A Face in The Dark: An Alternate Ending

Mr Oliver, an Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to his school late one night on the outskirts of

the hill station of Shimla. The school was conducted on English public school lines and the boys

- most of them from well-to-do Indian families - wore blazers, caps and ties. "Life" magazine, in

a feature on India, had once called this school the Eton of the East.

Mr Oliver had been teaching in this school for several years. He's no longer there. The Shimla

Bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about two miles from the school; and Mr Oliver, a

bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening returning after dark, when he would take a

short cut through a pine forest.

When there was a strong wind, the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the

main road. But Mr Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch - and on the

night I write of, its pale gleam, the batteries were running down - moved fitfully over the narrow

forest path. When its flickering light fell on the figure of a boy, who was sitting alone on a rock,

Mr Oliver stopped.

Boys were not supposed to be out of school after seven P.M. and it was now well past nine.

What are you doing out here, boy, asked Mr Oliver sharply, moving closer so that he could

recognize the miscreant.

But even as he approached the boy, Mr Oliver sensed that something was wrong. The boy

appeared to be crying. His head hung down, he held his face in his hands, and his body shook

convulsively. It was a strange, soundless weeping, and Mr. Oliver felt distinctly uneasy.

Well, what's the matter, he asked, his anger giving way to concern. What are you crying for? The

boy would not answer or lookup. His body continued to be wracked with silent sobbing.

Oh, come on, boy. You shouldn't be out here at this hour. Tell me the trouble.
Look up.

The boy looked up. He took his hands from his face and looked up at his teacher. The light from

Mr. Oliver's torch fell on the boy's face if you could call it a face. He had no eyes, ears, nose or

mouth. It was just a round smooth head with a school cap on top of it.

And that's where the story should end, as indeed it has for several people who have had similar

experiences and dropped dead of inexplicable heart attacks. But for Mr Oliver, it did not end

there. The torch fell from his trembling hand. He turned and scrambled down the path, running

blindly through the trees and calling for help. He was still running towards the school buildings

when he saw a lantern swinging in the middle of the path. Mr Oliver had never before been so

pleased to see the night watchman. He stumbled up to the watchman, gasping for breath and

speaking incoherently.

What is it, Sahib? Asked the watchman, has there been an accident? Why are you running?
I saw something, something horrible, a boy weeping in the forest and he had no face. No face,

Sahib?

No eyes, no nose, mouth, nothing.

The old watchman looked at Mr Oliver for a full minute with scorn and derision, in utter

disbelief. Then, his gaze softened and he told the man, Sahib, why don’t you come home with

me? You are tired and pale as a sheet. A man your stature can sure make use of some hot milk

and a warm coat.

But what about the boy I saw? I swear he had no features on his face. It was like a smooth stone

fixed on a human body.

The watchman took off his own shawl. Giving it to the frightened man, he said: let me take you

to where I live and you can tell me about this strange face you saw over some tea. So saying, he

almost pulled the man out of the street and they trotted amidst the thickets of the pine forest. Mr

Oliver was reluctant in walking the stretch of this land with this watchman at this hour of the

night but something in his voice seemed comforting and safe; so he went along with him. When

they arrived at the watchman’s apparent cottage, Mr Oliver’s jaws dropped to his chin. It was no

small cottage. It was a mansion. Built in the style of the 70s, it had ceiling-high windows on all

sides with various coloured glasses embedded on them. Before his face could give out any more

of his confusion, the watchman laughingly said, it's not my home, Sahib. Just an old manor

house I take care of now. The masters stay in the big city down in the plains. They have not

come back here for years. Just send me the money everyone in a while for maintenance. Over the

years, I have assigned one of its many rooms for my wife, son and me. Mr Oliver was just

beginning to distrust this old man but the sound that he had a family here with him gave him

hope that he wasn’t being lied to. Come on in, sahib.

The inside of the house was as modernly furnished. The watchman beckoned the man to sit down

comfortably while he brought some wood to light the fire. The cot Mr Oliver sat on was far too

soft and he doubted if everything the watchman just told him about his masters was true. He

wondered what dark secrets the night was hiding and shivered in shock. It was closing onto

midnight now and the wind in the pine trees was slowly growing to become a howl from a

hustle. He looked outside and around. Everything about the surroundings seemed strange and

unfamiliar today: the way the wind blew, the way the fire burnt so low despite the fresh dried

wood, the way he got such an unexpected invite to a watchman’s mansion. Perhaps, he was just

too tired and terrified after what he had seen down the forest. He wondered if he had actually

seen the boy without the face. Maybe, it was just a mistake or the way the torch lit up the boy’s

face. He couldn’t be any sure now and slowly, he was clinging to the possibility that maybe, he

hallucinated whatever he saw owing to the darkness and his fatigue. The old night watchman

came in with a large tray in hand.

Just some stuff I could get my hand on. Not too much, I am afraid.

Is the man mad? This is way much to call this a feast? Mr Oliver thought to himself.
Carefully, he took the tray from the trembling man and took a big gulp from the glass of warm

milk. The bread was buttered, the dried fruits were salted and the milk was fresh. It felt like the

supper had been specially made out for him. Pushing out all the sense of absurdity from his

mind, Mr Oliver tried to put all his concentration on the taste of the food and his empty stomach

which was slowly getting filled by this manna.  Halfway into his meal, he realized that the

watchman was staring at him constantly. Out of sheer courtesy and politeness, he asked if the

man would like to have something.

No, sahib. I am full. You enjoy your meal.

Resuming to eat, Mr Oliver said, about the boy, I think I am over assuming things a little too

much. It might be one of the pranks these schoolboys play on me all the time. They got me good

this time. I have to give them a good scolding on Monday.

Right, Mr Oliver.  But they are just boys. You should not take them too seriously.

So saying, he left the room with hollow laughter so loud and gruff that its echo resonated through

the entire room and sent a chill down the spine of the teacher.

Reclining in the very aristocratic cot, he battled whether he should leave this place or not.

Heaven knows when he fell asleep. When he woke up, he had lost track of time. The bed was not

there. The quilt was not there. The intricate design of the room had been replaced by glasses on

all sides.

Hullo. He said. Anybody there?

It was dead silent and decently dark. He looked around. What a strange place he was in! He tried

to look out but there was glass all around.  He rubbed his eyes.

Darwan, he shouted in an attempt to draw the attention of the night watchman he saw only

moments ago. It wasn’t moments ago. It was hours probably but he hardly had any track of time
anymore. Only when he looked closely at the glass windows did he realize that on those were

stacked lifeless bodies of what seemed to him, humans. He was shocked and maybe was about to

have that impending heart attack but things were about to get worse. Amidst all the confusion

and mental cacophony, it lit on him that the people on the other side of the glass weren’t dead

people. In fact, they had the same smooth face the teacher had seen down the village and got the

daylights scared out of him. These were the same faces: without eyes, eyebrows, lips, noses or as

much as a hair on the face. To add to this, the walls he thought were made of glass were not.

They were just some figment of his imagination. As his mind cleared, he could see these faceless

men walking towards him, not one, not two but dozens, squaring him from all sides. He tried to

run but there was no escape. He was in the middle of a vortex of men without faces. Still, he

made an attempt. He tried to cover his face with his hand hoping it was just a dream, hoping it

would all stop and he would be lying there in his bed and his wife could and say, Relax, it was

just a dream. He hoped the watchman he met would wake him up from this terrifying dream but

none of these happened.  He gave into his reality the moment there was a tap on his shoulder.

Were you calling me, Sahib?

Brighten the lights, Mr Oliver said without looking at him.

The lantern’s fully lit, sir.

As Mr Oliver turned to take the lantern, he saw the face of the watchman he’d been spending

time with. His face was not as featureless as the others. He had a nose, two eyes and crooked

lips, only they were painted on his face. 

This was the last thing he saw. The last thing he felt was a heavy crowd pouncing on him before

the night closed in on him forever.