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50 Votes user rating: 7,6 / 10 directors: Ricky Tollman genre: Drama Canada runtime: 1Hours 39 M. Watch stream run this town song. Watch stream run this town 1. Watch Stream Run This town center. I break the rules so idc. Watch Stream Run This towns. Rihanna is like Midas, everything she touches is gold. When I was a child, I lived in a small neighborhood in the heart of a bustling metropolis, in one of the most populous countries in the world. It was the era before smartphones, flatscreens and social media. The internet was in its infancy, a tool for those in the know instead of a commonplace necessity. There were no massive franchise outlets popping up in every available square foot of pavement space, and restaurant leaflets printed on cheap yellow paper was still something to look forward to, when checking the postbox at the end of the day. I say this not to decry what we have now - I am very much a member of the modern era, and I don't glorify not being able to look up what I want, when I want to. I simply say this to carve out an image of what the days were like when I lived through this story. Because you see, I believe that the only reason more people didn't know about this was because they had no way to. There is nary a traveller faster than rumour, but rumour itself cannot board a ferry and cross the oceans; nor can it rack up the money to print out warnings and ship it to the billions who needed to hear it. Not until the net came about could that truly be possible, and it is for that reason that I pen this today, with the intent of reaching out to as many people as I can, just as Pahari had once intended. Pahari was our neighborhood guard. He was an amicable man, tall and dusky with a heavy voice and a pair of trousers that looked like they'd seen battlefields more than washbasins. He had a ready wit about him, and the children in my complex loved listening to the stories he told us about his village down East by the river, where they caught fish in nylon nets and cooked curry with bittergourd grown in their own backyard. Sometimes his fondness for food would slip into the stories and the children would groan, impatient. He would laugh wholeheartedly and talk about how his wife could cook the most amazing potato curry with cumin seeds and onions, and how if she was here she'd yell at them for not appreciating her cookery more. What he considered most precious however, was his daughter. He would proudly show around the little black-and-white photo of her that he would carry around in his wallet. He would take a new one every year, so for someone like me who would talk to him often - it was like watching her grow up before your own eyes. He would rant about how she'd inherited her mother's cleverness and her father's good looks, and how she would tease him saying she preferred his nephew's and her mother's company to his drab stories. Listening to Pahari everyday however, was a privilege afforded to only a select few. For despite being a guard, he never stood behind a door, or sat at a table in the garage of a still, silent apartment complex to keep wanton miscreants at bay. He patrolled the neighborhood at night, from eleven to seven in the morning - and slept in the afternoon atop a straw bed he'd made himself, laid under the shade of the tree in front of our house. During monsoons, when the rain would break through the canopy and cover the tarred streets in a muddy torrent, he would calmly sleep on the roof of our building, with a tarpaulin sheet pulled tight above him - tied to the corners of the roof with twine he'd gotten from the sweet shop nearby. Therefore it wasn't particularly easy to get a hold of him, and it was only through sheer luck that I'd often run into him getting ready to sleep outside or up on the roof. That was when he'd start telling me his stories. He'd speak of the children in his village, playing at make-believe with carrots tied to the sides of their heads to look like horns. Of how when the storms ravaged the riverside, they'd often have crocodiles coming on shore, trudging a mere feet from their bedrooms. Of wizened men shutting their doors and lighting candles at their thresholds on the most auspicious days of the month. My favourite stories were the ones he told of their local legends: the half man - half tiger demon that haunted the riverbanks after the witching hour; the two-headed stranger that only came out on the third full moon of the year, thirsting for the blood of human children and newborn calves; the medicine man who would step out from the ashes of a bonfire in the ruins of the old school on the east shore; and most importantly, of the Doorman. While all his stories would delight and enthrall, the tales of the Doorman would stand out to me. They were the kind you'd dream of when you sat in the dark, awake and aware late at night, listening to every scratch and jolt and squeak ringing out in the slate black shadows, and imagining the unseen machinations behind them. The Doorman always seemed more than just a story when I heard Pahari talk of him, somehow more rooted in reality and in the terrors of the mundane more than the other fiendishly horrifying spectres he would tell us about. " The Doorman isn't a human, " he'd say, neatly folding a betelnut leaf in half, and sealing it with sweet syrup. " No one knows what he is. He's not of this world, or any world that you or me or our ancestors have any knowledge of. He lives in the shadow behind the door, the shadow it casts when it opens completely against a wall, and he's lived there forever. " "Which door? " I'd whisper, trembling as the evening skies turned darker and darker, and the rains beat against the tarpaulin above his straw bed. " Every door. If it's a door that leads into a room, the Doorman has lived in the shadows behind it. Perhaps he still lives there. He isn't of this world, and there are no worldly laws to tether him to our way of life. He is everywhere at once and he is nowhere. He will come out during great misfortune, when the night is at its darkest, the lamp is burning at its lowest, and the shadows it casts are at their longest. At that moment, if you are awake, you'll hear a scratch at the first door to your house. If you tiptoe quietly to the room it opens up into, you'll notice the air around you getting heavier, like it does hours before a massive summer thunderstorm. With the sweat trickling down from your brow, you will see the faintest hint of something dart in from under the door. A shadow in the shape of a seven-toed foot, thinner than paper, slowly taking form like a cloud of black steam being frozen in place. Then, as you're rooted in place you'd see the rest of him, coming through the door, charring it from the center outwards. " "What does he look like? ", I'd ask as thunder rang out behind me. "Like nothing you could comprehend. It'd be like looking upon something vast and unstoppable and describing it with nothing save words later. You can hear them on the radio talking about a sixty foot tidal wave or a million-kilometre forest fire, and you could convince yourself you've grasped the sense of their magnitude, of their terror. You would tell yourself that this is as big as a building, or as wide as ten cricket stadiums but you will only truly understand the scale of terror they inspire if you see them. There is no yardstick, no measuring tape to convey what horror he'll bring into your life. All that is certain is after he's done, they'll never find you. You will be alive only as a story, a cautionary tale of no real value since there is little you can do to thwart him. " "Isn't there any way to stop him? " "Not in this day and age. There will be those who believe prayer will stave him off. I say that's not true. To say that he is rendered impotent by anything we may do is wishful thinking, and an all-too-human way of convincing yourself you're safe. " Pahari would pop the betel leaf into his mouth and look into the dark clouds, savouring the sickly sweet flavour as the world around him rang with rain and thunder and howling winds, his blue tarpaulin flapping madly against its restraints, an old, tattered bedsheet covered in black polythene bags covering his frame. He never seemed to mind the elements, their fury and splendour. He said they reminded him of home, of when the storm would force him and his wife to keep watch at their doorstep, to deter crocodiles from coming in too close to their daughter's bed. As I came into adolescence my interest in the macabre grew, becoming a full time hobby. Pahari never stopped telling stories, but I had less and less time to listen to them. I still sat and heard him talk anytime I could, however. But on most days I'd come back from school, finish off work, prepare for the college entrances and plop down on the bed to read horror stories. The gothic, incomprehensible terror of those tales would lull me into a fitful sleep, sometimes broken by sordid nightmares of whatever abomination I'd read about that night. And sometimes in those dreams, lurking at the back of whatever ludicrous world I had conjured up, there would be something tall and black, standing still just out of focus- and if I tried too hard to see what he looked like, I would be jolted awake. In the summer of my first year in college, Pahari suddenly stopped coming to our neighborhood. There was no warning, no news of his departure- he just up and left, put in notice at the ramshackle secretary's office down the street, and he took his straw bed and blue tarpaulin with him. One day he was there, raring to talk - the next, he was gone. I asked around at my neighbors', and at the local tea stalls and no one seemed to know why he had left. Apparently he had taken the early morning train to his village, and set off midway through his shift. The only one who'd seen him was the porter at the station, who was also a regular at the tea stall. " He looked scared, Sir. I've seen thi
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April 07, 2020

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