Lured by Fantasy

Ever since I was a little girl, the one adjective people usually branded me with was –excited. I was always excited. Always chirpy, happy, laughing, flamboyant, cackling- and I always enjoyed it. I’ve always admired and sort of coveted feistiness.

To this day I prefer thrill and excitement over tranquility. Don’t get me wrong, I too desire long walks on beaches and empty coffee shops.

But do I love books?- YES!
But would I sacrifice a day of reading to go to a carnival with daunting rides? -absolutely!

Do I like to sit quietly at parties and observe people- yes!
But do I also secretly crave to dance wildly with the others?- absolutely!

Like my favorite Jane Austen says
‘Elizabeth had a lively, playful disposition that delighted in anything ridiculous.’

This very disposition of mine directly lured me to fantasy. Which is what I’m here to talk about. Since most of my friends think I’m only one hallucination away from being taken to a psychiatrist, I’m obliged to ramble (like I always do) about it on my blog.


I love fantasy. It is perhaps my favorite genre in the world of books and movies. I have devoured the Lord of the Rings series and it circulates in my bloodstream. Sometimes I randomly quote Darth Vader to my mom. At times I try to switch the lights on in my room by saying, Lumos.

I’m trying very hard to learn the Elvish language coined by Tolkien. I literally asked all my close friends to change my contact name to ‘Lord Vader.’ (All of them complied- with a pitiful sigh though.) Half of the pictures in my phone (3000) either consist of mountains and snowy countries, salacious humor or fictional pictures.

Although I seldom try to justify my obsession, my answer to the blatant question is-

The reason I love fantasy is because I crave adventure, in every possible form. I love a rapidly beating heart. I love when I’m out of breath (not too much though.) I love stories about dragons, and goblins, wizards, elves, witches, galaxies, battles, gods, demigods. I love everything- unearthly. It fascinates and beguiles me. And what deeply grieves me is the want to be a part of these stories knowing that it’s impossible.

I would jolly well help Harry reclaim Hogwarts or the Dwarves reclaim the Lonely Mountain than solve algebraic equations. I would prefer a battle with Basilisk or even help Sherlock solve some cases (though I won’t be of much help).

And because my life or rather anybody’s life on this stupid planet Earth can never be this thrilling, I resolve to fantasy. It gives me my share of adventure. And also some very faithful fictional friends; powerful if I may add.



So what is your idea of adventure? Let me know?


Love always,

Your blogger.


“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” said the girl,  “It is my very first confession. These are my sins.” The priest crossed his heart, patiently waiting for whatever was next. “I killed 7 people in 7 days.” For a moment, he was silent. Such information was hard to consider when coming from a young girl’s mouth. He had heard worst, but this one shook him no less.  “I absolve you from your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

She left the church at an instant. It was a bleak winter evening. Fog had spread around the isolated street blurring the golden light from the lamps. She walked straight to her house. Climbed in through her window from where she had escaped and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to overpower and him to come. She was scared, but satisfied. “It all ends tonight,” she thought. She had done what had been asked of her. A little smile spread across her face.

She opened her eyes to see a stale new morning wrapped under a warm blanket. Mom must have been in her room. She was puzzled, scared, anxious. Not knowing what to make out of this.

Why didn’t he come? He had promised her on the seventh day he would let her touch him, maybe take her away with him. She decided to sleep a little more but found herself lost in thoughts. Questions. Doubts. But more importantly, Fear. “What would I do now?” She started shivering and it wasn’t soon when she found herself in a pool of tears.

The next day she was captured by the police and sentenced to 5 years in jail. She was yelling. Crying for people to help. People held her, trying to control the maddening body. “It was him! He made me do this! He came in my dreams every night and told me to kill someone!!  He promised he would then take me away!! It Was Him!!!” She cried! Cried so much her throat ached. Who would believe her? The Mad girl claiming to kill people because a boy in a dream told her to.

Everyone gaped with wide eyes. full of terror, disbelief and pity. No one willing to consider what she just told. People thought jail wasn’t a safe place for her. So she was sent to the city asylum.
She still yells every night. Who knows who she’s talking to? Maybe he did visit her after all.

The Cry.


12 o’clock. The bird on the clock in the corner cooed. 12 times there was a sound. Then silence. The only vigilant sound she could hear was the thundering rain. She pulled the blanket a little more higher, almost covering her nose as she shook a little due to the deafening thunder. It was dark. She could see nothing, but feel almost everything around and within her. Every emotion on its peak. She felt as if someone was sitting on the couch in the corner and staring her or that this darkness would slowly engulf and swallow her.

            The rain hit the window hard. The noise was bone-chilling. She could hear the sound of the strong wind that blew as if someone was crying and howling in the air. She could see the street lamp that flickered, making the raindrops visible for a second. She imagined the streets flooded with water, as she could distinctly hear it’s unsteady flow. 
            Thunder again, and the shower continued. Her eyes constantly navigated the room, as though expecting a sign of life in the dark deadened room. And suddenly there was a knock on the door. She froze. Her heart beat was far beyond normal, and she was cold like a corpse. For a second she thought she was hallucinated, but then again came three consecutive knocks. She could hardly believe what she had just heard. Who could it possibly be? In the middle of the night? Slowly, she lifted the blanket she felt safe in. Her feet touched the icy floor.  
             She made her way through the blind room, fumbling over furniture, crashing over desks, trembling with terror. She could not even imagine what awaited her behind that wooden door. She climbed the steps down, her hand covering her uncontrollable breath. Another two consecutive knocks, and she burst open the door.

A loud cry pierced the thunder of the rain. It was as if everything was on a standstill. The cry was so painful, so blustering and so strident that it appeared as if the dead would wake up from their graves. It was hard to figure out whether one was imagining, or if someone had actually wailed. She was gone. A cold rush of  rain swept the floor and the furniture around. The grey curtains, witness to what had happened, swayed along with the wind.
               Helena Patrick Williams, born 21st July, 1989 was never seen or heard of again. The children of the little town of Burksville were forbidden from playing around the  “William Cottage”, and no one dared look through the window of the room in which she last slept. For some years, she was talked about by the people of the town, but till this day, every night 21st of July it rains heavily followed by a thunderstorm, and her shriek is heard wild in the midnight. The children are put to bed early and people shut their doors and windows every year on that horrifying night. 
                What happened to Helena Patrick Williams, no one can ever answer that, but if  you ever hear six knocks on your door, in the middle of the night, would you dare open it?