My Cousin Rachel and other stories………..

In the winter of 1999, lying on a charpai, under a blanket, on Mrs. Jha’s terrace in Patna, I read Rebecca. It thrilled my very core and chilled my spirits. The ghost of Rebecca haunted me wherever I went. The line ‘we found her’ echoed in my head. The shadows of Drogheda mansion loomed large on my life. For days I excitedly related the story to Sarmishtha in class, lessons be damned! I bowed to the genius that was Daphnai du Maurier.
In 2002 I read Jane Eyre. Again the same reaction took place. The cruel orphanage, the huge dark mansion, the mad lady locked in the room. Ah! It killed me. Again I bowed to Charlotte Bronte`.
In 2004 I read Wuthering Heights. The ghost of Catherine Lintol Earnshaw took over. In the maddening heat of summer I felt the chill. The pure evil of man’s soul was laid bare and ‘infernal lads’ danced in my head. It was witchcraft and this Bronte` sister knew how to perform it.
Few days back I finished My Cousin Rachel. The setting is the same as is the intent but the witchcraft is gone. The chill begins but does not reach the deepest recesses of one’s heart. The burning of Drogheda mansion seems appropriate but when cousin Rachel dies falling off a scaffolded area it seems too deliberate. This genre of writing….whatever it is called…. is very powerful provided the author knows how to play with it.
I am looking forward to another novel that ‘scares the living spirits outa me’ and makes me a devout yet again……any suggestions??