A Nocturnal Visitor

The hour of pitch black approached, a time of perfect darkness. Inside the one roomed hut it was warm, a few precious degrees above the freezing cold outside and just enough to ensure a night of restful sleep for its hard working occupants. Only Mohan, the man of the house, had suddenly come awake; jerked into consciousness by a half heard scream. A nightmare it must have been, the thought fluttered through his sleep addled head. Or an owl maybe, they zoomed across the forest all night hunting and hooting. He heard the faint rustle of the eucalyptus trees outside his hut, a natural boundary against the dark forest beyond, the even breathing of his wife and daughters, the gentle snores of his mother on the far side of the room.

All as it should be and yet he felt fear, a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. Fear alongside an impending sense of danger, of violent noise. He stared up at the wooden planks crisscrossing the roof, the ones he’d hammered together many years ago. In the dark he could make out only vague shadows, his mind filling in shapes and forms where his eyes failed. There were rats in the hay over the roof - had been for several years- but they’d never disturbed him. No, he’d woken from a nightmare that’s all.

Then the sound came again, as if in confirmation, leaving no doubt in his mind. It was a soft, tentative scratch against the door, cautious, intelligent. Terror coursed through his veins as he tried to cower within the rough blankets, hoping it was some horrible dream he’d woken into. This can’t be happening, not to us! Had he barricaded the door? Of course he had, it was the first thing he did that evening after Shyamli brought the goats home. 2 stout boards of the best wood he could find at the village smith. It would hold, had to hold! He looked around the darkened room, everyone else slept on, dreaming dreams that were not his, safer, farther away.

The knocks came, a loud triple rap on the door, shaking it down to the hinges. Mohan gasped and jerked upright, he’d felt the blows inside his skull, shattering his brain. His wife stirred and grabbed his wrist and he jumped again. Bang Bang Boom! Dust flew from the cracked lintel and his mother began screaming a mix of chants and curses that sent the hair on his neck reaching for the stars. She scrabbled back from the door, slipped on the rosary clutched in her hand and went sprawling. Mohan scrambled too, reached across his children to steady her and saw them staring at him with eyes big as saucers, the whites glistening, almost luminous in the half darkness.

He realised it was lighter outside, a glint of moon sneaked in under the door and he saw a shadow of broken edges, moving without sound. The knocking continued, always in threes and now his wife screamed his name, a short hoarse exclamation and Mohan wondered - in some detached appendix of his brain - how the sounds of terror and lust were remarkably similar. A knock on the door must be answered, he thought. He struggled to his feet but his body felt heavy, as if he was coming up for air at the buffalo pool near Ram Bari’s cattle pen. He looked down to see his wife clinging onto his leg, her face upturned and tears streaking down it, also glowing in the magical light.

No, I beg you! Don’t answer the door!

Fool woman! Her head so full of old wives tales of witches and goblins that she didn’t know how desperate it had become, that which wanted in. He shrugged her off and moved toward the door.

Mohan heard a swish and a whistle, he thought of reed flutes he whittled as a boy and heard a sharp clang of metal on bone. He felt something warm and wet trickle into his eye as he fell, saw his mother standing to the side, metal saucepan raised, her face contorted with both relief and concern.

Wh-Who is it? He rasped, before the darkness embraced him and took him deep.

The knocking stopped. The sudden silence was so complete that the women and children in the hut held their breaths.

A cackle of laughter ripped through the air outside, startling the birds and rushing through the trees so that they swished and cracked their boughs. Then something hit the door with such force that a 6 inch splinter of the board Mohan had haggled over at the village Mistri’s that very afternoon, broke off and tumbled end over end before embedding itself deep in his wife’s jugular.

The screaming began in earnest.