Gulshan

It was a sad day by all means when I moved in at the new house at Gesstareld. The sky that was usually grey, was a pale pink delicacy, and the sun had dipped its crescent in the creamy, purple cloud. The whole savoury horizon entree stung my eyes. Winds collected dust and dead leaves in their wake, and mocked the fresh rakes of the grass. It looked too happy to me. That was all the more reason to call it a sad day. Everything was out of proportion. The sole reason I had moved to this part of the country was to avoid all those seemingly beautiful things.

I tapped the window pane. Crusts of paint came out of it in white chips. The glass was stained with brown marks, and outside the unkempt gardens had managed to tip a creepy vine to wind about it. It covered a good part of the window, for good; obstructing most of the supposed scenic beauty.

I spread my legs on the little bed. It was stupidly placed right next to the window. The only curtains it has were ruined. I had removed them thinking the best. It was a wrong move. I was here to indulge in my miseries. Alluring sunsets were a negative on my list.

A gentle knock on the door had made it creak open. Before I could answer, I cursed under my breath. I thought the lease mentioned I would have no visitors at all times. The man by the door was easy on the eyes. That made him all the more unlikeable. What ought he to do here?

"Sir Derek," I began, my eyes watching him drag his shadow across the shabby expanse of the room. "I wasn't expecting you," I put plainly. There was no double entrendé. A man his age could probably sniff the desperation to be left alone from a mile. Then again, he was here, staring back at me. His six feet of shadow blocking the poor excuse of my bedroom door and his grey, and kind eyes looking amused. How old was he again? Fifty? Forty five perhaps. It didn't matter. The wrinkles on his forehead and the little crow feet crowned his pearly eyes. His long, and somewhat crooked nose cut sharply through the air as he talked, and his lips. Well, perhaps they were his most impressive feature. They were pressed tight, thinly; moving only he talked in that sombre tone. He always seemed to talk in a sombre tone.

"I just wanted to see if you find the accommodations to your liking," he pressed. I bit back a scowl. Most landlords I had met before had used the excuse to sneak into my bed. But not Sir Derek. I had known him for a week. Other than his obvious seclusion, and dislike for possible human company (much like me), there was nothing about that man that seemed normal. I had known him for a week, but to be a better judge of character, I could hold a claim. He wasn't here to fuck me. Then could it be about the money?

"I am settling in, well," the words lingered between us. What seemed like a twitch around the corners of his mouth was soon dispersed. He eyed me suspiciously. Then, he raked the expanse of the room. His eyes were taking everything in. Everything but the obvious. I had lied but he would not know. Everything I thought about moving to his little room at the huge estate manor was turning out to be a sham. Perhaps, it was a bad idea. But if it was, I was too tired to go somewhere else. He seemed to have learnt it early on, for I seemed desperate when I reached out.

"You haven't changed much of the space. That's good to know," he said. If he hadn't pointed out the fact that I didn't make an effort to clean up the room, he was surely but slowly coming to it. His eyes blinked once. It was for the first time that I noticed his attire that day. A plain white shirt, with plaid pants. Wisps of grey curls hung loosely around his head. They had streaks of black. His shoulders tensed as if he was mulling over what I would say. I often talked less, and he seemed to know it. I nodded, and he nodded back. His gaze lingered longer on the hideous painting on the wall. His cause was lost on me. I wondered what he really wanted now.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" I asked. His expressions were hard to decipher. A hand ran through his hair, tousling them out of proportions. If they weren't combed earlier, now they looked like they were plainly unkempt. But it didn't make him look any more hideous. His shadow moved. His gaze lingered still. For a moment, a thought rolled in slowly, it stayed, it whirled, and as if it was dying to crawl out of his tongue; he spoke fast.

"Would you like to have dinner at the hall? It's a traditional welcome for all tenants," he rubbed his palms on the side of his pants. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. "Yes. Thank you," was all that came, before the door closed behind him and I realised what had happened.

Before I could curse the irony of my situation, the door creaked open again. This time,  his neck peeped in slowly. His side frame was obstructed by the jarred door. He spoke softly. "Do not feel pressured to join. We always like to have people who appreciate good food on the table, Miss Zahidi." The heat of the words seared in the room. The creaking ceiling fan crunched under the influence of it. With a swish, he was finally gone.

Relief spread against my gut. The knots were opening slowly. I rested my head on the bedrest. Not sure what it was about, I wiggled my toes. My head craned, turning to look at the painting. A pair of herons were tied with ropes, with splatters of blood marring its frame. It was well painted for a hideous painting. My hands slipped under my clothes, as I felt the dampness of the sweat.

As a few minutes passed by, the clock ticked and the room went dark. I didn't reach for the lights. White noise embraced me, cuddling in my bed. In the space, silence evaded anything verbal, past or present. The dark came assuring. For a moment, I found peace. Dinner. At the hall. Food. Don't feel. Pressured. The words were distant now. Almost forgotten.

***
Sir Derek

"So these are the last of the papers," the accountant spared me a gaze through his glasses. Twelve years, and he has been the same guy I met on a ferry, trying to track a client. I thought he was a devoted man. He worshipped money. He made love to money, for all one might know. Stoic, with a chiseled jaw and a glowering gaze. One might confuse him with a warden, but he would buy them a cigarette. I always thought when the time comes, he would serve me well. The premonition had come to bite me back in the ass.

"You might have retired back five years ago, had you not renovated your manor," he grimaced. Vexing was his guilty pleasure. Two sips from the glass on his desk, and then he sat back; relaxing against his recliner.

"I am not here to hear the obvious, Kem," I watched him work his calculations.

"I am not here to tell you the obvious. But if one of us lacks tact, I cannot help but point it out," his brows creased. "I suggest you up your rent for that little room at your manor. Given your loans are already cleared." He scrapped something on the back of his notebook. "We can talk about it again, the year after. It would be just as fine," he popped his knuckles, his eyes analysing his recent conclusion.

"I am in no hurry, as I have already told. And I am not going to make a cash cow of my residence," the words seemed a bit bitter with the distaste of a lie. Nobody wanted to move into that place. The ghosts that guarded its walls were plenty, and enough to drive anyone away. I only had a new tenant.

The downside of inherited property is, that it strangely makes you feel closer to your ancestors, but never truly feels like your own home. The air that surrounded the manor was always the same. Dull, foul and unamused.

My gaze lingered on the window. The new tenant had moved in last week. Her name was as peculiar as the case of her appearance. Miss Gulshan Zahidi. Her dusky skin was covered with pocket marks. Her long thick hair was tied into what would pass as a semi-bun. She wore long robes, and her face wore a curtain of constant grimace. Her eyes were always moping, and when her lips moved to talk; it seemed as if they had never known the touch of a smile. The curtains that usually  flew by the window were gone. Worry settled in slowly.

She didn't arrive with much luggage. A duffel bag, and a big suitcase was all she owned. I took her in, as a stray was taken out of pity. She was adamant that she would be anything but a bother if provided with shelter. She had managed to produce a stack of cash. Some of them were chipped on corners from being stashed into the wallet. She had soon dismissed herself in the empty room then. For a week she blended in well with the silence and gloom of the manor. She was an embellishment in the lonely wall that housed mez and yet was far from home. I didn't seem to mind her either.

The missing curtain however, was all it took for me to cross the expanse of the hardwood stairs. The scent of Cedar, and old mould tickled my nostrils. It was only a minute's calculation that led a man to his impending doom. A knock on the flimsy ply, and it flung open with a nasty creak. She rested on the four poster bed with her legs spread atop. Soft white linen; sewn into the poor excuse of a gown, graced her body. Her modest curves filled them. Underneath there weren't many layers. The corners of my mouth twitched. Her dark nipples sat astute underneath the fabric. Her eyes, still mopping. Her face was a conundrum of a thousand mazes that I would never seem to get out of. The thoughts all caved in. I should probably increase her rent. Kem must have sensed something.