The Room Above

That day on February 28th, 2017. I had to spend the entire night in a room which was situated just beneath the room belonging to a suicide victim. That victim was the previous owner of this house.

My cousin bought this property a while ago. I was one of the few who knew about this little secret. The room I was in was treated as a guest room. But little did the guests know that the whole property of their host was cursed. Hiding this fact is for his own good though; if he didn't, he wouldn't have enough room for his guests.

And so, I sat on the bed. The ceiling had a nice pattern and the floor was neatly tiled, the bed was wide and comfortable just like the one at my place. However, as they say, our conscious mind is capable of hiding emotions but our subconscious mind isn't. The fear of the prior owner had taken its special place in that part of my mind. I was never a perfectly mentally contented person, I suffered from stress and anxiety which resulted in periodic episodes of sleep paralysis. I was afraid that I might suffer from the same tonight too. The thought of the victim slowly crept into my mind, I couldn't undo those thoughts. I even had intrusive thoughts to visit the room above, but I was bound by fear. Lost in my thoughts, I fell asleep.

Suddenly in my sleep, my body went numb. As expected, I was in an episode of sleep paralysis. I tried to shake myself out of it, but I couldn't. As soon as I got out of it, it dragged me back into its clutch. That was when I caught the sight of the environment around me. I just realized it wasn't my room, it was as I vividly remembered, the prior owner's room. The bed, tiles and the pattern on the ceiling were all gone. It felt as if my soul was drawn into this room. I never believed in supernatural entities, and I was very well aware that this instance was nothing more than a dream induced due to my intrusive thoughts. Suddenly, I caught sight of a pouch of sleeping pills lying just next to my wrist. I then noticed that the walls had weird sculptures painted on them. One of those was a beautiful outline of a scenery that kids liked to draw, there were random alphabets written all over and in the center of the wall was a large reddish text which said 'OLIVER RESTS IN THE OBLIVION'. I was aware that my imaginations had gotten a deeper hold onto me. I summoned all my strength and shook myself out of sleep paralysis; I found myself back in my room.

I did not have enough courage to lie down once again. My experience that day was one of the most creepy instances that I had ever had. I calmed myself down by gulping a glass of fresh water and tried to divert my mind by counting numbers and finally laying down. I ended up falling asleep.

Next day, I woke up in a bad season. My head throbbed for the whole day and I couldn't even grasp simple conversations. That evening my cousin and I were having a little chat in the guest room of his new house where I stayed, when the topic of the previous owner came up. ''Man, I had the most terrible night yesterday. I literally ended up all paralyzed, I was taken in guess what? The prior owner's room'', I sighed. "I am really out of my courage. Isn't there an empty room in your actual house?''. I couldn't deal with further stress. My cousin evaded my request "Told you brother, you should stop scaring people off by making up stories. Looks like the storyteller has finally become the protagonist of his stories'' He said smiling. However, his words suddenly ignited a spark in my mind and then I smiled too. ''Horror stories are there to scare people that's the whole point of it, the writer is ought to be in shoes of his protagonist to write off his emotions in an eloquent way. Critical thinking is the key to imagine such situations. Thanks for reminding me", I patted his back. ''My thoughts ended up driving me to a state where my imaginations met reality, that's what people refer to as sleep paralysis but it is a state where I can really be the protagonist". My cousin couldn't seem to understand what I meant but then he instigated, "You are such a weirdo, no wonder why people evade your books. But remember, don't write anything that directly correlates with the room above or else it will scare off my tenants". My cousin was keen to use his new house to make money, his tenants were expected to arrive a week later. My cousin asserted, ''That's it, I gotta clean that room now. Wanna give me a hand?". ''Alright, let's visit his grave", I said. As we were stepping up the staircase, he intrigously asked, "Can you tell me a bit more about your next protagonist?". I took a pause and then replied "Oh yes, the protagonist.. What was his name again?" My cousin stopped and turned to me, "Are you alright? You were always weird but you are now acting like you have dementia and it's scaring me". I then gave off a wide smile and told him, "I am eager to finish off the story by tomorrow; I bet it will be a famous piece of work. Its storyline and the reason behind the protagonist's death will surely surprise you, it's a story that starts with a death and ends with a death. The crazy part is the time and place of these deaths are the same in two different realities, that is, 29th of February 2016.. in the room above".

''I am really eager to read it tomorrow on the 29th itself, just hoping that it actually sells this time'', he whispered.

Then I replied, "I really wish it was possible to publish it on the 29th itself, but at least, I'll get my brother to read it, something's better than nothing".

Then after a few moments, we stood before the door of that room. My cousin pushed open the door and was greeted by the horrifying sight and stink of that room. The sunlight from outside slowly tore apart the darkness. The walls were riddled with the same sculptures that I saw yesterday and there on the center of the wall was written; 'OLIVER RESTS IN THE OBLIVION'. I was dumbfounded and suddenly recalled the imagery of my novel, it's story did revolve around a similar room. This room, I guess, was a part of my story. But for some reason, my mind couldn't digest the horrors of this sight. I shouted as loud as I could, that my screech tore apart the silence. Then, I gathered up all my strength and spoke to my brother, "Brother...? This is the sight that I saw yesterday, No.. It's a sight that I imagined for my book, what's going on?". I was dumbfounded, I couldn't grasp this situation but then I suddenly noticed my cousin's expressions, he started to laugh and cry at the same time, rolled his head and glanced into my eyes, "Brother.... You are an idiot. Oliver's story never came to an end, how am I supposed to know why Oliver killed himself?" He continued to lament, tears rolling down his cheeks.

I finally recalled every single event that unfolded in my novel, it was a story of an officer named Oliver who was found dead under mysterious circumstances in a room on the second floor of his house, he died of over consumption of sleeping pills. His room had those sculptures on walls and the same text written on the wall. I even recalled the reason why he killed himself. But suddenly, I seemed to have lost all my voice. I tried even harder to speak. My brother then started plodding towards a dark corner of the room and picked a book that resembled my novel, he turned towards me and broke the silence "A year has passed since I witnessed this dreadful sight. Sadly, there's neither 29th in 2017 nor was it in 2016". He slowly started turning the pages of that book and ended up on an empty page. He held the book in front of me and pointed towards that blank page, "Didn't you tell me?... Realities of our world and novel's are connected? And you imagined yourself in the shoes of Oliver, am I right? If you did, then Oliver could have at least had a reason to die."

That was the unfinished novel of mine. I couldn't reply nor could I regret. I stood there emotionless and sunk to the ground and glanced at the floor, "This is where Oliver's God met the same fate, but a day early which tore apart the parallel between our universes. God was as useless as always and did Oliver dirty." I ran the thought in my head.

I realized I had finally become the same as Oliver; a person who was a product of one's imagination, had his death surrounded in mystery and was someone with no free will of his own. I touched the floor and shed a tear.

Waves of wind enter through the open door, washing away my frail figure as I narrate the incident to a reality greater than my cousin's.