CHURCH OF THE THREE KINGS

          It could have been any day, any ordinary day because there was nothing spectacular about it. The only thing different was that the five of us who had been residing in Goa since a day decided to put ourselves into a rather extraordinary situation. A situation where we would be subjected to the vagaries of the over active mind. A scenario that sounded perfectly sane when discussed over several swigs of frothy beer and a joint or two in the idyllic beachside afternoon. The plot was pretty simple, - visit the legendary Three Kings Church on the hill of Cuelim, in Cansaulim town at midnight. Sure, it sounded pretty easy at that time when buoyed by the delicious narcotic mix of beer and cannabis, but as the day wore on the unnatural fear of the unknown took root firmly in all our hearts. We were not the intrepid five of the afternoon as we proceeded to the church that night in a convoy of wheels. The road was steep, not mountainous, yet steep and the clouds were out shading the light of the moon in a pastel dark grey. The only thing punctuating the darkness was the sweep of the headlights of our cars as we proceeded uphill. The locals here tell a story of treason and poison that lead to the deaths of three ancient kings that are buried at the church. Furthermore, they also spin tales of rattling sounds and cries of death knells that can be heard from time to time earning the church the reputation of being one of the most haunted destinations in Goa. So we were here, in an attempt to spend a night with the spirits of the Three Kings along with spirits of our own that we hoped would help get us through the night, unscathed. Our already troubled hearts arrived with much trepidation only to be greeted by a pack of huge bandicoots that seemed to me like gargoyles guarding the gates of hell. But as we approached, they scooted away into the inky darkness, perhaps to warn the supernatural denizens of our wilful trespass.

               We stopped by the gate which had a peculiar stink to it. It was probably rust, sea salt and years of corrosion which had played a role in this olfactory oddity. The stench was unsettling. Even more unsettling was the absence of noise. The dreaded silence hung around us like the shroud of the grim reaper, disturbed only by the choral squeak of crickets rubbing their feet in anticipatory glee waiting for the curtain raiser of the night, the harbinger of every preternatural event depicted in Hollywood movies. We moved cautiously, ten feet at a time in sluggish shuffling gait, shoes treading softly, moving ever so slowly into the eerie environment, with our hearts beating fast and our ragged breath hot and misty as it clung to the surrounding air as much as we clung to each other for moral support in this ominous locale. The bravest among us left the group huddle to open the gate fearfully, and it swung with that predictable scary creak. That sound grated against the spooky silence and sent the brave scout running back to join the trembling forces. Just as we were about to cross the threshold, we heard the loud sound of an oncoming vehicle and we stopped. Manic howls and unnatural screams mixed with excited grunts and off key singing disturbed the pristine grimness of the situation and we turned to view the uninvited intrusion. We scowled in the most unwelcome fashion when the headlights of a vehicle hit us and wished that the travellers would let us go on with our very own horror mission undisturbed, but they pulled over onto the kerb. We watched in mute consternation as the midnight revellers tumbled out of their car. 

         Over the next couple of minutes several things happened. It looked like we would have to suffer this unwanted company for the night. We realised that there was no point arguing about the ‘right to be scared’ so the more braver of us set off to stake territory inside the church compound. The lesser mortals like me tried to maintain a brave facade as I followed my intrepid leaders, a mask of calm over a tremulous inside, not wanting to lower my guard and seem meek in front of the “others”. It felt like a competition of who is the bravest of the lot. My face was a complex mask, a mixture of puzzlement and fear. The plans we made, of which there were really none, were getting complicated by the second and we were making it up on the fly. The sounds notwithstanding that accompanied our gallant foray did nothing in the way to allay our trembling hearts. The gate closed with the same creaking noise as it had when it opened, bringing images of last cries of dying animals and then the silence of the pitch black surroundings of the church compound enveloped us. 

          Our unsolicited friends in the meantime had made slight progress in claiming territory. They found a huge wizened old tree, gnarled beyond belief, lying in the front of the church partially lit by a solitary incandescent bulb. It gave the tree an appearance of a fallen giant, or a great shaman of yesteryear who had chosen to give up his physical being in exchange for perennial existence. Perhaps he had accepted to be the watch guard, the observer of nightly transgressors and eager thrill seekers, the discrete chronicler of a millennia of scare-mongering. It loomed like a spectre, throwing frightful shadows from its many branches. Gang One pitched camp and patrolled the right side of the tree while we chose to tiptoe to the left. A peculiar calm had settled both sides, united by a common fear of the unknown. We scouted our respective areas, choosing to tread softly and speak in hushed undertones lest the dead be disturbed. Both gangs had forgotten the competition of oneupmanship and had tensed with equal put-on temerity as we proceeded to play out our joint mission. It was a perfect moment from a Hollywood horror flick. The sinister quiet before the onrush of a whistling hurricane announcing the arrival of the denizens from Hell! Consumed by this feeling of ominous euphoria we completely overlooked the fact that the ‘others’ may be upto something. We turned in the last minute to watch some of our gang members make their way to the domed entry doors of the Lords House. We stopped in our tracks, perhaps waiting for evil to unleash or the ground to shake or even the doors to fling themselves wide open with a blast of cold air, but instead … we turned abruptly on hearing screams that came from the side of the church. We saw the uninvited lot scurrying towards the gate, hurrying to escape the church grounds, the look of pure horror etched on their white faces as if they had come face to face with a guard dog from hell himself. They made haste to their parked vehicle, tumbled in and sped away as noisily as they arrived before any of us could comprehend the reason for their sudden departure. We were left stupefied at their behaviour. Had they wilfully played a prank on us? Were we part of a larger scheme of things awaiting us as we unsuspectedly played this thrill game? These questions coursed through our confused minds and some of us contemplated calling the whole thing off and returning to our hotel. Confusion and chaos reigned for the next ten minutes as the bravest among us managed to convince us to remain true to our mission and stay the course. We decided to roll on for what its worth. 

            To calm our nerves we decided to take a stroll around the church. We moved as a closed bunch now, huddled by the common denominator, fear. Despite our youthful independence having lived in a hostel for so long, we could not hide the fact that we were afraid of being left behind. We moved slowly with heavy footsteps that echoed in the stillness of the night. As we passed the dark and dusty windows of this ancient church we felt we were under scrutiny, monitored by spirits that had grown spidery with age. Did spirits age? … must have been the alcohol imbibed messing with our heads. We stole sly glances into the mottled mossy glass to check if the figures conjured by our inner anxiety were indeed there or not but all we saw were our frightened eyes. The tension was palpable and we needed a break from the tension. A game was suggested that best suited the moment. A game that would elevate the mood of the moment. The classic old game of Truth or Dare. One of the boys loped off to retrieve an empty beer bottle from our car while the rest of us waited patiently, seated at a healthy distance from the church with very stiff backs and squared shoulders. No words were exchanged as we glanced furtively at each other, our hearts pounding in our ear, like the blood rush of convicts awaiting execution by a firing squad. The bottle , having served as a carrier for fermented hops that had earlier been passed around generously between six pairs of eager lips finally had been bestowed with a higher calling. It was going to be that one green bottle with a story to tell when it found itself in beer bottle heaven. A story of how it held the fate of humans in its revolving body, choosing to spin or stop in front of an unsuspecting victim of chance. One of us spun the bottle and we waited. Twelve eyes glued on the green whirl like astronomers gazing into the heavens for the first sight of a comet. Our thoughts spinning concomitantly , guessing on what dare or what truth lay in the moments ahead. What lies would pass as half truths and what dares would be doable. The dance of the beer bottle ended with a sputtering gasp and immediately there was a chorus of “Truth or Dare” uttered by the exultant five who had been spared by the whirling green. But before the first victim could decide, the wiliest among us exclaimed that in this game there should not be an option. It should only be a ‘Dare’ and nothing else. Despite the boldness of the statement, it appealed to all of us except the one who waited to be dared. This was a night of thrilling adventure and dares seemed to fit in perfectly. Why should boring half truths or exciting half lies be allowed to gambol among the ghosts who were present and those who had possibly come from neighbouring cemeteries to partake in an unforgettable night of haunting. The victim protested. He said that since the rules had changed the bottle would have to be spun again. And so, it spun. The green twirling glass under the watchful eyes of three erstwhile kings and who knows more. And so it spun, and slowed, and then finally came to rest with its open mouth just inches from my big toe. There was no choice. Baaaam! None whatsoever! …”Dare”, I said, with my eyes steeled to cover the waves of trepidation that passed through every fibre of my body.

               My mates plotted in hushed whispers, occasionally glancing in my direction to gauge my battle readiness. Murmurs with the odd nervous giggle played among subdued undertones and finally they approached me as one to pronounce my sentence. “ Walk upto the church door, bang on it thrice and walk around the church alone”, the leader said with mirthless glee. I stood still trying to make sense of the dare, my legs slowly turning into jelly. It dawned on me that I couldn’t act scared in front of my pals. Not when they already had an opinion of me, one of a scaredy-cat! Admittedly I had never given much opportunity for them to think otherwise so I was determined not to fall into their well planned trap. I plucked up my courage and said to myself, “Let’s do this”. And then once again loudly for the benefit of my friends I repeated, “lets do this”! My buddies showed signs of both excitement and nervousness as I took my first tentative steps. The ones who were closest to me betrayed their concern without saying a word as they tapped my shoulder and patted my back willing me on as best as they could. They were transferring fortitude to my feeble heart after probably feeling the undercurrent of fear emanating from every pore of my skin. I quickened my pace as I got closer to the door. There were two white pillars supporting a small roof over the portico and I felt them staring at me in stony silence. Probably giving me quick appraisal, gauging my resolve as I slowed down under the shadow of the tile roof. I looked back with an imploring look which said “I don’t think I can take any more ”, but my friends were at quite a distance and I don’t think they saw the dread in my eyes or the quivering anxiety in my lips. The air around me seemed filled with dark energy. A clammy thickness pressed from all direction causing my breathing to get ragged. Little puffs of mist escaped, joining the rolling fog that was slowly creeping up on me without my knowing. And then I heard it. Faint at first but getting louder…Thud!… Thud! … Thud! I had just knocked on the front door thrice! The beating of a distant drum spread its echoes around me … Thud! … there again … Thud! … disturbing the birds that were roosting on the fallen tree … Thud! … causing a flutter of wings with angry screeches and squeaks … Thud! … an alarm call from the underworld calling its guards to attention … Thud! … I was petrified! This was not the beating of my heart. Something told me that I had disturbed something bigger as the echo of the knocking seemed to continue repeatedly. I was paralysed from toe to little finger. Any moment now I thought I would see an outraged gargoyle, or a creature from hell with seven sets of jaws and even bigger claws that would set upon me and tear me to shreds while my friends ran for their lives. Seconds later I was imagining living inside photographs of remembrance adorning my friends’ houses like some sick twisted tale out of a macabre Harry Potter story.

         The dare was not complete. I still had to make the tour of the church ground, circumscribe the church one full circle. Summoning up all of my drunk courage, I took the first tentative steps, thanking my stars that no scary apparition opened the church door. The spirit of imbibition fuelled my intrepid sense of bravado. The beer had done its trick, kicking in when I needed it the most. I slowly picked up speed , not looking left or right but just straight ahead. I sorely missed the company of my friends and felt that this journey would have been so much easier if I had them around. I started to sprint thinking I could outrun any spirit that decided to make easy prey out of me. I suppose alcohol drums up zany theories when push comes to shove. I could hear the sound of my flats crushing dry leaves and irritated crickets humming in anger as I zipped around making a ruckus. As I turned around to the rear of the church I turned back once to check if there was anything following me. I was also half afraid that my friends would be creeping up on me from behind. Making sure that I was safe, I proceeded to the home stretch and hardly had I taken ten steps when I saw a figure standing in my path. Just a little ahead and unmoving, this apparition stayed and I was sure it was no figment of my imagination. My world went dark as all my concentration turned towards this appearance. This phantom who I was dreading all along. This half man - half woman, Ogre - ghost - beast combined in to one that stood calmly a little way off to my right, not uttering a word. I slowed down to a crawl. My skin was on fire and a worm was making its way down my spine setting off firecrackers along its way. I wanted to close my eyes and wish I was dreaming but fear had me in its grip. I wanted to pray but my tongue was thick in my mouth and all that emanated was an incoherent gurgle.

      I looked at it in mock defiance. We stood like two gladiators in a Roman arena summing up the other and summoning up courage before the attack. And attack it did! Before I could say or do anything this spectre came rushing headlong at me, long hair flying in all directions. And as it approached I noticed two things, one that the creature was dark, just like all the scary creatures in my grandmothers stories and second it was calling out a name … My name! Shilpaaaaaaaaa, it cried! … The creature knew my name! Panic burst from me in the form of a long blood curdling scream in direct competition with the volume of the approaching banshee. My legs turned to jelly as two outstretched hands rushed forward and held me, shaking my body violently. Shilpaaaa … Shilpaaa … it screamed once again. Its hot breath of unfamiliarity bathing my face as I closed my eyes tight and waited for the inevitable. I knew the end was near. And it was going to be a horrible painful end … and through the haze of doom I heard it call out again “Shilpa, it’s me … Soumya … Shilpa …. Shilpa … open your eyes, it’s me Soumya!” My eyes snapped wide and the relief made my knees go weak. I nearly fainted in half anger and half delight. It was a friend of mine pulling the biggest prank of her life. The rest of my friends ran over and crowded around me, some concerned, some admonishing Soumya, some laughing uncontrollably at my plight. I was a mess. A part of me was proud that I had completed the dare while another part of me wanted to hide from the world forever, chagrined at my display of abject fear in front of my buddies. We left the church in quiet contemplation as nobody wanted to play the game anymore. We drove silently through the sleeping city, overpowered by the aftertaste of mirth and horror. Each of us reliving the moments of today in our own way knowing that here was a memory that was surely destined to stay alive until all of us were old and grey.

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A story from the Goa Diary of Silppa Thulaseedharan