no one up on the terrace. I have searched through and through: behind the tank, under the shed. I even looked down the edge to see if that phantom had chosen to commit suicide with its dance being ignored. But no, there’s no sign of anyone. An icy drop of water fell on my cheek. I shivered. Am I possessed? Or is it just a raindrop? Yes, it is raining again. I rushed inside and down the staircase. There was no necessity to rush and I don’t know why I did so— whether out of fear of getting wet or for something or someone else.

I went to my room, bolted the door, and fell asleep right away.

Next morning, as the telephone rang, I jerked up from bed.

“Morning sir, shall we…”

“Am coming,” I replied and then coughed to clear my voice, putting the receiver down. My voice has become a bit heavy. It doesn’t seem like my real voice even. I have watched half a dozen movies about possession. No, I am not thinking about that any longer.

Everything seems so ghastly: remove the 1 from 113 and it becomes 13, the haunted room, then there are those anklet bells, my mysterious change in voice, and the rains. A perfect horror scenario. I have consoled myself over my voice change, maybe it’s because of the cold.

I was pondering on this issue once. My astrologer has confirmed that I would die a normal death. No spirits possessing me. Well, in this grim atmosphere, death due to a mischievous ghost inside me will be a ‘normal death’, no doubt. I heard a faintly familiar sound. The anklet bells! I looked at my ankles. No, I’m not wearing them. So, the ghost isn’t inside me?

I jumped up from the bed, clapped my hands loudly, and laughed with joy. But the bells were heard again. I stopped prancing and opened the door.

“She’ll break those cradle bells now,” my next-door neighbor shouted aloud.

I stood still for a moment and then rushed into my room. Banging the door close, I pranced again. I am me, myself. My voice sounds familiar now again.

The phone vibrated. ‘Wipe your fingerprint sensor and try again. I am wondering now…

About the Author

Roshmi Dasgupta is a tenth grade student at Mansur Habibullah Memorial School, Kolkata. Creative writing is her passion, and her challenge, she feels, is to bring out real-life instances through fiction in a way that they could be visualized. She loves reading and wishes to own a huge library in future. She also has a penchant for exploring astronomy.