The Famous Haunted House of Shillong

It must have been sometime in the late seventies, when I was in Class V or VI. Our family and another collaborated to spend some Sundays together peacefully picnicking in the pristine environs of a compound of which very little was known to the world (or so it seemed). It was a large precinct about midway up the upper Shillong road, past the army cantonment, hidden from public view by being set off the main road, and approachable by a narrow track camouflaged by wild vegetation. Moving upon that little driveway, we came suddenly upon a large and imposing wrought iron gate of a bygone design, which clanked and jangled ominously as the keeper, who was expecting our party, opened it for us. Driving into the compound over a broad path, we are stopped by the mourning and silent figure of a defunct fountainhead, looking exceedingly gloomy, as if remembering the days when from its spout issued forth a sparkling fountain of water. The keeper led us to the government official who was in charge of the campus, which was then being used to monitor seismic activity from its small observatory housed in an small room attached to the big, stately house standing somberly in the centre of the prospect that greeted us beyond the fountain. Mr D___, the government officer deputed there for seismological research (he was an astro-physicist with added expertise in geological sciences), took us on a tour around the place, during which he made some comments and revelations that shocked and astonished us.

As we proceeded from the frowning fountainhead towards the foreboding house, I remember noticing the wide spaces on either side of the cobbled pathway that led to the wide portico of the house, which were then overgrown with weeds and grass and ferns, but still retained that vestige of being lush green lawns upon which exclusive opulence was once on display during afternoon and morning teas and celebrations. The house too, bespoke its loneliness and destitution through its faded and molded exterior, large curtainless windows and sturdy pillars embraced in a prodigious growth of creepers. As we were led through the half dark interiors (feeble incandescent bulbs tried vainly to dispel the gloom within), we were in awe of the place. The exterior of the house, in spite of its condescending majesty, did not vouch for half the grandness of its palatial interiors. The rooms were big and high, and exquisite figures were carved into the walls. The sculpted cornices on the ceiling and the huge hangings which boasted of their once imperious dominance on their viewers overwhelmed us. Yet, I felt a kind of chill crawling over my skin and trying to stand my hair on end in the forbidding bleakness and hollowness of the mansion, even though I was in the company of several seniors.

Passing through the many bedrooms, living rooms and dining rooms, we came to a small confine barred by a locked gate of sturdy iron rods, and an interior that was completely dark. Mr D___ flashed his torchlight around the small room, which was in fact a jail with bluff brick walls having no connection with the outside world in terms of light or sound. On the paved floor of that jail, his spotlight focused on a couple of footprints embedded in the concrete. It looked like they were made by a big man standing upright. But it was kind of eerie to imagine how they could have been made. We wanted to have a closer look, but Mr D said that the door was never opened because the key was never found. But what startled us was his next comment, in which he mentioned that the footprints inside the jail keep changing location every day! He assured us that if we cared to visit the next day, we would find them in another position. This comment, though made with the nonchalance of a person used to the place, set my heart thumping, and the crawlers on my skin finally succeeded in standing the hair on my head and limbs upright on my skin.

Moving out of the scary house, as we passed through a long row of low houses, apparently used to house the colony of servants attending on the royal owners of the house, Mr D said that he usually  preferred to limit his movements to the small little bungalow he was allotted to stay in, which was near the gate, and gave the old house and its grounds a wide berth. He confessed to being disturbed at night by queer human voices outside his door and ghostly knocks on his ventilation windows. According to him, there was also an instance when he discovered one morning that the seismic detector in his observatory was smashed to pieces, in spite of the fact that the lock on the door was still in place. The old Nepali housekeeper cum gardener (although there was hardly any gardening seen around) narrated several other spine chilling stories to Mr D, which he chose not to reveal to us for fear of frightening the party. 

I did not look at the expressions on the faces of my parents and the other gentlemen and ladies with us, but I was quite unnerved by all that I heard, and the silence in the group also suggested that even the seniors were in some way influenced by that narrative. Nevertheless, we did go on a tour of the verdurous grounds of the campus, which were vast and pristine. A narrow twining road led through the forested precinct, where we could again feel the slumbering presence of a once great garden full of trees and flowers and hedges overrun by the unhindered invasion of the wild for many years since it first fell into a state of dereliction.

Yet, that wondrous sanctuary of mystery and Nature remained one of our favorite retreats of weekends, and entrenched itself indelibly in my memory. Today, when I ponder over what I had seen and heard in that place, I am still curious as to the veracity of all that was narrated to us, and whether those footprints actually changed location (we never went back to that jail). But it all remains shining bright in my reminiscence as a fond memory unblemished by time. I am not likely to forget Bhutor Ghor in a hurry