Tuesday 27 November 2012

The Mad Artist

'No, Sir, I'm not mad! There, now, I see a cynical smile on your face. You don't believe a word I said, do you? You know, you look like you're new here. Would you like to hear my story, how I got into this place?' went the man as I smiled at him. His eyes shone as he spoke. He seemed very keen to tell me all about himself. I retreated nervously, but he came closer. I took another step backward, and he stepped even closer. With a grin he said, 'Come on, please, listen to my story. Do you know that I was once a world famous artist? Do you know that my works used to be so coveted that millions of people would call it a drought if I did not spend a day painting?' He raised clenched fists to emphasis his point. I took a quick look around. An attendant was standing close by. That was a relief. And then sympathy edge out the apprehension I had initially felt towards the fellow. I told myself, why should I be afraid of this man? He's old, almost sixty and not at all strong. Even if he attacked me, surely I could resist.

The man now standing, grinning in front of me was an inmate of a psychiatric institution in Singapore. It was my first ever visit to a mental hospital. A group of us, all reporters, were being taken on a tour of the place to observe the treatment of the mentally ill and the therapy they were given to enable them to return to a normal life. Somehow, somewhere along the way I strayed from the group and ended up as the old man's unwilling audience. Trying not to offend him, I said, 'Oh, but I do believe you, I do. Well, alright, let's sit here on this bench then. I'd really love to hear your story.' Provoking his anger was definitely the last thing I wanted to do. When we were both seated, the man, still grinning, said, 'You know, you're the first person who have not laughed at me and ridiculed me after finding out my real condition. I'll tell you everything that had happened to me, so that you can tell others and that way help me get out of this place. My name is Sani. I've been held here for so many years. I really have no complaints about the place. They look after you, feed you and treat you very well. But...' he eyes flitted right and left as if to make sure no one else was listening, and then he leaned closer to whisper, 'they do not let me paint!'

He continued, 'I have two younger sisters. They are both happily married, comfortable life, rich husbands. But me, I'm poor... poor because I'm not allowed to paint and show the world what a great artist I am. And my sisters reject me because I'm a nobody now. Hah! To hell with them! They do not know that, compared to me, they are dirt! When I was young, I really hated school. By the time I was ten, I had been thrown out of school three times for bullying and tormenting my schoolmates. Nothing they thought me stuck in my brain. The kids in school had no peace when I was around. When I had had enough sticking thumbtacks and pins in their bottoms, I'd pull their hair or box them, and get into fights with them. I'd even pick a fight with bigger boys. I often lost, got cuts all over. but the violence, the pain, the blood were a source of pleasure to me. I loved seeing blood. It's inspirational.

'Father, who ran a grocery store, tried to change me. He took me out of school and paid a tutor to teach me at home. But that guy's luck was no better than my schoolmates. Oh, the things I did to him. Once, I stuck a long needle in his chair, pointed end up. How he yelled when he sat on it. he was quite badly hurt, but how exciting! I loved the way he suffered. One day, while waiting for him, I noticed a beetle on the floor. I decided I should find out if insects cried out like my tutor when in pain. So I caught the beetle and slowly cut its abdomen with a small knife. How it struggled. How it thrashed about and tried to get away. It flung its head left and right in obvious agony. But I carried on cutting its body until I could see its guts, its organs. Oh, even now, I could still picture how that insect suffered in the final moments of its life. It was very exciting. My heart beat furiously. I knew the beetle would die soon. Before it did I thought I must record everything I saw. Quickly I reached for pencil and paper. I had never been any good at writing, at finding the right word, but that time I suddenly turned creative and churned out line after vivid line after graphic line.

'Then I heated up a length of wire and used it to burn the wings and legs of the beetle. They cracked under the intense heat. The beetle twisted about even more violently, threw its mouth wide open as if silently screaming in pain. And I recorded everything I observed. Then I took another piece of paper and began sketching the scene. I had never drawn before but that time my hand moved with ease to depict the torture of the beetle. When I finished drawing, my whole body went weak. Cold sweat drenched me and I let myself drop wearily onto the floor. And as inexplicably as they came, all the inspirational ability I had until just moment ago, to draw and to write were now gone. unknown to me, my tutor had been watching everything I did. He rushed at me and snatched away the two works I had just completed. When he read and saw them, he was visibly shaken. 'My God, Sani, what drove you into this? ... Is there no compassion left in you?' That was the last time I saw my tutor.

Sani, his grin now almost permanent, continued, 'Seeing the monster I'd turned into, and tired of the mental burden I brought upon him, father sent me to art school, to study under a famous artist. I was then sixteen. Under the master's wings, I soon discovered a latent talent in art. I worked hard and mastered the techniques in two years. And you know what I painted? Nudes, among them, and animal life, landscape, flowers. But, as they say, Sir, with happiness comes sorrow. A year later, father died and, without him to pay for my studies, I had to leave school. I went back home and, having now to earn my own living, decided I would paint and for the first time sell my paintings. But I felt my works had to be distinctive if I was to gain prominence. What unique quality would make my paintings stand out among all others? That question occupied my mind everyday. One day, as I sat in the verandah ruminating over this, a kitten went by. My eyes followed it as it went on its way, and thereupon I remembered the events behind that very first picture that I drew about four years earlier... of a beetle in the throes of death. Immediately my body shook all over and I was drenched by cold sweat. It was an experience I had not had again ever since it first happened, till now. I felt this irresistible urge to cut that innocent kitten's stomach and paint its suffering. I told myself, every living thing had to die some day. What a fantastic inspiration it was, to find artistic quality in cruelty; agony as a work of art.

'I approached the kitten cautiously, grabbed it and took it to my room. having locked the door, I held a knife. With my right hand around its throat, I stabbed the animal on its chest and drew the knife down the middle of its body. Poor fellow! The knife writhed and clawed about, injuring my hand. I felt nothing, though. As more blood flowed, my body shook even more. Yes, I was no longer conscious of anything by then. The sight of blood had left me frenzied. I spent the rest of that day and all night completing my painting of the kitten in slow death. Finally, at dawn the next day, it was done. And then for the first time I felt drained and fatigued... so thoroughly as if my very soul had left me. All I could do was fall asleep. I was awakened the following morning by someone knocking at the door. It was none other than my art tutor. 'Sani,' he said as he stepped inside, 'I came...' Before he could finish, his eyes fell on the painting, now leaning against the wall. 'My God, Sani,' he exclaimed in obvious astonishment. For several long, silent moments, he just stared at it. Then, without another word, and before I could say anything, he dashed out. He returned half an hour later with four students who were my contemporaries in his class. The five of them gathered around to gaze at the painting. Then they shook my hand. 'Congratulations, Sani,' said the master. 'This is simply astounding. The best work I have ever seen. You're no art student, Sani. You're a full fledged artist, and no examination will be necessary to prove that.'

'I called this very first work of mine 'Between Life and Death.' The next day, I started painting again and completed within the next four month two works. But I wasn't happy with them. The colours were not to my liking and they did not excite me the way 'Between Life and Death' did. I soon grew tired of that sort of art. That was when the urge to do something bizarre  something extraordinary came back again. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't resist this desire to depict torment and blood and agony. I tried, but it was just too much. One day, I took a walk around the village to seek some peace of mind, and came across a lamb drinking from a little stream. When it saw me, the lamb tried to flee, but ran headlong into a thorny bush and fell with cuts all over. Well, I guess it just had to happen. The sight of bloody cuts sent shivers through my body and with it came this powerful urge to paint again. I hastened to grab the lamb and hurried home with the hapless animal slung over my shoulder. All the way home,  thought of nothing but the pleasure I had had before from what I did to the beetle and the kitten, and how that pleasure was going to be mine again now.

'That poor lamb met the same as the other two. I then immersed myself totally in what I'd set out to do, working the whole day that day and right into midnight, without pause, caring neither for food nor drink. I applied myself so completely to the task that, like before, I was drained of all energy by the time I finished the painting. The day after, I took my latest painting to my art tutor. He was very excited when he saw it and called it a masterpiece. But he was stunned when I told him how I did it. He shook his head and said, My God, Sani, the extremes you go to! Great work, indeed, but don't you think you've taken this thing a little too far?' Sani paused, and sighed deeply. He looked at me before continuing, 'But, Sir, you know, that painting fetched a very high price. I made enough money to gain the courage to tell myself, enough is enough, no more torturing helpless animals just for the sake of art. I was actually remorseful about what I'd done. 

'At about the same time, I married Asmah, a girl from my own village. She was just 19 when we married, fine features, lovely looks, to me the most beautiful woman I'd ever met. We lived happily for about a year. Then, with my savings depleted, I began to get restless and bored and decided to paint again. So I painted, landscape, flowers, that sort of thing. But it wasn't the same. People had little interest in such works. And so it came back again, the desire to paint the macabre to make an impact like before. It grew stronger and stronger, day by day, till I could not concentrate on anything else. I tried to resist it, God knows how I tried, but that only made it even more compelling. I was brooding over this problem at home one day, when I suddenly heard Asmah's scream coming from the kitchen. I rushed in to find her holding a bleeding finger. 'Please, dear, please bandage this. I cut myself using the knife,' she explained.

'My hands trembled as I bandaged Asmah's injured finger. When it was done, she went back to her chores while I took slow, troubled steps to my bedroom. I was still trembling all over and drenched by perspiration. I kept seeing how blood dripped from Asmah's injury. I knew then that events were no longer within my control. As if on command, I proceeded in a daze to shut all windows in the room, assembled my brushes and things and, when everything was ready, summoned Asmah inside. She came and, seeing the way the room was, asked gaily, 'Oh, are you going to paint, dear? But... why did you shut the windows? Isn't it dark?' All I said was, 'Would you come closer, Mah?' She came to me... and I held her tight and started kissing her all over. Asmah was taken bu surprise but did not resist. She responded with kisses too, and she kissed as if she could not give me enough.

'Then I started ripping her clothes off, first her blouse, then her sarong, then her underclothes, until she stood totally nude before me. Then I lifted her and lay her down on the bed. Asmah said nothing, and just smiled. She probably thought I was just fooling around. Her suspicions must have been aroused when her hands and feet were bound and her mouth stuffed up. And I guess she must have known what I was really up to by the time she saw the gleaming knife in my hand. She struggled to free herself, but failed, and the blade sank into her chest. Moments later, I began painting. And it wasn't oil. It was the blood that flowed on the floor beside the bed. I painted, and painted, as Asmah's body turned cold and as her blood flowed in drips to form a pool now spreading up to my feet. I painted without pause for two days and two nights, eating nothing and drinking nothing, until at last it was finished, a painting like no other, a work of art fit for the world, by a world famous artist, Sani.

'I went out of the house in delirious laughter, leaving passers by wondering what had happened. Some nosy fellows went in to investigate, and had the shock of their lives. I was arrested by the police, but managed to escaped from the lock up. I had to get home to look at my painting, for, despite those two days and two nights, I had little opportunity to study what I had done. I found my things untouched, the way I had left them. I grabbed the painting and hid it under my shirt. I left the place, and went wherever my feet took me. I was caught eventually and, after the trial, sent here. Well, Sir, I'm old and feeble now. I don't have long to live in this world. But before I die, I wish to show you my last painting, so that you may reveal to the world what a great artist Sani is. Would you care to look at it, Sir?' 

I did not know how to respond to him. If I said no, Sani would certainly be disappointed, maybe even angry, and try to attack me. I could say yes, but I really did not feel like it, because I suspected it was not going to be pleasant sight. I thought this over and finally decided to brave it. 'Well, alright, I'll look at the painting. he dipped into his shirt and produced a sheet of thick paper, folded many times over. He spread it out in front of me. 'Here you are, Sir, a masterpiece by Sani, the world famous artist,' he said confidently. And what did I see in front of me? Nothing. It was just a blank sheet of paper. Blank, like the emptiness that was the old man's life.

Friday 23 November 2012

The Old House

The night was so dark, I could hardly see my own hand. The downpour that had started in the afternoon kept pouring, as the wind blew and lightning flashed and thunder clapped. The terrible cold bit into my bones. The road was completely unlit. As I struggled along, potholes seemed to appear wherever my feet landed. There were many times when I lost my balanced and nearly fell down. The intermittent flashes of lightning were my only source of light in the otherwise total blackness. My eyes had by now grown used to taking full advantages of these bursts of brightness, first to take a quick look ahead to see where I was going, then to scan around for a decent place to take shelter. But on both sides of the road, there seemed to be nothing but rubber trees and scrub. Much as I needed the scantiest protection from this deluge, I would not want to be under any tree the next time lightning struck. And so, I pushed on, still hoping there would be some place somewhere ahead where I could spend the night out of this rain.

My hopes were finally fulfilled. In the next flash of lightning, I spied a house a short distance into the rubber plantation. A path beckoned towards it and I hurried that way. At last, a chance to keep out of this cold, I told myself with relief.I hope the occupants would be kind enough to let me in. Maybe even give me a job later. Even chopping wood or carrying water from the well ought to earn me something. I am sure they would be well disposed towards a poor beggar like me. As I neared the house, I saw that it was dark. Not a single light could be seen from the outside. Maybe the occupants are fast asleep, I said to myself. It was a typical Malay house, raised about a metre above the ground on numerous posts. I climbed the simple steps that led to the front door. It was shut. It did occur to me as I reached out to knock that perhaps I should not interrupt the occupants sleep and trouble them in the middle of a night like this. I could actually keep out of the rain under the house where, ordinarily, it should be dry enough. But then I had second thoughts. Seeing how drenched I was and considering the cold wind still howling around me, I decided it might be better to seek shelter upstairs after all.

before I could raise my hand to knock however, a gust of wind from behind blew the front door open. Creeeeeeaaaaaak... went the door as it swung in gently. I took a peek inside. no one seemed to be in. I spent some time peering around, until gradually I realized the house was in fact unoccupied, perhaps even abandoned. it had a badly leaking roof and in some places rain water was pouring inside. I mustered enough courage to enter, and noticed across the bare hall what looked like the door to a room. I went there and, yes, it was a bedroom, a decent one too, with only minor leaks here and there. Stepping inside, I decided it was as good a shelter as I could ever find. I went out to close the front door, and returned to undress. The cold was killing me. I went out of the bedroom in the nude to look for the kitchen where I hoped to light a fire to warm myself and dry my clothes. i found some firewood there and to my luck, a match box with some matches in it. Once the fire was lit, I hung my clothes to dry and sat down to warm myself.

The fire shed some light for the first time on the shape the house was in. It was quite bad. The walls were dilapidated and some windows had been torn off their hinges. Only the bedroom I picked was a little better. Still, I thought the house was just right for me to spend the night everyday after begging. It looked like it had been abandoned and it was not too bad really, all things considered. It certainly beat sleeping on the sidewalk. Talking about sleep, I was getting really tired and drowsy by now. I went back to the bedroom and found a dry part of the floor where I could lie down. i closed my eyes, and was just about to doze off when the front door creaked, just like it did earlier. Before I could get up to check on it, I heard footsteps entering the house. I kept still.

A man walked past the bedroom and went straight to the fire which I had lit in the kitchen. I rose and kept my eyes on him. Could this be the owner? I wondered. He's going to get really mad if he finds out I had had the gall to break into his house. Oh, but then again, he could be just another beggar like me, because his clothes were as tattered as mine. He was tall and thin, emaciated even, like he had been suffering from some debilitating illness. He squatted before the fire and held out his hands to warm them. His eyes were fixed on the flames, as if captivated by something in there. He looked neither right nor left, and seemed totally oblivious to the clothes I had hung by the fire. It occurred to me then that it was not right to just keep to myself and let him sit there all alone. Hesitantly, I went out of the bedroom and spoke, 'Pardon me, but I need to get my clothes, please.'

He turned to look at me, but said nothing. All he did was nod a few times in assent. He did not seem at all surprised by my appearance. I quickly grabbed my trousers, which were still wet, and put them on. His eyes returned to the fire, now dying. I added a few sticks to stoke it, and the flames were soon rising again. I sat down next to the man, to share the warmth. He still had not said a word. I noticed he had had a worse drenching than I. Water continuously streaming down his clothes and body. 'Terrible rain, isn't it?' I said, trying to start a conversation. 'Yes, it is.' I thought he was never going to speak. The voice was deep and rough, as if it had issued out of a deep canyon. 'Where did you come from, if I might ask?' He turned and, with a smile, said, 'I was caught in the rain and came here to find shelter, just like you.' 'great,' I said, 'I mean, at least I have someone for company now.'

The man took time to open up. But once he did, we chatted away like old friends. Gone was my drowsiness. We talked about all sorts of things until the subject turned to the house. 'Did you know this house is haunted?' he asked. I shook my head as I took a look around me. 'The owner used to be a rubber plantation worker. Nice guy, and very hardworking too. The manager like him so much, he promoted him twice. First he made him an overseer, and then he put him in charge of rubber sales in town. As a result, the man started spending less and less time at home,' he said to begin the story. 'Well, he had a wife, young and attractive, but not quite faithful, as it turned out. With her husband away from home much of the time, she somehow managed to start an affair with, of all persons, the manager himself. Hubby was none wiser at first, but one day, he caught the two of them in bed together. In a fit of rage, he grabbed a machete and hacked them both. To avoid discovery, he buried the bodies right here, under this very house. Then he killed himself by jumping into the well out there.

'Ever since then, the folks here said the house is haunted. People have seen a man wandering around at night, sometimes digging in the earth under the house, like the guy did when he was burying his victims bodies,' he added, ending the story. Even as I listened to him, with a fair bit of horror I must say, I could not help noticing that the man seemed to be getting no drier despite all the time we had spent on and on, wetting the whole floor. I guess I just had to open my big mouth. 'Hey, how come you're still dripping wet when I'm almost dry?' He turned and fixed his gaze at me. All of a sudden, he broke into a weird sort of cackle that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. 'Oh, I can never get dry, my friend! I can never get dry, you see!' he explained.

'Look!' and with his bare hands, he dug into the fire and scooped up two handsful of burning embers and shoved them at my face. I had no time to grab my shirt, still hanging by the fire. I had no time to think about the pitch darkness outside. I had no time to worry about the pouring rain. I just sped out of the house, and ran and ran and ran. I did not look back, did not look right nor left. I just let my feet take me where they would, until I could hear that demoniacal cry no more.

Monday 19 November 2012

Blackie's Curse

Cats are by nature docile, lovable animals and as such tend to be lavished with affection by their human masters. Blackie, my grandmother's tabby cat, was like that, like any other cat. But behind that lovable disposition was a malicious, spiteful character, something I had seen long ago, when I was just a schoolboy. It was my grandfather who bought Blackie from the keeper of a Balinese temple during a holiday on the island years ago. She was like any ordinary cat, except for the jet black fur and shining, green eyes. She had around her neck, a leather collar with inscriptions in a script that was alien to me. Grandpa once told me they were Sanskrit. But he did not say what they meant, probably because he could not read them himself. All he said was that Blackie was a lucky cat and anyone who took care of her and loved her would always be blessed with wealth. 

And that was why, when my grandfather died, grandma showered Blackie with love. She treated her like her own child. Blackie slept on a lovely, plush cushion. She had the best food and whenever she meowed away, it was Mak Minah, the cook, who would be scolded and blamed for supposedly not feeding her well. In short, Blackie was Queen. One thing that riled me was, when Blackie decided she needed a lap, grandma could stand holding her for hours, sometimes falling asleep in her seat. As she lay with languid eyes on grandma's lap, Blackie would be eyeing my every movement. I knew, for there had been many times when, engrossed at my desk, I would look up to find those eyes staring unblinkingly at me. There was never a hint that she liked having me around or enjoyed what I did to her. I used to try stroking her black fur, but everytime I did that she would recoil and evade me. Sometimes she would snarl and bound away at the slightest touch. evidently, that cat despised me.

Hence, this hostility between us. It had grown so bad, I was just waiting for the chance to wipe her out of the face of the earth. And she... God alone knew how she felt towards me. When some Indians came to grandma's house to peddle medicine one day, and caught sight of Blackie, they turned wide eyed and enthused, 'This cat, very special. You good to it, it very good to you. You bad to it, it more bad.' Then, after reading the inscriptions on Blackie's leather collar, they nodded again and again and described what a lucky cat she was. I wished I had listened to those medicine paddlers  I would not have been in the position I'm in now... pursued and haunted everywhere by Blackie's ghost; hearing her footsteps trailing me whenever I happened to be in a dark place...

Sometime after we took her as a pet, Blackie bore a kitten. I was amazed by her behavior since she became a mother. Never had I seen a cat that cared so much for its young. She would take the kitten along wherever she went, fearful, I guessed, that it would fall prey to me if left alone. When she lay down, the kitten would always be playing nearby. If I walked by her, she would look at me disdainfully, perhaps out of conceit that she was grandma's darling, and proud that she was so good at taking care of her baby. And grandma added insult to injury by always making it my duty to shop for their food., and it always had to be the best stuff, expensive milk, expensive fish, expensive meat, expensive everything.

One day, grandma said, 'Did you know, Jamil, that we have a royalty for pets? Our cat are descended from those the ancient kings of Bali used to keep. Blackie carries their line.' As she spoke, grandma held out her hand and Blackie jumped onto her lap and rubbed her glossy black fur against her. Grandma had no idea how I hated that cat and its baby. Grandma then related how grandfather had a Balinese temple keeper steal Blackie from the palace and then purchased her from him for a fortune. The temple keeper said Blackie was a lucky cat. Trouble was, she also carried a terrible curse. Hence, grandpa's regret much later for having bought her and brought her home. 'That curse, its utter nonsense. Me, I have no fear of Blackie. Love her, in fact,' grandma continued.

Ever since I heard grandma's story and learnt about Blakie's curse, fear began to mix with my hatred towards the cat. In time, the fear grew so bad, I began hearing Blackie's footsteps following me whenever I was alone at home. And yet there would be no Blacki when I turned around! Soon, I began checking the whole bedroom and would be peering under the bed every night before going to sleep. Having satisfied myself that Blackie was not hiding somewhere inside, I would rush to lock the door and the windows. I developed this nagging fear that she might strike as I slept, seize my throat and tear it apart and kill me. I believed that Blackie must be waiting for the chance to get rid of me too. I even bought myself a thick leather collar which I wore around my neck like a dog all night every night, just in case Blackie ever came for my throat.

At times, as I lay in bed trying to sleep, I would hear Blackie outside the bedroom, quietly approaching the locked door. Then I would hear her scratching at the door as if trying to open it. That always sent shivers running through my body and, what with the room in darkness, all sorts of frightening ideas would start haunting me. What if I had forgotten to lock the door and Blackie was able to get into the room? She would certainly jump up the bed and... Oh! My God! My whole body would go weak thinking what would happen to me in the paws of that cat. Sometimes as I lay in the dark room, my mind would be troubled and I would have visions of Blackie gaining entry and pouncing on me in bed. With trembling hands I would hold my neck to assure myself that the leather collar was still intact.


At other times, courage would appear, telling me... hey, to hell with it, you only die once! And I would jump out of the bed, switch the bedroom lights on, open the door, and quietly step out as far as I dared to peer around and see if Blackie was about. I would not find her... and then I would silently return to the bedroom, always looking over my shoulders, watchfully, fearfully. I would shut and lock the door, even lean a chair against it to reinforce it, before jumping back into bed to cover myself from head to toe with the blanket. Only then would I get a good, sound sleep right into the morning. That was how I lived night after night. Even my studies suffered. My mind was so preoccupied with Blackie that I could not concentrate. Sometimes I even imagined her trailing me to school and sitting behind me in class, eyeing every move I made.


Then one day I had my revenge. I gave Blackie a taste of the mental torture she had inflicted upon me. I still remember how great it felt then. That day, Blackie's kitten had somehow managed to get into my room by itself. I had just reached home from school when I found it, fast asleep in, of all places, my bed. Well, as a Malay would say, you wished for some shoots and up comes a bowl of salad! It's pay day, my dear! If I could not get Blackie, her kitten would do! I slipped on a pair of leather gloves which I had bought along with the leather collar that I wore every night. Then I put on the leather collar itself, for, while not as big as its dam, that kitten still worried me. Cautiously, I closed in, went up against the bed, and grabbed my prey. The moment it felt my hands, the kitten stirred and opened its eyes. It seemed to know what I was up to, and made a swift attempt to escape. But I was faster. Before it could even whimper, my hands were on its throat. 'Die, you bastard! Die!' I said, tightening my grip. The kitten writhed in agony. That very moment everything around me seemed to turn topsy-turvy and my ears went booming like a cannon. But my hands clung to the animal's neck. I had no idea how long it was before I finally released my grip and the lifeless form dropped onto the floor.


That instant, I heard Blackie scratching at the door outside and mewing for her baby. Once again I was overcome by terror, me, a boy of twelve, strong and healthy, terrified by the cries of a black cat in broad daylight! Cold sweat streamed down my forehead. Where was I to hide the kitten's body? In a state of confusion, I flung it out of the window with all my strength. When I heard it landing in the bushes, I removed my leather collar and leather gloves and hid them in my school bag. Then, wearing a mask of calmness, I opened the door. 'Come in, Blackie. Come in dear,' I said, trying to show that nothing untoward had happened in the room. Blackie ignored me. She dashed inside and ran madly about, sniffing all the time, on the bed, at my bag of books, and mewing desperately. At last, she found the spot on the floor where her dead kitten had landed earlier. She sniffed at it, and stared at me. In her eyes I saw not loathing, but sorrow. Never had I seen such a pitiful look in an animal. But within moments the look was transformed, and now it was all fury and malevolence. Terror returned to grip me, and along with it came regret for having done what I had done. but, it was over now and there was nothing one could do about it. All Balckie saw in me now was a murderer, the murderer of her innocent baby.


Blackie retreated step by step and went away. That night, my sense of terror heightened. I dared not go to bed, fearful that Blackie might decide to settle the score with me and fearful that my despicable act might have come to grandma's knowledge. Good thing the old lady never suspected I was the culprit. She presumed Blackie's baby had been catnapped or was somehow missing. Finally, with sleepiness getting the better of me, I headed nervously for my bedroom, looking around warily to see if Blackie was stalking me. Having locked the doors and windows, I threw myself on the bed. I braced myself to hear Blackie's footsteps outside the door, as I had always heard them. But there was no sound. I waited, and waited, till finally I fell asleep. I had no idea how long it was before I awoke, but when I did, I found the door open. And right there in the doorway stood Blackie, the body of her dead kitten in her mouth.


She came straight at me, looking neither left nor right. She mounted the bed and placed the body on my blanket. At that very moment a bluish light shone around her head and, believe it or not, Balckie spoke. Her mouth moved as a deep throated voice issued forth, The good shall be rewarded, and the evil shall face punishment. The day shall come when the malicious tastes retribution.' Thereupon, Blackie jumped down and dashed out of the room, her footsteps fading away until she could not be heard anymore. I was petrified. My body trembled and my teeth rattled in chilling horror. I braved myself to get up from bed and found, true enough, that my bedroom door was wide open. And there on the bed lay the kitten's body. I ran to Mak Minah's room and knocked on her door. I pleaded with her to let me spend the night there. Perplexed as she was with my behavior, she obliged.


The next morning, without anyone's knowledge, I buried Blackie's kitten in as deep a grave as I could dig behind the house. On my return, I was met by Mak Minah/ She had just come out of grandma's bedroom. The look on her face spelt shock. 'No wonder you couldn't sleep last night, Jamil. Grandma passed away in bed!' The news did not shock me, for grandma was old and did not have long to live. She left behind a fair amount of wealth but that was of little concern to me. What really pleased me was that, at last, Blackie and I were equal. And the time was ripe for something to be done to free myself of this fear of her. I must have this peace of mind. Blackie must die. I got hold a steel bar and kept in my bedroom. I searched for Blackie and found her hiding under my grandmother's bed. I caught her and took her to the room. When I ran into Mak Minah along the way, I pretended to stroke the cat and said sweet nothings to her. Of course, in my mind, I was saying, 'Your time has come, Blackie!'


All the way to the room I could feel Blackie's body shivering. She looked at me, with unblinking eyes. I flung her inside and, after locking the door and windows, picked up the steel bar. Blackie lay still where I had thrown her. She just stared at me. We eyed each other as if to see who was going to make the first move. I snatched the leather collar around her neck. It broke with little resistance. The steel bar in my hand then swung up and down, again and again, battering Blackie's body, till she moved no more. I stopped only when I had had enough. Blood spattered the floor, and did not spare my clothes either. Now I was free. No more Blackie to haunt me. No more footsteps outside the bedroom to drive me crazy.


I used to inheritance grandma left me to see me through tertiary education. Throughout my studies, I lived at the university hostel and did not return to grandma's house until I graduated at the age of 24. By then, too, I had married Jamilah. Sweet Jamilah, a fellow student at the university, with whom I had fallen in love. Jamilah, whom I cherished and adored. She was about twenty, petite and delicately built, with lovely fair skin. But it was her shining, jet black hair and eyes that stole my heart. Life was happiness for me then, for I was rich and I had a lovely woman by my side. I thought the idyllic existence was going to last forever. But, no, that was not to be, for just one day after we moved into grandma's house, tension began to emerge between Jamilah and I. 


I had left Jamilah alone at home to do the marketing. On my returned, I found her in grandma's room, her eyes transfixed at a picture of Blackie hanging on the wall opposite grandma's bed. Ever since Blackie died, I had not been thinking of that cat at all, but the moment I saw her picture, all those events which happened years ago returned to memory. I stood watching Jamilah from behind the bedroom door. When she turned around to face me, her eyes seemed at a glance, as shining as Blackie's, her hair as black as Blackie's fur. What was the meaning of this? Why didn't I realize this when I first met her? Indeed, in Jamilah's eyes was the same look of terror I saw in Blackie's moments before I killed her. 


Oh!... you scared the wits out of me, dear,' said Jamilh as she came to me. 'Hey, what's wrong with you? You look like you've just seen a ghost,' she continued, smiling. 'Nothing's wrong, just that when you stood in front of the cat's picture, your eyes and your hair looked just like its eyes and fur,' I replied. 'Oh, come on,' she said with a chuckle, 'me looking like a cat? Don't talk nonsense!; Nonsense, indeed. Jamilah sounded to me then just like Blackie when she spoke to me the night she left her kitten's body on my bed. 'But, you know, Blackie was a lovely cat, and it came from a royal palace. So if I said you looked like her, you shouldn't be offended. We're talking about beauty and bearing here,' I said, returning her smile and holding her delicate body in my embrace.

Deep inside I wondered, was she going to struggle free? Was she going to tremble all over in my arms? But, no, she did not. Jamilah did not even return to embrace. All she did was press her cheek against my nose. Days turned into months, and months into years. Life with Jamilah was peaceful but there always seemed to be this uneasiness between us. We were always watching each other's movements. One night, I returned home later then usual. Jamilah was already asleep in the bedroom. Not wishing to awaken her, I quietly lay down beside her. That night i dreamt of Blackie and her baby. In my ears I could hear her cries in search of the dead kitten. I awoke from sleep with a start and my ears could still hear very distinctly that frantic mewing.

Jamilah was no longer beside me. I got up and went quietly out of the room to look for her. I noticed the door to grandma's room was open and the room brightly lit. When I peered inside through the open door, I saw a pair of shining eyes staring straight at me. Instantly my breathing turned heavy as shock and apprehension engulfed me. But I managed to summon the courage to approach the pair of shining eyes, which seemed to have withdrawn in fear into a corner of the room. Hardly had I taken three steps when I saw Jamilah dashing out. She darted back to our bedroom and locked the door from inside. Furious, I rushed to the bedroom and knocked on the door repeatedly like someone gone berserk.

'Open the door! Open the door right now!' I screamed. Suddenly the door open and Jamilah was standing in front of me, bleary eyed as though she had just got up from sleep. 'What's all this racket you're making in the middle of the night?' she asked. I responded by questioning her, 'What were you doing in grandma's room?' 'Me, in grandma's bedroom? Didn't you see that I had been asleep? I only awoke when I heard your screaming.' 'But the door was locked from inside.' 'You probably pulled the door shut so hard when you left the room, it locked itself,' Jamilah replied. And as she went back to bed, she continued, 'Come back to sleep. You must have had a nightmare.'

All night long, I could not sleep thinking about that strange incident. Another night, not long after, I went to bed earlier than usual as I was very tired, and awoke feeling a heavy weight bearing upon my chest, making it difficult for me to breathe. I tried to open my eyes but my eyelids refused to budge. I managed to open them a little with some effort, to find Jamilah lying face down on top of me. The eyes that glared at me then were definitely Blackie's. Jamilah drew her face closer and pressed her lips against mine and kissed them. I felt I could not breathe, as if she had sucked my very soul out. I tried to free myself but Jamilah seemed to have drained my whole body of energy and I found no strength to move at all. Then slowly she rose, glaring at me with spite in her eyes. She kissed me on the lips again and this time I felt I was going to die. But with all the strength that was left in me, I managed to push Jamilah off my chest and screamed for help as loudly as I could. That brought the chauffeur and the gardener sprinting into the room.

'What happened, Sir? A burglar? Want us to call the police?' they asked. 'Nothing happened, He's just had a bad dream. Don't worry. Go back to bed,' Jamilah replied calmly. When they left, I got up and snatched Jamilah's hand. I had another shock, for there on her wrist was the same leather collar that used to hang around Balckie's neck. 'Look at this... it's Blackie's leather collar. You've turned into that cat, Milah,' I screamed. 'No! I found this in your cupboard and I put it on simply because its lovely. This isn't Blackie's collar. It's a bangle,' replied Jamilah. 'Take it off, now. But no I guess you won't be able to take it off before turning into Blackie,' I snarled, and immediately jumped at her and went for her throat. I went into a fit of laughter as Jamilah struggled violently like a hen being slaughtered. I strangled her with all my power, till she began to froth from her mouth.

But then the commotion brought the chauffeur and the gardener back to the room. The pulled us apart and bound my hands behind my back. They handed me over to the police. Days later I was taken to court for attempting to kill Jamilah. But the doctor who examined me told the judge he had found me mentally unsound. The judge decided I should be sent for treatment at a mental institution. I spent three years languishing in the hospital, even though I was as sane as any of you. Jamilah visited me at the hospital everyday. Eventually, she managed to persuade the doctor to discharge me, saying she wanted to take care of me herself. She claimed that life had been lonely ever since I was committed to the institution. though I had tried to kill her, I was still her husband and she still loved me. She insisted on looking after me and nursing me back to health. Seeing how earnest she was, the doctor let her take me home.

The following day, Jamilah came to the hospital to fetch me home to grandma's house. Well, before I lose my life in her hands, I want all of you to know the strange things that had happened to me. I... am going to die in Jamilah's hands. 'The day shall come when the malicious tastes retribution,' said Blackie that night when I killed her kitten. Jamilah shall now settle the score for Blackie. I wish all of you farewell...

'It's really a wierd story,' said Dr. Ismail to me. 'I found the diary under Jamil's bed after his wife left to take him home yesterday, You believe it? You think its true?' 'I'm not sure, really,' I replied. 'Let's pay him a visit,' said Dr. Ismail as he got up to leave. We made for his car. Ismail was the doctor who treated Jamil. A close friend of mine. We had been friends since our school days. Jamil lived far from town, about twenty miles away, at a remote location far from other houses. When we reached the place we found it deserted, very quiet, although the front door was open. We went in. 'That must be his bedroom,' whispered Dr. Ismail as he held my arm. He led the way there and peered inside. 

Jamil was sprawled on the bed and on top of him stood a large, black cat. It had a leather collar around her neck. When it heard us, the cat turned around, its eyes shining, full of anger. We retreated, and instantly the cat sprang towards us. We jumped aside to avoid it, and the cat dashed out of the house and out of sight. Only then did we realize that Jamil was no longer alive. On his neck was a gaping wound, as if some sharp teeth had sunk into it. Blood was spilling onto the mattress. 'My God! Could it be possible? Could Jamil's story actually be true?' exclaimed Dr. Ismail.

Tuesday 13 November 2012

Dollah's Back

I have heard many scary ghost stories in my lifetime, and one of them happened to be the personal experience of a chum. It happened just before the war when he was still a schoolboy. As a matter of fact, it took place in his school. He was not the only one who witnessed it, for several classmates and even their teacher were also there. Of course, he would not like to be mentioned here by name, so let us just call him Abu, and let us call the school Kampung Raya Primary School. Kampung Raya, the village, lay in a valley between two hills, Bukit Ria in the east and Bukit Raya in the west. Running through the middle of the village was a stream, its source being somewhere up in Bukit Ria. A meandering, half a metre deep water course most times of the year, the stream turned into a torrent during the monsoons, often overflowing its banks and flooding the area. 

Among the fifteen boys in Abu's class at Kampung Raya Primary School was a ten year old called Dollah, by far the biggest trouble maker of them all. He lived alone with his widowed mother at the edge of the village. His father died when he was a baby, leaving his mother to raise him all by herself. But she had to spend so much time earning a living by farming and washing clothes that Dollah was left practically on his own. No wonder the boy grew into the ruffian he was. Dollah was seldom to be found at home after school. In fact, unless his mother Mak Dara summoned him back, home would be the last place he would be thinking of. Instead, he would be roaming the village, always up to some tricks or other, right till dusk. There was no durian, mango, guava or even coconut tree that he had not raided. There was no fruit tree he had not turned into setting of his favourite 'Tarzan' stunt, in which he swung from branch to branch. Though he often landed ungracefully on the hard ground instead of making it across like his hero always does, and though he often got hurt very badly in the process, he was never detered.

According to my friend Abu, Dollah had one of these very rough landings one day, when a branch broke as he tried to execute a tarzan swing in a sapodilla tree in the school grounds. he seemed to have only sprained his right arm though, and after a vigorous liniment rub and a bandage, he was back in action. One day, a big downpour caused the stream to overflow and flood the village. As the storm abated and the flood waters receded, the village became abuzz with the news that Mak Dara had lost her son. A search was mounted, but Dollah could not be found. It was two days later when his body was recovered among the debris under a road culvert about two miles downstream. And it was then that some of his buddies reported having seen him swimming during the downpour in the torrent that the stream had become. He was buried in the village cemetery.

One afternoon three months after the incident, Abu and his classmates were having soccer training under their teacher, Cikgu Juraimi, in the school field. 'Cikgu Juraimi told me to fetch a ball from a cupboard in our classroom,' said Abu as he began his story. 'The school was a large two storey building, originally built by the government as the residence of a British District Officer. When he was posted elsewhere, the building was left vacant for several years before it was finally turned into a school. My classroom was at the rear, facing away from the field. Cikgu Juraimi gave me the keys to the main door, the classrom and the cupboard. I opened the main door and went into the school hall. That's where the staircase was, you see. 'It was a very different atmosphere in the hall then. I mean, every morning the place would be jam packed with noisy kids, assembled to listen to some speech or instructions from the headmaster before filing into their classrooms. But when I was there that afternoon, the hall was silent and still. All I heard were my footsteps on the concrete floor. All the windows were shut, so it looked rather gloomy even though the sun was shining outside. Once in a while I could hear my pals in the school field breaking into laughter.

'I was climbing the staircase when for no apparent reason an eerie feeling came over me. It was so sudden, I simply could not explain what was happening. Then when I was almost at the top landing, whoosh! came a gust of wind from behind me. Very swift. I told myself it must have blown in through the open main door, through the hall and up the staircase. But the eeriness grew and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I paused and turned around, but could see nothing unusual.' 'I went up and followed the corridor to the classroom. The door was locked, of course, and with trembling hands I inserted the key, turned it, and gently pushed the door open.' Swallowing his saliva, Abu continued, 'The classroom was gloomy too, as all the windows were shut. As I strode to the corner where the cupboard stood, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye. It was somewhere on my left, at the back of the room, in between the rows of chairs and desk. i could feel the blood going to my feet. I turned around, and what a great shock I had! For there was Dollah, watching me!

'The face was drawn and pale. His cheekbones bulged under the fleshless skin and his mouth was stretched into a grin that revealed his teeth in a frightening way. His eyes were fixed at me without so much as a blink. 'I simply stooped in my tracks. I could not move. My legs felt like jelly. There was only my breathing, going up and down rapidly. We stared at each other for several moments before he finally vanished. 'Somehow then, I regained my wits and dashed out of the room. I ran down the staircase and sped out of the hall. Cikgu Juraimi and my classmates at the field were alarmed to see me sprinting wildly towards them. Breathless not just from the sprint but also from shock, I told them what happened.

'Cikgu Juraimi's immediate reaction was to twist my ear like he always did whenever he caught one of us misbehaving. Angrily, he chided, 'What nonsense is this? Are you delirious or something?' 'I swear, Sir,' I replied. 'I did see Dollah's ghost, Sir. He was sitting in the classroom, staring at me.' Seeing hoe earnest I was, Cikgu Juraimi fell silent, though it took a while before his hand let go of my ear. 'Atan, Manaf, go to the classroom and check if what Abu said is true,' Cikgu Juraimi instructed. But the two boys just froze. 'Hurry up!' snapped Cikgu Juraimi. They rose and dragged their feet to the main door. They soon disappeared from view, and we remained in the field, waiting, not a word spoken between us. 'Five minutes later, Atan and Manaf were speeding out of the school building towards us. There were wide eyed in apparent horror, their faces seemingly drained in blood. They were shouting, 'He's right, Sir. The ghost still sitting in the classroom.' This time, Cikgu made faces to show his disbelief. 'If you don't believe us , why don't you go and see for yourself, Sir?' Atan suggested. 

'Why don't we all go,' said Cikgu Juraimi, rising. 'All of you, come with me, including you, Abu, Atan and Manaf. Just be careful, in case we do meet Dollah or his ghost. Alright?' And so, with Cikgu leading the way, we trooped warily into the school building and up to the classroom. Cikgu was the first to step inside, while Atan, Manaf and I were right at the back of the group, just outside the door. Suddenly, Cikgu Juraimi stopped in his tracks and we heard him saying Astaghfirullah, God forgive me! We peeked inside through the door, and saw Dollah on a chair, gazing at us! 'Leaning against the wall near him was his coffin, evidently rotten. Dollah's eyes were fixed on us. We stood like statues at the door, petrified like we'd been put under a spell. Then slowly Dollah got up and we saw that he was swathed from waist down in a tattered and mud stained piece of withe cloth. The shroud, obviously. He looked unusually tall when he stood up. Then, without taking his eyes away from us, he took his coffin off the wall where it had been leaning, and with both hands swung it above his head. And with a blood curdling cry, he hurled it at us.

We were so stunned, we could not move and simply watched as the coffin flew murderously in our direction. It seemed to land on us, but all we felt was a rush of freezing cold wind that enveloped us momentarily. In the confusion, we heard Cikgu Juraimi shouting at us to flee. 'We all ran, helter skelter, down the staircase and out of the school towards the field. I noticed we were not the only ones struck by terror, for Cikgu himself was looking very pale and shaken. Cikgu warned us not to spread the story. But, it got out somehow and, before the sun had set that afternoon, the whole village was talking about our sighting Dollah's ghost. As usually happens with rumors, the story got embellished as it was conveyed along the grapevine, and soon it appeared that Dollah did not simply hurl the coffin but had even tried to grab one of us, and that Cikgu Juraimi had to wrestle with him to free the victim. Something like that.

By evening, the folks were descending in droves upon our teacher's house to find out more about the incident. Well, Cikgu Juraimi denied everything. He denied we ever saw the ghost. He claimed we had probably been imagining things or had made it all up. He told his visitors, 'Abu had been under some delusions and fears lately and this had probably infected all of us. We were in a confused state of mind in that classroom and had probably imagined we had seen Dollah's ghost. Next morning, Cikgu Juraimi and us kids were summoned to the headmaster's office. Cikgu Abas questioned us at length, one by one, about the incident. Even Cikgu Juraimi did not escape the grilling. When he had finished, the headmaster sat slumped in his chair, apparently stunned by what he had found out. He then asked if we noticed anything extraordinary about Dollah's ghost as he threw the coffin at us. We looked at each other, trying to recall what happened.

Manaf gave the answer, 'I noticed when he lifted the coffin that his right arm was crooked.' Next thing we knew, we were following Cikgu Abas and Cikgu Juraimi to see old Haji Daud. Headmaster said he had to ask the man something, because he was the one who conducted the funeral rites for Dollah, as he had done for practically everyone who had died in the village. Haji Daud told us he did notice, as he was preparing Dollah's body for burial, that his right arm was twisted. Apparently, the arm that everyone thought was only sprained as a result of the fall from the sapodilla tree was really broken. We listened to him with gaping mouths. There was no question about it then. It must have been Dollah that we saw in the classroom. It must have been him that threw the coffin at us. It was no imagination.

Monday 12 November 2012

The Ring Seeker

My new house stood on top of a hill. It had a clear view in front of the Singapore harbour. Behind, though, was a confusion of small trees and uncleared bushes that obstructed any view of the neighbour's place not far away. Ahmad, my chauffeur, had added to that confusion by planting some banana trees. To the right, just opposite my bedroom, was a plot of open space, thirty feet in breadth and bordered on one side by the edge of the scrub that I planned to turn into a playground. The first time I saw that ghost was one Thursday night. Perhaps it is true after all that the eve of the holy day of Islam is the night of the spirits. Anyway, there was a strange silence around my place. Even the insects that usually filled the night with din could not be heard. The moon, shining so bright earlier, had been shaded by the clouds, which left the atmosphere with a kind of haziness. I just had dinner and was lounging on a lazy chair in the verandah when I decided to get a novel from the bedroom to read.

As I got up, my attention was somehow drawn towards the open ground, and there I caught sight of an old woman, hunched and dressed in a white Malay blouse and batik sarong, emerging from the bushes. Her eyes were scanning the ground, as if she was looking for something  she had lost. On her shoulder she carried a hoe. The moment I saw her, I told myself this woman cannot be anything but a ghost. She might look and act just like any old lady, but one thing, I was able to see through her, all the trees and bushes beyond as she passed by them. There was also an eerie, greenish glow around her when she emerged out of the shadow of the trees and into the hazy moonlight.

I stood still for a few moments as I watched her ambling around the open ground. oddly, I was not scared. At least, I thought I was not. I went back to my seat, and kept observing her. Minutes later, as lightning flashed in the sky far beyond, the old woman disappeared. I was unaware of it, but by the time I saw her vanish, cold sweat had drenched my forehead. And that night I could not sleep well, my mind somehow troubled by what I had seen. I saw the old woman again the following evening, at the same place, behaving in the same way. As a matter of fact, she appeared and acted in exactly the same manner three nights in a row, so much so that I came to expect her every night and would sit at the veranda for her to appear.

On the fourth day, I was taking a stroll in the open space when I spotted among the gravel there and old pinch beck ring. I picked it up and took it home. I did not know it then, but that ring was to figure in the frightening series of events that were to take place subsequently. I placed it on the desk in my study. That night, as usual. I waited in the verandah for the old woman to appear. But she did not. I kept a keen eye on the bushes below the trees lining the edge of the open space, where she had emerged every night for the past three nights, but she did not appear. finally, in disappointment, I went to my study to pick a book and sat on the sofa there to read. The room was lit by a single reading light. I sat with my back to the door. In front of me was a large mirror. I was deeply engrossed with the book when suddenly I felt my whole body shivering and the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I looked up, and in the mirror I saw the door behind me slowly swinging open. On it was a hand, an emaciated, thick veined hand, one that belongs to someone used to hard, manual labour. And in she came.

It was that old woman, that ghost. Bent, with her hoe on her shoulder, she tottered to a corner of the room. There, she halted, swung the hoe off her shoulder, and started scraping the floor, almost exactly as she had been doing on the ground the past three nights. That was my first encounter with her. She was very old, thin and haggard, and was dressed in that same worn out white Malay blouse she had always worn ever since I first saw her. The hoe she carried looked old and rusty, and had a baldly chipped cutting edge. But, knowing she was really a ghost, I could not help being terrified. In fact, I was benumbed, immobilized. I could not even find my voice when I tried to scream for Ahmad. I must have stayed stunned like that for more than a few minutes until, at last, I somehow managed to spring up and dash to the main light switches. I switched on all the lights in and outside the room. By then, however the old woman was gone.

It was then that I heard Ahmad calling out for me from the outside. 'Sir! Sir!' without waiting for my response, he rushed in, looking very disturbed. he was trembling all over and panting as he told me how he had just seen a ghost with a hoe walking along the veranda towards my bedroom. Apparently, that was the first time he ever saw her. 'Must be the ghost of that old woman I've heard about, Sir. She is always looking for something, something she'd lost,' said Ahmad in a trembling voice. 'You happen to know what it is?' I asked impatiently. 'No. No one seems to know, Sir. But it's something she was looking for just before she was killed,' Ahmad replied. And that was how I learnt from Ahmad the story of the old woman.

The old woman once lived in a shack that used to stand on this very site several years ago. When my house was to be built, the shack was to be pulled down and she was told to move out. She did, but one day, as construction work was about to begin, she came back and told the workers that she had lost something there. They let her look for it, but as she was searching, one of the trees they were cutting fell on her and killed her. No one had any idea what it was she was looking for. Construction work went on uneventfully until the house was completed. But many believed, said Ahmad, that whatever it was, that thing would bring luck. When I heard the story, I realized that the ring I had just found no lying on the desk in the study, must be what that old woman was looking for. That explained why she failed to appear outside tonight and instead came into my study to look for it!

The next morning, before leaving for the office, I examined the ring closely. Seeing how ordinary it was, I wondered how anyone could imagine it was lucky. I took it to my bedroom and kept it in a drawer there and, for the rest of the day. completely forgot about the matter, so occupied was I by my work. As usual after dinner that evening, I sat on the chair in the verandah waiting for the ghost to appear. I was to be disappointed yet again. Close to midnight, I finally gave up and went to bed, but somehow could not get any sleep. I kept thinking about the old woman and her ring. Casting an occasional glance at the drawer, I could imagine her coming, hunch and all, to open it and sift through its contents with her hoe. I could not help sympathizing with her, appearing every night in search of her lost possession, unfazed by her repeated failure to find it. Part of me was telling myself to put the ring back where I found it, among the gravel near the edge of the open space. But another part of me urged me not to be silly as how could it have something to do with the ghost's appearance?

Suddenly, I woke up. I had no idea when I fell asleep but I was suddenly awake, feeling weak and chilly all over. I turned over to the right, facing the drawer where the ring was, and was instantly seized by fear, the shivers running through my body. Through the mosquito net I saw the old woman standing beside the bed. This time I had a good look at her face, and what I saw was not just an old woman anymore. It was something out of the depths of Hell, horrible and malevolent. The eyes were filled with fury as the glared at me. Her left hand kept pointing at me as coming closer, she lifted the hoe off her shoulder and with a chilling scream sent it swinging at me. I never knew how I did it, but I sprang away just in time to avoid the blow. Screaming in fright, I made a dash for the door and ran out, and there I broke down and bawled like a baby.

Still in tears, I flicked all the switches to light the rooms, but not one of them turned on. I fled into the dining hall, locked the door, and turned around to face what was coming. Within moments, the door swung open with a terrific bang and floating in the air towards me was the ghost's head. I tried to flee, but I simply could not move a muscle. The horrible face came closer and closer till it almost touched me. And then I blacked out. When I came to, Ahmad was sponging me with a wet towel. He told me he had rushed inside upon he saw the ghost. He gathered enough courage to go to my help only when it had disappeared. Ahmad advised me to have the place exorcised. I agreed. At noon that day, we invited Pak Majid, a well known healer in the neighbourhood, to the house. Pak Majid was more than seventy years old. His hair, mustache and beard had turned completely grey. He sat on the floor with his legs tightly crossed as he listened to my story. I showed him the pinch beck ring I found, and he took it from my hand and studied it intently. He smiled and nodded repeatedly.

'Yes, yes, this is the one, this is it. It's been a long time...' he said to himself. his demeanor seemed rather odd to me, and his mutterings rather curious. 'This is the ring. The ting that will bring luck to its keeper. Whoever gets it will be rich, the healer stroked his beard thoughtfully before turning to address me. 'The ring has to be buried where it was found, at exactly the same spot, to let the Old One find it. And it make sure she does not come back to trouble you, all the necessary rites must be conducted when we bury it. but you can leave those things to me.' I was prepared to do anything Pak Majid told me, as long as that ghost never returned to terrify me. And so later, after prayers were chanted in a small ceremony, Pak Majid went out by himself to perform some mysterious rites in the open space, before burying the pinch beck ring at the spot where it was found.

Afterwards, Pak Majid told me, 'Tonight, the Old One will fine her ring and you will have no more trouble from her.' He collected his fee, five pieces of crisp ten dollar notes, and left. The story should have ended here, but it did not. Three days later, Pak Majid was found dead at home, with a ghastly wound on his neck. The moment I heard the news, I told myself, it's that ghost again. Somehow I could not help thinking his death must have had something to do with the old woman and that ring. I hastened to the house. it was daytime when I went there and sunshine lent brightness to the room where his body was discovered. Yet, the instant I stepped inside, I could feel a chill in the air and an inexplicable sense of dread spreading through me, leaving me shivering uncontrollably. I took a look around. Pak Majid's body lay stiff on the floor, having been left as it was after it was discovered. On the back of his neck was  a long, gaping wound. Blood had formed a pool around him. Close by, on a table, lay a ring. I took a closer look. It was bent and badly damaged, but there was no mistaking it. It was the old woman's ring.

So, Pak Majid's death did have something to do with the ring after all. I could only guess how it happened, he must have decided to keep the ring instead of burying it like he said he would. He must have decided he could reap for himself the riches the ring supposedly promised. And the old woman must have come after him, to take back what was hers. My shivering was getting worse. In my eyes I was beginning to have visions of the old woman, coming, hunch and all, swinging her hoe, still seeking her ring. I put it back on the table, and hastened out of the place.

Sunday 11 November 2012

Black Magic

Ali woke with a start. His heart was pounding and he was shivering all over. The hair on the back of his neck felt queasy. He looked around him. Save for a slender shaft of moonlight penetrating through a tiny hole in the wall, he lay in pitch darkness. He sat up, dazed, wondering where he was and what he was doing there. It took him more than a few moments to gather his senses, and he remembered how he came to be in that room. He turned to his left. He could see nothing in the blackness. But he remembered his pal, Yusuf who was now lying beside him on the floor. The man must be fast asleep right now. 

All around him everything was quiet, except for the occasional, distant call of an owl in the surrounding woods. Ali tried to recall what had just roused him from sleep, and gradually he remembered. It was frightening nightmare. Frame by frame, as in a movie, everything he had seen in the dream came flashing back before his eyes. But was it all really just a bad dream? He could not be certain, for he recalled having dreamt certain things that he had actually experienced that very afternoon. What then was reality and what was the dream?

The dream began with Yusuf and him chancing upon the house where they were now, along the highway on their way back to their hometown. It had been a long journey and they were looking for a suitable place to rest and spend the night when they spotted the house through gaps in between the low., leafy trees that surrounded it. As they pulled up by the roadside, they noticed it was a two storey old house which was obviously disused. Parts of its wall had collapsed and many of the mouldy looking doors and windows were dangling on a single hinge. Not an inviting sight. But, dusk was already falling and travelling overnight on the lonely road was an unwelcome prospect. They decided to brave themselves and spend the night there. They alighted and followed an overgrown track to the house. As they did, a flock of pigeons, startled by their sudden appearance, noisily scampered off the rooftop and flew into the air. They found the front door ajar. As a matter of fact, the door leaf was askew and was hanging by a single hinge. Dust had formed a thin coat on the floor in the main hall and on the staircase leading upstairs.

They decided to use the room directly opposite the staircase. Under what little sunlight they had, they cleaned up part of the floor to serve as their bed for the night. They took the bread and coffee they had brought along, chatted, and lay down to sleep. This part of Ali's dream was what he and Yusuf actually experienced that afternoon. In the other part, he saw the house in twilight. He saw pigeons scampering into the air from the rooftop as he and Yusuf waded through the undergrowth along the track. He saw the room where they were. And he saw two figures, yusuf and himself, lying asleep on the floor. 

And then he began seeing some scary scenes. He saw a room he had never seen before. It seemed to be lit by moonlight, but where the moon was, he could not see. he saw three figures, hanging in a row from lengths of rope tied to a crossbeam. He felt something watching him from within. He shivered with terror as cold sweat streamed down his forehead. In the silence, his heart seemed to pound like cannon fire. Then the scene disappeared and he was back where he was, beside Yusuf. His eyes were focused on the staircase opposite the door which led upstairs. Moonlight shone on part of the steps.

Something, he could not be sure what, was lurking in the shadows. All he saw was a strange, eerie, golden glow of light. He became more terrified and his body went limp. That was when he woke up. Ali sat up, bewildered. His whole body was still shivering with fright. He stared at the staircase. Other than the thin band of moonlight piercing through a hole in the wall, he could see nothing else. He shook Yusuf, and then he froze. From somewhere upstairs came a whistle. 

It was tuneless, and yet pleasant to the ear. Nervously, he looked around to see if the whistler was entering the room. But there was no one. Then, Yusuf, who had been fast asleep, suddenly sat up. He seemed to have been alerted by the whistling. 'Yusuf...,' whispered Ali. But before he could say anything else, his friend had got up and was heading for the staircase. As Yusuf climbed the steps, he passed briefly under the moonlight, and Ali realized for the first time that his eyes were shut. Yusuf was walking in his sleep! Ali was so surprised, he did not know what to do. Yusuf soon disappeared in the darkness at the top of the staircase, but from the creaking of the floor under his footsteps, Ali could follow his progress. The the whistling faded away, and the creaking stopped. Yusuf had halted directly above him.

As Ali swallowed some saliva, a sudden, terrifying cry broke the stillness of the night. Ali screamed in shock, and jumped up and dashed for the door. he had taken but a few steps when he heard the floor above creaking again. This time, Yusuf seemed to be walking back towards the staircase. Ali stood at the bedroom door, waiting, and moments later saw his friend emerging from the darkness and stepping down the staircase. His gait look unsteady, like he was drunk or weak. his left hand seemed to be groping to find the way, but in his right hand Yusuf held an axe. Ali felt like screaming, but nothing came out of his mouth. he simply did not know what to make of this. under the light of the moon, he could see that Yusuf had turned pale as a corpse. His eyes, which were shut earlier, were now open, and seemed to burn with an inner fire. But, most shocking was the gaping wound on the left side of his head. It looked terrible and was pouring blood in frightening amounts. And more blood was dripping from the blade of the axe in his hand.

The next thing Ali knew, He was running helter skelter through the scrub in front of the house, screaming in terror. He reached the car, but as he struggled to open the door, something suddenly rushed at him, sending him fleeing again. he ran as fast as his feet would go, screaming for help at the same time. He heard footsteps catching up with him. but ahead, a pair of bright lights were approaching and soon, growing louder and louder, came the sound of the engine of a car. he dashed to the middle of the road and started waving frantically. the car halted not far from him. As he made a dash for it, he shouted in between gasps of breath, 'Help me, help me, please.... Something killed my friend and now it's coming after me!'

A pair of shining green eyes were lurking  in the bushes lining the side of the road. As he alighted, the driver of the car caught sight of them and, without a moment's hesitation, drew the gun at his hip and fired a shot. The pair of shining green eyes disappeared. 'Well, it's gone now. Wild dog, probably, though I've never seen a wild dog chasing anyone before,' he remarked. He turned to Ali. From the gun still in his hand, and the uniform he wore, Ali realized he was a forest ranger. 'Who are you and what are you doing out here in the dead of night like this?' the man asked, curious. 'My name's Ali. My friend Yusuf and I were spending the night at that big house over there. Then something appeared, something that had a golden glow of light. At first I was dreaming... there was a whistling upstairs and Yusuf got up and walked up the staircase to the upper floor. Walking in his sleep, mind you. Next, I heard a terrifying scream. It was Yusuf, no doubt... and then he came down the steps carrying an axe. He was bleeding profusely from his head, and more blood was on the axe. I think he'd split his head. I mean, my God, I could see his brain. And the blood! It just poured and poured.

'I supposed he's dead now. But he was like a zombie, coming for me with the axe in his hand. I knew he was going to kill me. So I fled,' said Ali. 'I'm Ibrahim. I'm the forest ranger here. Come, let's go back to the house. We'll see what we can do,' said the man as he showed Ali to his car. Along the way, they continued talking about the incident. 'You think you'd be brave enough to go back there?' asked Ibrahim. 'No, frankly, I don't think I am. But we have to recover Yusuf's body, don't we?' Ibrahim pulled up in front of the house, close to Ali's car. 'Look how frightening the place in in the darkness,' Ali remarked with a tremble in his voice. 'This afternoon, Yusuf and I saw a flock of pigeons flying off the rooftop.' 'Did you say pigeons?' 'Yes. Why?' 'I've lived here ever since I was born. And I pass this place frequently, both by day and by night, whenever I'm on duty. But I've never seen pigeons around here.' 'Well there must have been scores of them here this afternoon.' 

'Wait a minute. I just remembered,' Ibrahim cut in. 'Some rubber tappers living not far from here did tell me once that they have seen pigeons here at sundown. I know the house is supposed to be haunted and, in fact, no one dares to pass this way after dark. Those tappers believe the birds are really the spirits of the daughters of Haji Mahmud Kaya,' said Ibrahim. 'There's a folk belief that restless spirits like them are released from hell at dusk and allowed to roam free overnight. That's why we see the sky turning red or golden at sunset. That colour comes from the fires of hell, revealed only when the portals of hell are opened at dusk.' 'Who's this Haji Mahmud?' asked Ali. 


'He used to be the richest man around here, long ago. He owned all the land here. He had four daughters, but he was so rich and stuck up, no man wanted to marry them and they ended up as old maids. Then, during the First World War, Haji Mahmud went bankrupt. All his property was sold away and his family split up. And for thirty years now, ever since his youngest girl Maniseh ran away, the house has been left vacant. No one dared live here. There is a story about how Maniseh ran away from the house. It seemed she behaved very strangely and looked so frightened, as if something horrible had terrified her, sending her fleeing. Anyway, I'll tell you more about it later. Let's go in and see what has happened to your friend Yusuf,' said Ibrahim as he alighted from the car. He walked through the tangle of weeds with a torchlight shining his way ahead. Ali followed him.


They went in by the open front door. Shining his light at the staircase, Ibrahim drew his gun and stepped forward cautiously. Then he turned the light onto the room facing the staircase. On the floor lay Yusuf's body, his face in a pool of clotting blood. The axe was still in his hand, its blade lodged in the floor. Ali took a closer look, and realized with horror that it had been sunk at the exact spot where he had lain earlier. 'Your friend, Yusuf, I supposed?' 'Right. He's the one.' 'That axe in his hand. Must be the weapon that killed him. Look like bits of brain tissue and lumps of blood on its blade.,' Ibrahim pointed out. Ali said nothing. 'Let's go upstairs,' he said as he led the way up the staircase. Ali, still quite terrified and bewildered, obediently followed. He had no wish to be left all by himself in the darkness downstairs.


They followed a trail of blood that went up the steps, all they way into a dusty, cob-webbed room. The trail ran alongside a line of well defined shoe prints in the coat of dust that lay on the floor, and ended abruptly in the centre of the room before turning back. They obviously belonged to Yusuf. But they were not only prints there. In the centre of the room where they halted, they met a different set of prints. Footprints! Someone else had been there! here too was a pool of coagulating blood. 'This looks like the place where your friend Yusuf was bludgeoned. He seemed to have met someone here,' Ibrahim said in a whisper. 'Who could it be?' Ali asked softly. Before Ibrahim could respond, the torchlight, which had shone so brightly, suddenly went off.


'Hey, what's wrong with this light? I've just changed the batteries,' Ibrahim remarked, surprised. 'Come on. We've got to get out of here.' The pair retraced their footsteps out of the room. As they did, they heard a door creaking somewhere, open or shut they could not tell. They tried to hurry, but the darkness forced them to grope their way to the staircase and down to the floor below. It was one of the scariest walks in Ali's life. That mysterious killer could easily creep up on them under the cover of darkness and bludgeon them with the axe. He could not see a thing in the darkness, and that did not give him any comfort. 


When they reach the floor below, Ali asked Ibrahim to try the torchlight again. Oddly, it shone bright as new. They could see Yusuf still lying face down at the same spot, just like before. But when Ibrahim aimed the light up the step again, it instantly faltered and could not penetrate the dark mist that was now tumbling at the top landing. 'Damn that thing upstairs. What on earth could it be?' he protested with indignation. He pointed the light up again, and again it refused to shine. Frustrated, he pointed the gun up the staircase, but there was nothing he could see to shoot. 'I think we best wait for daylight before making a thorough check of the place. No point going about blindly in this darkness. I'm sure the torchlight is going to go out again every time we point it up there,' he said.


They went out and sat down on the steps below the front door. The sky was brightening up in the east with the approach of dawn. Ibrahim sat with his back resting on a post, facing the door, the gun still in his grip. Ali sat beside him with his eyes closed, thinking about all that he had gone through the night before. He fell asleep as he told himself what a horrible experience the whole thing had been and how he had never gone through anything so weird and frightening in his whole life. It was daylight when Ali woke. The grass and the leaves on the trees and bushes around the place glistened with dew. A thin curtain of mist hung below the trees. A while later, Ibrahim came out of the house. 'Ah, you're up. I've just finished looking over the upper floor. But there's absolutely nothing left,' said Ibrahim.


'What about the prints we saw last night?' asked Ali. 'Everything's gone, those shoeprints and footprints we found upstairs, the trail of blood, even the coat of dust on the floor, everything's been swept clean. Someone must have come last night and cleaned the floor as we sat here.' 'What shall we do now?' 'First of all, we have to bring Yusuf's body to town. Leave everything to me. I'll tell the police he had been killed by persons unknown and that I'd investigate the case myself. We'll come back here tonight and check out the place again. You prepared to come with me?' Ali was taken aback by the question. Given the choice, he would rather flee as far away as he could from the house. But that might just arouse Ibrahim's suspicions. After all, he was the only one around when Yusuf was killed. Reluctantly, he nodded in agreement. 'Help me carry the body into the car, please,' Ibrahim instructed. They went back to the room and carried Yusuf's body to Ibrahim's car and drove off to town.


The sun was setting. Ali was with Ibrahim in the latter's car, cruising along the same road he and Yusuf had taken at about the same time yesterday afternoon. 'Want to hear more about Haji Mahmud?' asked Ibrahim from the driver's seat. Ali nodded. 'Like I told you, they were a bunch of snobs, Haji Mahmud and his family. Always bullying and throwing their weight around. And the way they treated their servants! They used to have more than ten in the mansion, and the family exploited them like slaves. As for the plantation workers, dozens fled because of the shoddy treatment. 'The worst of the lot was Salmah, his younger sister, who became the lord of the house when he died. The plantation workers often saw her beating up the servants till they nearly passed out. It was no surprise they all decided to run off.' 


'One day, Maniseh, Haji Mahmud's youngest daughter, was in town to do the marketing when she complained that all the workers, both the plantation labourers and the servants, had fled. She said even Salmah was missing, nobody knew her whereabouts. It seemed her sisters told her she ran off with a man, but Maniseh somehow believed her aunt was still around. 'A month later, one of Haji Mahmud's former servants came to town and said that Maniseh was now living there all by herself. None of their sisters were around anymore. She said Maniseh was afraid, but having no one to turn to, she had no choice but to live there. She spent every night locked up in her bedroom, leaving all the lights on all through the night.


'Then one night, Maniseh ran into town screaming like a mad woman and collapsed in front of the police station. When she came to, she spoke of having discovered a secret chamber in the house where she found her sisters hanging by ropes tied to the ceiling. And then she said something started chasing her, something wielding an axe and holding a golden glow of light. It almost managed to chop her head off. She did not know how she managed to escape. She was so terrified, she refused to go back. Fortunately, some kind folks took pity on her and gave her shelter. 'A team of policemen and some local residents later went to the house to investigate. They did not find the secret chamber she spoke of, but they did find an axe with its blade lodged at the top landing. Maniseh never returned to the house. After saving up some money, she went away and was never heard of again.' 


'Did they actually believe her story?' asked Ali. 'Many believed Maniseh was really mad, but some think she was telling the truth, and suspected it was the work of the former servants. That's no surprise since they all have a grudge against her and her family. It was believed that one of them was still hiding in the house. 'There used to be a shack close to Haji Mahmud's house where an old man called Pak Mat used to live. He's dead now, but Pak Mat was a master shaman reputed for his powerful black magic. There's a story going round that one of the servants named Fatimah whom Salmah used to mistreat, had sought Pak Mat's black magic to take revenge against her former employer.' 


The sun had almost set when they arrived. Ali felt a chill coming over him as he contemplated spending another night in there. Then, as Ibrahim pulled up by the roadside, something caught his eyes and Ali suddenly grabbed him by the arm. 'Can you see that? Can you see those pigeons flying off the roof?' Ibrahim looked up in the direction he pointed and saw that there was indeed a flock of pigeons scampering away and disappearing from view. 'That's the first time I actually see pigeons here,' he pointed out. Then, almost talking to himself. Ali remarked, 'These birds seem to be an omen of death. Yesterday, Yusuf and I saw them... and Yusuf was killed. Now you and I. Maybe...' 'Nonsense!' came Ibrahim's swift response. Ibrahim took a grass mat, some food and a few other necessities out of the car, and asked Ali to help him bring them into the house. He led the way into the room where they had found Yusuf's body last night.


The house was exactly as it was when they left it. 'Lie down at the same spot where you lay yesterday. I'll bed where Yusuf was,' Ibrahim told Ali. 'Should we light the lantern we brought?' 'No need. If something happens, just use the torchlight I gave you.' They took dinner without much talk. When they finished, Ali spread the mat on the floor and lay down while Ibrahim sat cross legged, checking his gun under the torchlight. As the night progressed, the room soon become so dark, Ali could not see his own hand. Silence descended upon the house and its surroundings. Ali lay still, closing his eyes. His thoughts wandered back to the events of the other night. He still found it difficult to believe what had happened. If it was not for the sake of Yusuf and for the presence of Ibrahim, he would not have returned. Now he was back at the very place where it all happened. He could feel the chill coming over him. He was so scared, he dared not move or leave his place.


He heard Ibrahim lying down and, a little later, breathing steadily as he fell asleep. Ali opened his eyes and saw a needle of moonlight penetrating through a tiny hole in the wall, landing on the staircase where, in his dream last night, he had seen the thing with the golden glow of light lurking. Instinctively he turned his back to the staircase. If he had his way, he would rather get up and flee... yes, flee... far away... far, far away! And now he was running in darkness, not knowing where he was heading. He looked up, and not a single star in the sky. Must be overcast, he told himself. Then he came upon a hill. What hill is this? Ah, no matter... I just want to flee far, far away. he climbed the hill and saw a glow of golden light at the top. Then he heard someone whistling, a lovely tune that wafted in the air like the distant singing of a bamboo flute.


He awoke. As he opened his eyes, he realized he had been walking in his sleep and the hill he was climbing was only the staircase leading to the second floor of the ol house. He was doing exactly what Yusuf had done last night. The whistling grew more and more intense, and more and more appealing. He tried to stop and retreat, but could not resist its pull. The whistling was drawing him upstairs. he tried to prostrate himself on the steps, but failed. he kept going up, drawing closer and closer to the glow of light. He felt like screaming, but nothing came out of his mouth. his feet just kept on going up the stairs, step by step by step. He reached the top landing. The whistling compelled him to go on, right into the room where Yusuf was hacked last night. As he entered, the whistling grew fainter and fainter, and the golden glow of light began coming towards him. Below it was a figure with an awkward gait, and as it drew nearer, Ali saw for the first time that it was a woman of hideous appearance. the eyes were glazed, wide open like the eyelids had been torn out. The face was pale as a corpse and wore frightening grin. Closer and closer she came, glaring at Ali with her fiery eyes. She raised her arms. They were nothing but skin and bones, but in her right hand she held an axe! She swung it over her head, poised to split his head.


Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and the woman slumped on the floor. But only for a second or so. She got up and disappeared in the darkness, giving out a chilling cry. Ali collapsed and blacked out. When he came to, Ibrahim was sponging him with a towel. 'You had a close shave there.' There was a noticeable shudder in his voice. 'I'm alright. Thank God your shot was on target. Otherwise, I would have joined Yusuf by now,' Ali replied. 'Look at this axe. Look at the blade. Who would hone an axe this sharp, unless it's a blood thirsty lunatic?' said Ibrahim. 'Listen!' said Ali. They heard footsteps, unsteady footsteps. Someone was limping away. 'Leave her alone. Her end is near,' said Ibrahim.


'When the whistling came, you went up the staircase and nearly stepped on me along the way. That woke me up. The moment I saw you, I knew you were under a spell, just like Yusuf was last night. So I followed you, all the way until she appeared. God, I almost fainted when I saw her. What a horrid looking creature,' Ibrahim continued as he shone the torchlight about. The light landed on an open door along the wall of the bedroom. 'A secret door. She must have escaped that way. Come on, let's see what's in there. I bet it leads to the secret chamber Maniseh was talking about,' whispered Ibrahim. They went in and found themselves in a narrow corridor leading to a room.

'My God! This is the place I dreamt of last night!' exclaimed a surprised Ali. Ibrahim shone the light about. In the middle of the room, hanging by ropes toed to the ceiling, were three human skeletons, Shreds of clothing were still stuck to their bones. 'So, what Maniseh said when she ran away from the house was true after all,' Ibrahim remarked. The torchlight swung to a corner of the room, and there, lying stiff, was the body of a woman, her face wearing a ghastly grin and her eyes wide open like the eyelids had been torn out. She was no longer human. The teeth were long. Indeed, at both ends of the grinning mouth, she had grown a pair of murderous looking fangs. The fingernails were long and sharp as daggers. Her hair flowed unkempt. The clothes in which she was still clad were tattered and torn. And on the floor, blood had streamed and coagulated.

'Poor Fatimah. This is what she gets for dabbling with sorcery,' Ali remarked. Ibrahim shook his head. 'This isn't Fatimah.' Ali stared at him surprised. 'I reckon Maniseh knew very well who was chasing her when she ran away. Only she was too ashamed to name her. Yes, Fatimah did manage to carry out her evil plans, and she did get her revenge, but not in the way we might assume. The magic potion she got from Pak Mat was not meant to simply kill the intended victim. She must have somehow managed to give to Salmah on the sly, mixed with food and drink I guess. Then as she fled, the potion began working its evil and this was happened to the victim now,' Ibrahim explained. 'If this is not Fatimah, then who is she?' asked Ali impatiently. 'I caught a fleeting sight of her under the golden glow of light as she swung the axe to hack you, and I knew then it wasn't Fatimah. The face has aged, but I could still identify features the reminded me of that picture I saw long ago. 'For your information, that dead body in front of us belongs to Salmah, Maniseh's missing aunt.'