It's the past you see

Peter lay back in the foldable reclining chair, gazing up at the moonless night sky, as he puffed away slowly at his cigarette. Relaxing on that terrace in the late evenings had been a routine for him for several years. A routine that had been broken on a particular night, three months ago. The night on which his friend and partner Mr.John Crosby had met a gruesome death, falling down from the terrace.

He had been with his partner Crosby a while before - the accident. Crosby had been pointing up to the sky, talking condescendingly as a teacher might to a child. "Its the past you see there, in the night", he had informed Peter, "Many of the stars we see are millions of light years away. The light from some of them takes years to reach the earth. Those stars may not even exist now, they may have died, turned into red giants". Peter gazed loathingly at his partner. You made your fortunes from my effort, thought Peter, passed me over at every opportunity, used all my ideas as yours. I ask you for a meagre loan, and you just shake your head in dismissal. Then go on to talk about the night sky and stars. Of all the subjects to talk about, sky and the stars.

Anger pent up over several years bubbling to the surface, Peter rose from his chair and stepped forward toward Crosby. It had seemed too propitious to Peter, the pipe just behind Crosby's left foot; the low railing of the terrace just behind him. "Talking of the past, you'll be the past yourself soon" he said in a low threatening whisper. Crosby stepped back in surprise at the sudden menace in Peter's voice, and stumbled a little under the influence of the alcohol he had consumed.  Peter stepped forward menacingly again, and Crosby instinctively stepped back . Peter watched as Crosby slipped on the pipe and fell back, over the low railing, and down to the ground fifteen storeys below.

The police enquiry put down the incident as a drunken accident. One of the imaginative residents of the apartments came up with a more interesting theory - of a 'ghost' that had lured Crosby to a dark corner of the terrace, and forced him to stagger backwards till he fell to his death. The story spread like wildfire, and Peter had been rather amused by it at the time. A ghost on the terrace, indeed.

Now, on a still new moon night, when he stood at the same spot Crosby had been that fateful night, it did not seem so ridiculous. As he shivered in the cold night, he could almost feel Crosby standing next to him now. He felt almost mesmerized. "It's the past you see", he repeated Crosby's last words aloud. And then wheeled around in fear, as heard footsteps behind him. It was Crosby standing at the other end of the terrace, his features covered by a strange yellow glow. Peter gasped. Was it-could it be- Crosby's ghost ? Was it his past he was seeing in the night ? The figure across the terrace moved forward, and Peter stepped back in fear without thinking. He was dangerously close to the railing now, but he kept going backward. The figure reached out a hand toward him, and it was saying something that Peter could not hear above his own terrified screams. He was still screaming as he lost his balance and fell back over the railing. A dull thud could be heard on the now quiet terrace.

Mr. Robert Crosby stood transfixed on the terrace, shocked by what he had just seen. Another man had died at the same spot, exactly in the same way his brother had died three months ago. He appeared to have been scared by something he had seen, and kept walking backwards in spite of Robert's warnings. Robert turned around, but he could see nothing behind him. Whatever it was-must have been visible to only to the victim's eyes. Trembling, he picked up the torchlight that he had dropped in shock, and, clutching it tightly with both hands, fled down to his rooms, running for dear life. He would vacate his brother's apartment that he had just occupied that day, the very next morning. He had had enough of the wretched, haunted place.